The rest of lunch passed in a soft swirl of warmth he didn't quite know how to handle.
After his tiny, accidental laugh escaped him, he kept his face hidden behind his hands for a long moment. His sparkles settled into a gentle rose-gold mist — embarrassed, glowing, alive.
I tried not to stare too obviously, but moments like this felt rare. Precious. Like watching sunlight break through after days of rain.
When he finally lowered his hands, his expression was still pink and startled, but there was something else too — a flicker of pride, quickly smothered but undeniably there.
A boy who had only known silence had just discovered laughter.
And the world felt different because of it.
---
Leaving the Cafeteria
The lunch bell rang, echoing across the room. Students gathered their trays and scattered with the usual chaos. He stood too quickly, almost knocking over his soup cup. I steadied it instinctively.
"Careful," I murmured.
His sparkles pulsed faintly — shy gratitude.
We walked out together. The hallway was bright with afternoon sun cutting across the floor, scattering warm patches of gold beneath our feet. He gravitated instinctively toward the quieter side of the hall, where fewer students passed. I followed, as always.
Halfway to the stairs, he tugged my sleeve lightly.
I turned.
He hesitated, then offered me his notebook.
One sentence stretched neatly across the page:
"Thank you… for earlier."
"For what?" I asked, even though I knew.
He wrote slowly beneath it:
"For not laughing at me. For hearing me. For… staying."
My chest tightened.
"I wasn't going anywhere," I said softly.
He looked down, lips pressed together, sparkles drifting in a soft halo as if he were holding back emotions too delicate to release in a crowded hallway.
Then he wrote one more thing:
"It felt nice."
"What did?" I asked.
He paused.
Then:
"Laughing."
I smiled gently. "Then we'll find more reasons for you to do it again."
His eyes widened slightly, hopeful and afraid at the same time — the look of someone who has always wanted something but never believed they were allowed to ask for it.
---
A Small, Significant Change
Our next class was Literature, a subject he was good at but rarely participated in. He usually took the seat by the window — quiet, distant, comfortable.
But today, he waited half a step behind me.
He wanted to sit beside me.
It was subtle. So subtle no one else would have noticed.
But I did.
I took a seat in the middle row. He glanced around nervously — several students were chatting nearby — but then he chose the desk next to mine anyway, carefully lowering himself into the chair.
A quiet courage settled in his posture.
His sparkles dimmed to a soft, steady golden hue — warm, controlled, like he was breathing easier.
Class began, and halfway through, the teacher assigned a short pair discussion. Usually, teachers avoided pairing him with others, but today she looked directly at him.
"Haejun, you can work with—"
She turned toward me and smiled.
"—your usual partner, I assume?"
He stiffened in surprise.
I blinked.
Our usual?
He looked at me, unsure. His sparkles wavered.
I nodded reassuringly. "Yes, we can work together."
He immediately relaxed, sparkles settling into soft pastel colors.
For ten minutes, we discussed character motivations in the story we were reading. I talked quietly; he scribbled his thoughts in quick, precise handwriting. His ideas were brilliant — sharper than he gave himself credit for — but he only showed them to me.
He didn't realize the teacher was watching.
When she passed by, she paused, surprised.
"This is excellent work, both of you."
He stiffened.
Her expression softened. "If you're comfortable, you can share one point with the class."
His eyes went wide. Panic surged — his sparkles burst white like a sudden snowfall.
He shook his head quickly, frantically.
I stepped in gently. "He prefers writing. Maybe he can hand you his notes instead?"
The teacher nodded warmly. "Of course."
He exhaled shakily, eyes closing for a moment in relief.
Under the table, his hand brushed mine by accident.
He froze.
I froze.
He slowly, very slowly, pulled his hand back — but not before his fingers curled slightly, as if a part of him didn't actually want to let go.
His sparkles pulsed a soft pink.
---
After Class
When the bell rang, students filtered out with their usual chatter. He lingered, waiting for the room to empty before gathering his notebook.
As we stepped into the hallway, he tapped me lightly with the notebook again.
A new message waited inside:
"You helped me today. Again."
I smiled. "We help each other."
He hesitated.
Then wrote:
"Is it okay that I… depend on you?"
My heart tightened.
"Yes," I answered without hesitation. "As long as it doesn't hurt you."
He looked at me, really looked — eyes deep with something unspoken.
"It doesn't hurt," he wrote.
Then, softer:
"It makes things easier."
Before I could respond, someone called his name from down the hall — one of the boys from earlier.
"Hey, piano genius!"
His entire body jerked.
The boy jogged up to us. "We talked to the festival committee! They want to hear you play sometime this week."
His mouth fell open.
His sparkles exploded — terrified silver.
The boy didn't seem to notice. "Not a performance, don't worry! Just… let them hear a bit so they know what piece you want to do. Okay?"
Haejun swallowed hard.
He looked at me.
Just a quick glance.
But full of meaning.
Fear.
Hope.
Uncertainty.
The silent question:
Do I have to face this alone?
I nodded gently. "I can go with you."
The panic softened.
The boy grinned. "Awesome! You're a lifesaver."
He dashed off. We stood in silence for a moment.
Finally, he wrote:
"Why do you keep helping me?"
The question wasn't doubtful.
It was vulnerable.
Fragile.
I answered honestly:
"Because I care."
His eyes widened.
His sparkles froze mid-air — like stars suspended in time.
He lowered his gaze slowly, the tips of his ears turning a delicate shade of pink. He wrote one word, small and trembling:
"Oh."
---
Walking to the Gate
School ended, but he didn't rush off like he usually did. Instead, he matched my pace, walking quietly beside me down the tree-lined path toward the gate.
The afternoon air was cool. Wind brushed softly against the leaves overhead. Our footsteps synced without effort.
He wasn't glowing wildly now.
His sparkles floated gently around him — calm, warm, steady.
Halfway down the path, he wrote something and stopped walking.
He held the notebook out to me.
"Today was scary."
I nodded.
"Yes."
He wrote again:
"But it wasn't scary because I was alone."
The breath caught in my throat.
He looked up, eyes shining with a new emotion — not fear, not shyness, not panic.
Trust.
Deep, tentative trust.
Then he wrote the last line of the day:
"Thank you… for being where my courage starts."
And for the first time,
he didn't hide his face.