The next morning, the world felt unusually soft.
The sunlight wasn't harsh.
The breeze wasn't cold.
And even the usual chatter of students walking ahead of me somehow felt muted, like someone had gently lowered the volume of everything but my own heartbeat.
I knew why.
Because I wanted to see him.
Again.
Still.
More than yesterday.
My steps quickened without me asking them to. And when I turned the last corner into the school courtyard—
There he was.
Standing under the ginkgo tree again, as if he had returned to his place after exploring elsewhere yesterday. His posture was relaxed today—hands tucked inside his sleeves, gaze drifting upward to watch the leaves shake above him.
And his sparkles…
They were pale peach.
A color I hadn't seen before.
Soft.
Warm.
Hopeful.
When he noticed me, the peach sparkles brightened instantly, shimmering like tiny petals swirling in the air.
He lifted his notebook with slower handwriting than usual:
"You came early."
I smiled. "Couldn't help it."
He closed the notebook but didn't write anything else.
Instead—
He just looked at me.
A long, quiet, almost hesitant look.
A look that wanted to say something but didn't know how to form the words.
"Are you okay?" I asked softly.
He nodded, but the sparkles flickered—uncertain for a second.
Then he wrote:
"Happy."
The word was small.
Neat.
Almost shy.
And that was the first moment my chest tightened with something I couldn't name yet.
"I'm happy too," I whispered.
He blinked, and the peach sparkles glowed brighter.
---
In class, something unusual happened.
Not with him.
With me.
I couldn't focus.
Every time he turned a page, every time his pen brushed the notebook, every time he glanced sideways at me—I felt it.
That small tug in my chest.
A warmth that kept growing.
A flutter that refused to calm down.
And each time, I told myself to breathe normally.
At one point, I caught him watching me.
Not accidentally.
Not a quick glance.
But watching.
When our eyes met, he didn't look away immediately.
Just blinked slowly, sparkles drifting softly around him.
I tilted my head in question.
He scribbled quietly:
"You look… worried."
I blinked. "I'm not."
He pointed at my hand—my fingers were gripping my pen too tightly.
"Oh," I whispered.
I forced my hand to relax.
He hesitated, then wrote:
"If something hurts… you can tell me."
My throat tightened.
He always knew more than anyone else ever had.
"I'm okay," I said gently. "Really."
He didn't seem convinced at first.
Then he leaned closer, eyes softening.
He wrote one more line:
"Just want you to be okay."
And that—
That was the moment I had to look away because my eyes suddenly felt too warm.
---
During break, we practiced more signs.
He didn't ask for a specific word today.
He just tapped my notebook twice—his quiet way of calling me—and opened his hands slowly.
I watched carefully as he signed something smooth and flowing.
I frowned. "I don't know that one."
He smiled slightly with his eyes and repeated it.
I tried to copy him.
My fingers fumbled halfway through.
I messed up the angle completely.
He made a soft sound—
Not a laugh exactly.
More like air catching in his throat.
But when he placed a hand over his mouth, sparkles bursting into bright peach around him, I realized—
He was laughing.
Quiet.
Silent.
But laughing.
My breath stopped.
"Haejun?" I whispered.
He shook his head, still covering his mouth, eyes curving gently.
"You're laughing?" I asked, voice cracking.
He looked away, embarrassed, but the sparkles betrayed him—dancing brightly, happily.
I felt something blossom painfully in my chest.
"You should laugh more," I whispered.
He froze.
Then lowered his hand slowly.
He wrote:
"Laugh…?"
His handwriting wavered slightly, as if unsure.
I nodded. "Yes. It's… really nice."
He looked down.
And another tiny, barely-there smile formed on his lips.
Then he wrote:
"Only with you."
My heartbeat didn't just skip.
It stopped entirely.
---
At lunch, he surprised me again.
He tapped his lunchbox.
Then tapped my hand.
Then pointed between us.
"You want to share?" I asked.
He nodded.
We arranged our lunchboxes side by side, and he pushed his chopsticks toward me. I used them to pick up a piece of fried tofu he'd made.
"This looks good."
He watched closely as I took a bite.
Soft.
Sweet.
Slightly chewy.
But delicious.
I turned to compliment him—
And froze.
His eyes were wide, sparkles flaring bright peach.
I frowned. "What's wrong?"
He wrote:
"You said it looked good before eating it."
"…Yes?"
He tapped the notebook, brows furrowing deeper.
"Even though you didn't know if it was good."
Realization hit me gently.
"Oh. Well… I trust you."
He blinked.
A long, full-second blink.
Then the sparkles dimmed into something soft and emotional.
He wrote slowly:
"No one says that to me."
My chest tightened painfully.
"Well, I mean it. Everything you make is good."
He lowered his gaze.
And for the first time—
He reached out.
His fingers brushed lightly against my sleeve.
A soft touch.
Barely there.
More a question than a gesture.
I didn't move away.
His fingers lingered half a second longer before pulling back.
His sparkles trembled gently around him.
---
After school, the sky was pale and cloudless.
We walked slower today—because he had asked yesterday.
He stayed close.
Close enough that our sleeves brushed once in a while.
Close enough that I heard the soft sound of his breath when he exhaled.
At the bend in the road, he stopped.
I turned.
His sparkles shifted.
From peach…
To soft pink.
A color I recognized.
The color of shy happiness.
He lifted his hands and signed something small, simple.
I frowned. "I don't know that one."
He pointed at me.
Signed it again.
Then wrote:
"Means:
'I'm glad today happened.'"
Warmth flooded through me.
"Me too," I whispered.
Then he surprised me again.
He wrote:
"Are you… happy around me?"
My breath caught.
I looked straight at him.
"Yes," I said without hesitation. "Very."
His eyes widened slightly—
Then softened.
His sparkles brightened into a deeper pink, swirling gently like drifting petals.
He lifted his hand.
Paused.
Then slowly lowered it again, shy.
He wrote a final line for the day:
"Tomorrow again?"
I nodded.
"Tomorrow," I whispered. "And the day after that. And the next."
His breath hitched.
His sparkles shimmered.
And for the first time—
He smiled fully.
Not small.
Not shy.
But real.
Soft.
Bright.
Warm enough to make the world tilt slightly.
I stood there, breathless, watching the boy who sparked in colors only I could see.
And I already knew—
Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.