The cafeteria was always loud.
Loud not just in sound — but in energy, chatter, movement. A hundred conversations layered over metal trays clinking and chairs scraping. It was a place where most people blended easily into the chaos.
But not him.
For someone like Haejun, the cafeteria was a battlefield of noise and unpredictability. I knew that. And yet, today, for the first time, he walked there willingly.
With me.
He hesitated only once at the entrance, slowing as the swell of voices pushed outward like a physical wave. His sparkles flickered — thin silver threads flashing briefly with anxiety.
I touched his sleeve lightly. "We'll sit in the corner. Like always."
He exhaled softly, nodding.
We moved through the cafeteria, weaving between tables. Several students looked at him — more than usual — but the expressions were curious, not judging.
A girl whispered, "He's really glowing today…"
A boy added, "He looks calmer."
And I felt the smallest smile tug at my lips.
Progress.
Real, gentle progress.
When we reached our usual corner table, he sat down immediately — not stiffly, not frozen, just… cautious. But calm.
His sparkles dimmed to a soft lavender — his "safe" color.
I placed my tray down and watched him quietly unwrap the cookie packet from this morning. He opened the bag with surprising care, almost reverently, as if the ribbon itself might break.
He took out a single cookie.
Looked at it.
Then at me.
Then at the crowded cafeteria.
Then, very slowly, he wrote in his notebook:
"Is it okay if I eat this here?"
My heart squeezed.
"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"
He hesitated.
"People watch."
"So what?" I said softly. "They're watching because you're glowing. Not because they're judging."
He looked down at the cookie again.
After a moment, he lifted it to his lips and took a small bite.
His eyes widened immediately.
A tiny spark of pink bloomed around his shoulders.
He liked it.
I couldn't help giggling. "That good?"
He nodded quickly and took another bite — bigger this time. Pink deepened to rose.
He started nibbling faster, sparkles flickering like tiny fireflies.
"It's cute," I murmured under my breath.
His sparkles stuttered — as if they'd heard me — then glowed warmer.
He wrote:
"She said… I don't look alone."
"That's because you're not."
He looked up sharply, eyes softening, sparkles dipping into gold again.
For a moment, it felt like the cafeteria noise faded into nothing — like we were sitting inside our own quiet world.
---
He tried warm cafeteria food next.
Not cookies.
Not something homemade.
Not something he was used to.
Actual cafeteria lunch — plain rice, some roasted chicken, and vegetables.
He stared at the tray as if it were a foreign artifact.
"You don't have to," I reminded him gently. "Only if you want."
He picked up the spoon slowly.
Very slowly.
Almost painfully slowly.
Then he finally took one small bite.
His expression didn't change at first.
Then—
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
His sparkles flared in soft yellow.
"Warm," he wrote.
I laughed. "Well, yes. It's lunch, not survival rations."
He nudged my arm lightly with his elbow.
My breath caught.
It was the smallest gesture. Tiny. Almost accidental.
But coming from him — someone who never initiated casual touch — it felt like a hundred alarms going off in my heart.
Warm alarms.
He didn't seem to realize what he'd done until he felt my stillness.
His sparkles turned bashful pink.
He quickly wrote:
"Sorry."
"You don't have to apologize for that," I whispered.
He froze.
Then wrote carefully:
"I don't?"
"In case you didn't notice," I leaned closer, "I didn't move away."
His eyes widened.
A deeper gold flickered into his sparkles, hesitant but present.
He looked down quickly, as if his heart was beating too loud inside him.
Mine definitely was.
---
Then something unexpected happened.
A tray clattered onto the table beside ours.
We both looked up — and found a boy, someone from math class, standing there awkwardly.
"Uh," he said, clearing his throat, "mind if I sit?"
We both blinked.
This corner table had always been empty.
People avoided it because it was too quiet.
Too isolated.
Too "different."
But now…
Someone wanted to sit here.
I glanced at Haejun.
His sparkles tightened — not panicked, but uncertain.
So I nodded slowly. "Sure."
The boy sat down.
He didn't look directly at Haejun — probably to avoid overwhelming him — but he gave a small smile.
"I heard you helped the music club once," he said casually. "Cool."
Just one sentence.
Not prying.
Not loud.
Not invasive.
Just simple kindness.
And unbelievably…
Haejun didn't shut down.
His sparkles steadied, staying lavender with a faint pink pulse.
He wrote quickly:
"Thank you."
The boy's eyebrows jumped. "Oh, you write! That's cool. Your handwriting's nice."
And again — that tiny shift.
That small opening in the world that had always been closed to him.
The boy didn't stay long. Just ten minutes. Then he waved awkwardly and left.
But the effect lingered.
After he left, Haejun quietly wrote:
"People… talk to me now."
"Because you're letting them."
He hesitated.
Then wrote:
"Was I the one blocking it?"
I reached across the table and lightly touched his notebook.
"Not blocking," I said softly. "Protecting yourself. That's not wrong."
He swallowed, eyes lowering to the page.
Then he wrote:
"But now… I want to try."
His sparkles shifted — a warm glow spreading like sunlight.
My chest tightened with something warm and shaky.
Pride.
Relief.
And something else I didn't dare name yet.
---
A Moment That Felt Like More
Lunch was nearly over when he tapped my hand lightly.
Not my sleeve.
Not my notebook.
My hand.
His sparkles bloomed gold at the same moment, almost unconsciously.
He signed carefully:
"Thank you for eating with me."
It was the way he signed it — slow, gentle, grateful — that made my breath catch.
"I always will," I whispered.
He froze.
Completely still.
Then lowered his gaze, sparkles glowing softly in hues I'd never seen before —
warm rose gold.
Tender.
Shy.
Affectionate.
The cafeteria noise faded again.
And for a long heartbeat…
It felt like just us.
Just the boy who sparkled.
And the girl who saw every shimmer.