We stayed on the piano bench longer than I expected.
The room was still, holding the echo of his melodies like a secret. The sunlight through the small window was beginning to shift, turning warmer—almost golden—casting soft glows along the floor.
He sat close beside me.
Not touching, not leaning, but near enough that I could feel the quiet heat of him.
His sparkles floated in faint lavender and pale pink, pulsing gently with his breathing.
Comfortable.
Safe.
Open.
It felt like the kind of moment you're afraid to break.
After a while, he pulled his notebook onto his lap.
He hesitated, tapping the pen lightly against the paper.
Then, slowly, he wrote:
"You weren't supposed to see me like this."
I turned toward him. "Like what?"
He stared at the page, then wrote with smaller letters:
"Soft."
My breath caught before I could stop it.
"And why not?" I asked quietly.
His pen paused.
"Because soft things break."
Something inside me hurt at that.
I leaned forward slightly, keeping my voice gentle. "Soft things bend, too. They survive storms. They're not weak, Haejun."
He didn't look convinced.
But his sparkles brightened faintly, shimmering like the faint blush of dawn.
He wrote again:
"I don't know what to do when someone sees the parts I hide."
"You don't have to do anything," I whispered. "Just let me see."
His hand stopped moving.
For a long moment, he didn't write anything.
He didn't sign anything.
He simply sat there, staring at the piano keys as if they held answers.
Then, he closed the notebook and gently placed it on the bench.
He turned toward me.
His eyes trembled—soft and terrified, but determined.
He lifted his hands…
…and signed something slowly.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
A sentence I didn't recognize.
I frowned slightly. "I don't know that one yet."
He bit his lip, hesitated, and signed it again—slower this time.
Then he reached for his notebook and wrote:
"It means:
'You make the silence feel safe.'"
My breath halted.
The room felt warmer.
Softer.
He wasn't talking about the silence of sound.
He meant the silence inside him.
The quiet parts he never let anyone into.
I swallowed gently. "I'm honored you'd say that."
His sparkles shimmered softly—pale pink curling at the edges like shy petals.
He looked down again before writing more:
"I don't usually let anyone hear my silence."
I understood what he meant more than he probably realized.
Silence wasn't emptiness for him.
It was fear.
Vulnerability.
Loneliness.
Memory.
Being allowed into that space felt like being trusted with something delicate.
Something precious.
I whispered, "Thank you for letting me in."
This time, he looked directly at me.
It felt like being seen fully—quietly, gently, like a slow sunrise warming frozen earth.
Then he signed:
"You didn't get scared."
"Of you?" I asked softly. "Never."
A faint breath escaped him—almost a laugh, almost a sigh. His sparkles brightened again, warm lavender brushing against soft pink.
Then he wrote:
"People usually leave when I can't talk.
Or when my sparkles fade."
I shook my head.
"Haejun… I don't care how bright they are. I care about you."
His eyes widened.
His sparkles flickered—
soft gold for half a heartbeat before sinking back into pink.
He didn't seem to notice.
---
A quiet moment passed.
He gently set his notebook aside, then raised his hands again.
He signed:
"Can I tell you something… without writing?"
My breath caught. "Of course."
His fingers trembled—barely—like he was afraid they might betray him.
Slowly, he signed a short phrase.
I didn't understand it.
But I saw the fear in his eyes as he did it.
I shook my head gently. "I don't know that one."
A soft frustration flickered across his features. He ran a hand through his hair, sparkles trembling in silver-pink disarray.
He tried again, signing the same phrase slower.
I still couldn't understand.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then…
He reached out.
Not to touch me.
But to take my hand—
slowly—
carefully—
his fingertips hovering just above mine before barely making contact.
Warm.
Light.
Fragile.
His sparkles burst softly around his hand—still pale, but brighter, trembling with shy emotion.
Then he signed with his other hand while still holding me:
Two words.
Simple.
Soft.
I finally understood.
My voice caught as I whispered, "You feel safe with me."
He nodded.
Eyes gentle.
Sparkles soft.
He held my hand a moment longer—
not tightly,
not confidently,
just enough to feel the connection.
Then he let go slowly.
His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary.
---
"Come with me."
He didn't speak the words, of course.
He signed them.
Then—hesitating only slightly—he reached for my sleeve with a soft tug.
I followed him out of the music room, down the hallway, and through the quiet, echoing stairwell.
At the back door of the building, he paused again.
The sun outside had softened into a late-afternoon glow, painting the sky with hints of peach and rose. He stepped into the light like he was testing the world again.
The silver in his sparkles warmed noticeably.
He turned to me and signed:
"There's someplace I go when I need to breathe."
"Let's go," I said immediately.
He blinked, almost surprised, then nodded.
We walked through the school's back gate, down a small path lined with tall green shrubs. The world was quiet here—away from students, away from noise.
Finally, we reached a small clearing behind the gym.
A little hill.
A few wildflowers.
A low fence overlooking the river that ran beside the school.
It was peaceful.
Unexpectedly beautiful.
He sat on the fence carefully, letting his legs dangle. I sat beside him.
The river glimmered in the fading light.
Birds drifted across the sky.
The afternoon was slow and warm and gentle.
He breathed out deeply—as if releasing something that had weighed on him all day.
Then he turned to me.
His sparkles were no longer shaking.
They glowed soft pink and lavender, steady as a heartbeat.
He lifted his hands one more time, signing slowly:
"I'm glad you stayed."
I smiled softly. "I'll stay again tomorrow."
He held my gaze.
And for the first time today—
his sparkles glowed faint gold around the edges,
like a promise slowly forming.
He signed:
"Me too."