he last bell of the day rang like a gentle sigh, releasing everyone into the afternoon. Chairs scraped, voices rose, and students hurried out with weekend energy—even though it was only midweek.
But beside me, he didn't move.
Haejun stayed seated, fingers curled around the strap of his bag. His sparkles—still a blend of silver and soft pink—hovered quietly around him, dimming and brightening with his breaths.
He finally lifted his eyes to me, as if checking whether I'd actually kept my promise.
"I'm here," I whispered.
His sparkles warmed just a little.
He stood, slow and careful, like he was still carrying the weight of the morning. We walked out of the classroom together, ignoring the lingering stares. Something about today made the whispers fade into background noise—muted, unimportant.
When we reached the courtyard, he paused.
The ginkgo tree rustled in the afternoon breeze. Its leaves shimmered gold under the sun, and for a moment, the whole space felt softer, warmer.
He looked at the tree, then at me, and signed:
"Can we stay here? Before leaving?"
I nodded. "Of course."
We sat beneath the tree—our usual place, though it felt different now. More intimate. More fragile.
The sunlight filtered through the leaves in dappled patterns, speckling his hair and cheeks. It made the silver in his sparkles look almost like floating shards of light.
He hugged his knees loosely, staring at the ground.
I didn't push him to talk.
But after a moment, he took out his notebook.
"Thank you… for not leaving me today."
My chest tightened.
"I told you," I murmured, "every version of you is someone I want to stay beside."
He breathed in softly, exhaled even softer.
Then he wrote:
"I don't let people close."
I looked at him gently. "I know."
"But you're close now."
My breath caught.
He wasn't looking at me, but the sparkles around him flickered, hesitating—like they were waiting for what I'd say next.
"Do you want me to be close?" I asked softly.
He went very still.
Then, slowly, almost painfully, he signed:
"Yes."
The word trembled in the air more than in his hands.
I swallowed, warmth blooming through my chest. "Then I'll stay as close as you let me."
His sparkles brightened—
silver warmed into a subtle lavender.
Still soft.
Still emotional.
But steadier than before.
He stared at them, surprised at the shift. I waited, giving him time to breathe through the change.
After a moment, he wrote again:
"It feels strange."
"What does?" I asked gently.
"Someone staying… even when I'm not okay."
I leaned back against the tree trunk, letting my shoulder brush the bark.
"Well… maybe you deserve that."
He blinked slowly.
"Do I?"
"Yes," I whispered. "More than you know."
He didn't write after that.
Just sat beside me in silence, the kind that felt like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.
---
After a few minutes
He stood abruptly.
I blinked, startled, but he gestured for me to follow.
We walked across the school grounds, past the courtyard, past the back field, until we reached the music building—quiet at this time of day.
He stopped before the door.
His sparkles dimmed again—silver returning to a soft, vulnerable glow.
Then he signed:
"I want to show you something."
My heart fluttered. "Okay."
We stepped inside.
The music building always held a different kind of silence. Not the empty kind. The expectant kind—like the walls remembered every note ever played inside them.
He led me down the hallway to a practice room I'd never been in before. A small upright piano stood in the corner, polished but old.
He hesitated at the door, almost backing away.
I stepped closer. "It's okay. You don't have to show me if you're not ready."
He shook his head firmly.
Then he wrote:
"I want to."
Inside the room, the light was thin and soft. Dust floated lazily in the air, glowing faintly in the beam coming from the small window.
He sat at the piano, fingers trembling slightly as they hovered above the keys.
I held my breath.
Then he began to play.
Softly.
Tentatively.
As if he wasn't sure the piano would accept his touch.
A slow melody filled the room—a fragile piece, simple but aching. It felt like quiet mornings, like unspoken fears, like heavy hearts slowly learning to breathe again.
His sparkles responded immediately.
Silver brightened.
Pale lavender warmed.
For a moment, faint gold flickered at the edges.
He didn't see it.
But I did.
He poured himself into the keys until the room felt full of him—his emotions, his exhaustion, his hope.
When the last note faded, he kept his hands on the keys, shoulders rising and falling with each breath.
I stepped beside him quietly.
"That was beautiful," I whispered.
He kept staring at the piano, almost embarrassed.
Then he wrote:
"I play when I can't speak."
My heart softened. "Then you can show me anything you can't say."
His sparkles flared softly—
pink mixed with silver.
He looked up at me then, eyes shining in a way I hadn't seen before.
Not bright.
Not confident.
Just open.
Then he signed:
"Can I play one more?"
"Please do."
He took a steadying breath, then placed his fingers on the keys again.
This melody was different—
warmer, gentler, tender.
And halfway through—
He glanced at me.
Just once.
As if making sure I was still there.
I smiled softly.
His sparkles reacted immediately, glowing faintly around him, and his fingers relaxed into the keys, playing with more emotion than before.
When he finished, he wrote:
"This song… is what you feel like."
I froze.
My chest tightened, breath caught.
"Haejun…" I whispered.
But he wasn't done.
Biting his lip lightly, he wrote very slowly:
"Warm. Soft. Safe.
Like light… but not too bright."
I didn't know what to say.
Words felt too small.
So I sat beside him on the piano bench—close but careful—letting my shoulder brush his just barely.
He stiffened for a second.
Then relaxed.
Then, after a long moment, he whispered a tiny exhale—a sound I barely heard but felt.
His sparkles glowed softly in pale lavender and pink, wrapping around him like gentle morning light.
And without looking at me, he signed:
"Stay a little longer?"
I nodded.
"Always."