The next morning started quietly.
Too quietly.
The kind of quiet that makes you slow down, like walking through air that has suddenly thickened. My footsteps felt heavier than usual, though I didn't know why. Nothing was wrong. Nothing had happened.
But sometimes, your heart senses something before your mind does.
When I entered the courtyard, my eyes went immediately to the ginkgo tree.
Empty.
My breath hitched softly.
He wasn't there.
I scanned the other corners instinctively—the benches, the flowerbeds, the pathway near the gym.
Nothing.
Usually, at the very least, I could see a faint shimmer of his sparkles from a distance.
A color drifting in the air.
A small glow that made him easier to spot even in crowds.
But today…
There was nothing.
Not a single sparkle.
My chest tightened. I tried to stay calm, telling myself he could simply be a little late or somewhere different again, like the morning by the flowerbeds.
I walked farther into the courtyard.
And finally—
I saw him.
Standing alone near the bike racks, half in shadow.
His posture was stiff. His head was lowered. His hands were buried deep in the sleeves of his jacket.
But the most alarming thing wasn't his body language.
It was the complete absence of sparkles around him.
Not pale.
Not dim.
Not flickering.
Just gone.
It was the first time I had ever seen him like that.
My breath caught painfully. I took a small step forward.
"Haejun?"
He lifted his head slightly, but didn't look at me directly. His eyes moved in my direction, but unfocused—like he was seeing something behind me instead of me.
I walked closer, slowly, carefully.
When I was just a few feet away, he finally met my eyes.
And I almost stepped back.
His expression was blank.
Not cold.
Not upset.
Just… empty.
Like whatever light normally lived inside him hadn't woken up today.
I swallowed. "Are you okay?"
He didn't move.
Didn't nod.
Didn't shake his head.
Just stood there.
Then, very slowly, he reached for his notebook.
His fingers trembled.
Barely—but I saw it.
He opened to a new page.
Wrote one small word.
"Sorry."
My heart twisted sharply.
"You don't have to apologize," I said immediately. "What happened? Did something—"
He shook his head before I could finish.
Not fast.
Not panicked.
Just… tired.
He wrote again, smaller:
"Bad morning."
I stepped closer. "Did something happen at home?"
He hesitated.
Then he wrote:
"No. Just me."
Just him.
The words hit me harder than I expected.
I lowered my voice. "Haejun… did you have a hard day because of something you felt? Or remembered?"
He stared at the page.
Then nodded once.
A tiny nod.
Barely there.
But it was enough.
I walked closer until I stood right in front of him.
He didn't flinch.
But he didn't lift his eyes either.
Without sparkles, he looked strangely fragile—like a watercolor painting left too long in the rain.
"Do you want to… go somewhere quieter?" I offered softly.
He finally looked at me then.
His eyes weren't empty anymore.
Just strained.
Then he wrote:
"Yes."
---
We slipped into the quiet back corridor behind the music room—empty in the mornings, peaceful, dimly lit.
He leaned against the wall carefully, as if every movement cost him energy.
I didn't touch him.
I didn't speak first.
I simply stood beside him silently, letting him take the time he needed.
After a moment, he opened his notebook again.
His handwriting was slower today.
Uneven.
"Sparkles… won't come out."
I felt my breath catch.
"They're not something you have to force," I whispered.
He shook his head quickly, writing again with shaky strokes:
"No. They listen to me. Understood me. Today they won't."
My chest tightened painfully.
To him, the sparkles weren't magic.
They were language.
Emotion.
Companionship.
Understanding.
If they disappeared, it wasn't just lack of light.
It was loneliness.
"Maybe they're resting," I tried gently. "Maybe you're tired."
His eyes trembled at that.
He wrote:
"I didn't sleep."
My voice softened. "Nightmare?"
He didn't respond for a long moment.
Then nodded once.
Slow.
Quiet.
Barely holding together.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" I asked gently.
He hesitated, then wrote:
"No sound.
No colors.
Just dark."
I swallowed hard.
"And you were alone?"
He stopped writing.
The silence was answer enough.
I whispered, "I'm sorry you went through that."
His fingers tightened around the pen.
Then he wrote:
"Woke up scared.
Didn't want to see anyone."
I stepped closer.
"But you came," I said softly.
He looked up at me with something aching in his eyes.
Then wrote:
"Wanted to see you."
My breath stilled.
Warmth spread through my chest slowly, painfully.
But before I could say anything, he scribbled again:
"But didn't want you to see me like this."
I shook my head immediately.
"Haejun," I whispered, voice barely steady. "I want to see every version of you. Not just the bright ones."
He froze.
Completely.
Then he lowered his head, closing his notebook for a moment as if overwhelmed.
When he opened it again, he wrote:
"I don't want you to think I'm broken."
My heart felt like it was cracking open.
I stepped closer until we were only a hand's width apart.
"You're not broken," I said firmly. "You're human. And I'm not here just for the good days. I'm here because it's you."
His breath caught visibly in his chest.
Slowly, his sparkles flickered—
Just once.
A faint shimmer.
Barely a glow.
But there.
A soft, fragile shimmer of pale gray.
I gasped quietly. "They're coming back."
He looked at them in surprise, almost like he didn't believe it.
They shimmered again—slightly brighter.
Not colorful.
Not warm.
But alive.
Then he wrote:
"Because you're here."
My throat tightened again.
"I'll always be here," I said softly.
He looked at me for a long, quiet moment.
Then he signed something slowly.
A small, trembling sign.
I frowned, trying to understand. "I don't know that one yet."
He wrote:
"Means:
'I trust you.'"
My eyes widened.
The sparkles around him flickered again—still pale gray, but steadier now, like soft smoke gathering light.
Before I could say anything back, the bell rang faintly from the hallway.
He didn't move.
So I didn't either.
We stayed there a moment longer—
him breathing softly,
me watching the sparkles slowly return,
both of us saying nothing.
Then he lifted his notebook one more time.
"Stay with me today?"
I didn't even hesitate.
"Yes," I said instantly. "As long as you need."
And for the first time since morning,
the faintest hint of color whispered into his sparkles—
a fragile, trembling silver.