That night, sleep didn't come easy. I lay awake long after the hum of the city had faded into the hush of early morning. The ceiling above me was veiled in gray shadows, flickering with the occasional headlights of cars passing by below. The window was open just a sliver, letting in the breath of an early autumn night—cool, metallic, and restless, like the world itself was holding its breath.
My sheets twisted around me. No matter how many times I flipped my pillow to the cold side or shifted positions, sleep hovered just out of reach, teasing me, taunting me with its absence.
The rejection still burned.
It played in my mind like a broken record—those three seconds where my eyes scanned the list, frantic, hopeful, desperate... and didn't find my name. It was as if someone had hollowed out my chest and left a cold stone inside it. I had spent the last two years preparing for that exam, sacrificing sleep, weekends, social events. I had learned to live on caffeine and spite. I had built my life around that one goal. And when it slipped through my fingers, I felt like I was falling—freefalling—without knowing when I'd hit the ground.
And then there was him.
The boy on the hill.
It was irrational, the way my mind kept returning to him. I didn't even know his name. We had exchanged barely any words, and I hadn't seen his full face. Yet the memory of him stood like a lighthouse in the fog of my thoughts—solid, unchanging, and oddly comforting.
He had stood still as stone at the edge of that hill, as if listening to something I couldn't hear. I remembered the gentle wind tugging at the edge of his hoodie, the calm way he looked over the city as if he could see something beneath it all. Not just the traffic or the buildings or the people—but the pulse beneath them. The unspoken things.
He looked like someone who had carried silence for so long it had become part of his body.
I turned onto my side, pressing my cheek into the pillow, trying to block out the noise in my own head.
Still, his image returned.
The eyes.
Deep, dark brown—almost black in the fading light—but not cold. Not empty. They held sorrow, yes. But also softness. A stillness that felt earned, not passive. The kind of softness people mistake for weakness until they realize how much strength it takes to stay kind in a world that keeps breaking you.
I don't remember when I finally fell asleep. But when I did, I dreamed.
In the dream, I stood on the edge of an endless ocean.
The water shimmered under a moonless sky. It wasn't dark, exactly, but it wasn't light either. The horizon melted into mist, and waves lapped at my bare feet, leaving trails of silver foam. I felt small—like I was standing at the edge of something infinite and unknowable.
And he was there.
Standing at the shoreline, half in fog, half in starlight. His figure blurred around the edges, like memory half-forgotten. I couldn't see his face, but I knew it was him.
He turned to me slowly, as if he'd been expecting me all along.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
I stepped toward him, barefoot, the sand soft and cool beneath me. With each step, the wind whispered something I couldn't quite make out. My chest ached with longing and I didn't know why.
Then his eyes met mine—those same eyes, warm and sad and infinite—and I woke up.
The room was still dim. A dull gray light seeped through the window. I blinked, heart thudding. For a moment, I wasn't sure if I'd really woken up.
My alarm hadn't gone off yet. The digital clock read 6:47 a.m. I lay still, trying to memorize the feeling before it slipped away. The ocean. The mist. His gaze.
I forced myself up and padded to the window.
The street below was empty, the city still rubbing sleep from its eyes. A cat darted across the alley, tail high and alert. Somewhere in the distance, a train rumbled.
Something about that encounter had scratched at the surface of something buried deep in me. I needed to see him again.
By 7:30 a.m., the kitchen smelled like burnt toast.
My mother stood at the sink, scrubbing a pan like it had personally offended her. She didn't turn around when I entered.
"You're up early," she said.
I grabbed a mug and poured myself some tea. "Didn't sleep well."
There was a pause.
"You said the results would be posted this week."
I stared into the steam rising from my cup. "They're delayed."
Another lie. Another dodge.
"Why would they delay it?"
I shrugged. "Maybe too many applicants. I don't know."
The silence between us thickened. I could feel her judgment in the way she sliced an apple, in the tightness of her jaw.
"I just don't want you to waste your time," she said finally. "You need to focus."
"I am focused," I said quietly.
She turned then, eyes sharp. "You've been distracted lately. Always out, always on your phone. Are you even trying?"
Something inside me snapped. "You think I wasn't trying? I stayed up studying every night while you slept, all while handling the mountain of chores you left behind. You never complain about our brother, but when it comes to me, it's like nothing I do is ever enough."
Her face hardened. "Don't talk back to me."
"I'm not," I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt. "I'm not talking back. I'm just expressing my emotions—you know, a typical teenage thing. Or... wait, I didn't even get to have that."
I walked out before she could say anything.
Every day brought another reason to fight. Coming home had become unbearable—so much so that I'd rather walk endlessly through empty streets than step inside and hear the same endless barrage about school, about how I wasn't doing enough. It was never enough.
The constant nagging scraped at me—about how I looked awful, how my posture was terrible, how my grades were "horrific." But the worst part was the loneliness of it all. I struggled alone. She wanted me to succeed, sure, but she never helped. Science was never her strong suit. How could she expect me to be good at it when she herself had never been?
My thoughts spiraled, tangled and chaotic, and I almost missed the bus I was supposed to catch.
I pulled out my bus card, tapped it against the scanner, then slipped it back into my pocket. That's when I felt it—the bus ticket he had given me yesterday.
Strange. Why would a local carry a single-use ticket instead of a card?
I pulled the ticket out and stared at it for a long moment.
Expired May 28, 11:40 p.m. That was the exact time we met.
On the back, a number was written. It looked unusual—definitely not a typical local number. Yet his voice had sounded so local.
Everything about him was strange. And that strangeness pulled me in, made me curious in a way I hadn't expected.
I sat down in my usual spot by the window, where I could see the river winding through the city—a ribbon of shimmering silver that always looked dazzling, almost magical. It reminded me of his eyes. The way they caught the fading light, dark and mysterious, yet somehow warm and steady.
He had given me his number yesterday, just in case I wanted to talk. Yet, despite that, I couldn't understand why I felt so scared to text him. Everyone else seemed so casual about texting, about making new friends. Why did it feel so different for me?
I pulled out my phone, unlocked the screen, and stared at it for a long moment. Then I carefully typed his number into my contacts and saved it. My fingers trembled slightly as I pressed the message icon.
Come on, I told myself, it's not that hard. Just be casual. Be cool.
I started typing:
"Hello there! It's me from yesterday."
I read it over and immediately knew it wouldn't work. It sounded awkward—forced. I deleted it.
Then I tried again:
"It's me from yesterday. You told me to contact you."
A bit more casual, a bit colder. Maybe that would work better.
But doubt crept in like a shadow. What if he didn't answer? What if it was some cruel joke—he was bored and I just looked like an easy target? Worse yet, what if he'd given me a fake number just to mess with me?
Stupid guy.
If he really wanted to talk, why hadn't he asked for my number? Why was it always expected that I had to make the first move? I shoved the phone back into my pocket, heart pounding and mind racing.
I dragged myself into school, the weight of last night's thoughts still heavy on my shoulders. The first class was English, my favorite subject—and Mrs. Hazelwood was the teacher I always looked forward to. She had this fun way of trying to make our lessons more interesting by letting us watch movies or reading fantasy books.
But today, none of it reached me.
I sat in my usual seat again which was always near the window for some reason. Mrs. Hazelwood's voice floated through the room, reading lines from The Raven, but it sounded distant, like a radio playing softly in another room. My mind kept drifting back to the bus ride, the bus ticket in my pocket, and the number I still hadn't messaged.
Suddenly, a small paper note hit the side of my desk. I glanced down and saw Suzan's familiar handwriting.
"Hey, Earth to Seline! What's up? You seem miles away."
I barely had time to read it before another note landed—this one from Lily.
"Seriously, what's wrong? You look like you're in a different universe."
I sighed and folded the note back. Then I shot back a quick message, folding a scrap of paper and flicking it across the aisle.
"Lost in space. Send help."
A few giggles spread around the group.
Suzan leaned over, whispering, "Want to talk about it? Seems like something fun happened to you"
I shook my head but smiled faintly. "Nah, just practicing for astronaut school."
Lily grinned. "That sounds more fun than medical school anyway."
I gave them a playful glare. "Very funny. I'm just a little tired. That's all."
Mrs. Hazelwood paused mid-sentence and looked over her glasses. "Seline, are you with us?"
I blinked, suddenly embarrassed. "Sorry, Mrs. Hazelwood. Just... a bit distracted today."
She nodded kindly. "Well, when you're ready, we're discussing symbolism in the poem. Don't worry, you're not alone—sometimes the heart and mind don't quite sync."
I gave a small laugh, thankful for her understanding, but the knot in my chest didn't loosen. I stuffed the notes into my notebook and stared out the window again, wondering if I'd ever be able to shake this cloud off.
Lunch arrived in a blur. The chatter of the cafeteria, the clatter of trays, the smell of warm food—all of it washed over me, but I felt distant, like I was watching through a fogged window. I sat with Suzan and Lily at our usual table, but my mind was tangled up in the bus ticket and the number he had given me.
Suzan nudged me. "Hey, you've been quiet all morning. What's going on?"
I shrugged, poking at my salad. "Nothing much. Just tired, I guess."
"Uh-huh," Suzan said, raising an eyebrow. "Sure."
I smiled weakly. "Like i said before, my life isn't that fun"
Suzan's eyes lit up. "You make it more fun by coming to the party with us next week."
I shook my head. "I don't think Mom would ever let me."
Lily laughed softly. "You gotta live a little, Sel."
They both settled into their food, chatting quietly, but my fingers were itching. I pulled out my phone, careful not to make it obvious. I unlocked the screen, opened the messages app, and stared at the blank text box next to his number.
After a few deep breaths, I typed,
Hey. It's me—from the hill yesterday. Just wanted to say hi.
My thumb hovered over send for a moment, then I pressed it.
My heart pounded like it was about to burst.
Neither Suzan nor Lily noticed.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, trying to act casual. The buzz of the cafeteria faded, and all I could think about was whether he'd reply.
Almost three hours passed. Nothing. Not even a "seen." I checked again when school ended—same blank screen. The message just sat there, unread.
Maybe it was a joke after all. Maybe I was just something he entertained for a few minutes before moving on.
The walk home stretched out before me like a gray ribbon unraveling beneath my feet. The city felt unusually quiet, almost hollow, like it was mimicking the way I felt. The late afternoon light slanted across the pavement, casting long, sleepy shadows. The kind of light that makes everything look faded, like a memory.
I kept walking. Past the bakery where the smell of warm bread usually made me feel safe. Past the bookstore I used to stop at after class. Everything felt distant today, like it belonged to someone else's routine.
A soft rustle near the sidewalk caught my attention. A black stray cat—thin, with matted fur—peeked out from behind a recycling bin. Its eyes were wide, curious, almost cautious.
I knelt slowly, not wanting to scare it. Without really thinking, I reached into my bag and pulled out the leftover half of my tuna sandwich. I tore off a piece and laid it on the ground, a few steps away from me. The cat crept forward, tail low but nose twitching. It hesitated, then took the food and began to eat in small, careful bites.
I watched for a moment, then got up and kept walking home.
When I opened the front door to the apartment, I could already feel it. That tension in the air, like the seconds before a storm.
Mom stood in the kitchen, phone in hand, face tight.
"You didn't make it into the top 20" she said without looking at me.
I dropped my bag by the door. "I know."
She turned, crossing her arms. "So what now?"
"I can still apply to biomedicine," I said, keeping my voice even. "It's not med school, but it's still something."
Her expression soured. "That's not what we agreed on."
"No," I said, my voice a little sharper. "That's what you decided. I never agreed to anything."
"You wanted this!" she snapped.
"I wanted a chance to figure things out," I said. "Not to live out someone else's version of my life."
She opened her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to yell. I didn't wait to find out.
I turned around, grabbed my jacket again, and stepped back outside. The door closed behind me with a soft click—not a slam. I wasn't angry exactly. Just... done.
I walked without thinking. No destination, no plan.
And before I even realized where I was headed, I ended up on the hill.
The air was cooler up here. The city stretched beneath me like it always did, twinkling faintly in the early dusk. The sky was soft, streaked with pale pink and fading blue. I sat on the grass, pulled my knees to my chest, and stared out.
Then my phone buzzed.
Sorry I didn't reply earlier. Got caught up with something.
I stared at the message. The words felt distant, hollow.
I didn't answer.
A minute later, another buzz.
Are you okay? You seem kind of mad.
I blinked.
How did he know that?
A prickling sensation crawled up the back of my neck, and I turned my head.
He was standing there. Same hoodie. Same black coat. Still half in shadow, still wearing that mask. But I could see the eyes—dark, steady, unreadable.
But the rest of his face was swallowed by shadows, just like the first time. And I kept my hoodie up, hiding behind the dim light, our features remaining blurred—like we were both half-ghosts in the fading dusk
I stared at his silhouette for a long second, unsure if he was really there or if my mind had conjured him out of frustration and exhaustion. But he didn't move. Just stood there quietly, the evening breeze tugging at the hem of his coat.
I finally spoke.
"How long have you been standing there?"
He tilted his head slightly, almost like he was amused.
"You don't count the minutes when you're watching something peaceful."
I frowned. "That sounds kind of creepy."
He chuckled under his breath, a low sound. "Maybe. But I figured if I said anything too soon, you'd walk away."
"You didn't even answer my text," I said, and I hated how bitter it sounded coming out. "You gave me your number and then just disappeared."
He didn't say anything right away. Just looked at his shoes for a moment, the silence stretching between us. Then finally, with a soft shrug:
"I was busy."
"That's not really an answer," I muttered, crossing my arms.
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
I turned away slightly, looking at the sky again. I didn't know why I was this annoyed. He didn't owe me anything. We barely knew each other. Still... it stung. The silence. The confusion. The way he kept talking in riddles.
Then he said, "I'm going back."
I looked up quickly. "Back where?"
He paused, then looked toward the horizon.
"South Korea."
My brows furrowed. "Wait—you're not from here?"
He shook his head once. "Just visiting."
I blinked, surprised. "I thought you were local... You sound British."
He gave a small shrug, like it didn't matter.
"I have friends from all over—accents rub off, I guess. For some reason, British stuck."
I blinked, trying to catch up with the shift. It was strange—he had felt almost familiar. Like someone I could figure out if I just looked a bit closer. But now, he was suddenly distant again. Just visiting. Leaving. And I didn't even know where from.
Then, more quietly, he said, "Do you use Instagram?"
It felt like such an ordinary question, dropped into a moment that didn't feel ordinary at all.
"What?"
"It'd be easier to reach you there... if you want."
His voice had softened, a little unsure.
"Um... yeah. I guess."
I opened the app and handed him my phone. "It's kind of dead though."
He glanced at the screen. My profile was almost empty—just a tiny circle of my bunny i used to have as the profile pic, two random highlights, no posts. Only a few followers.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You don't post either."
I blinked. "Wait—'either'?"
He handed me back my phone, pulling up his own. "Mine's pretty much a ghost town too. I just keep it to stay in touch."
"Of course," I said, trying not to smile. "Still full mystery mode."
He raised a brow, but didn't deny it.
A notification buzzed at the top of my screen—his follow request.
I clicked accept and slipped the phone back into my pocket.
We stood there quietly again. The sky was turning a into the darkest shade of black. Below us, the city lights were flickering, scattered like stars.
I wanted to ask something. Maybe why he was really here. Maybe why it bothered me that he was leaving. But the words didn't come. Instead, I stayed beside him, letting the silence stretch without needing to fill it.
Something about the stillness made it okay.
At least for now.