One day, the seating arrangement changed.
By coincidence—or something I didn't understand back then—I ended up sitting beside her.
I didn't say anything at first.
I was afraid my voice would break the silence she carried so naturally. But she spoke first. She asked if my name was Han Jae-min, as if she already knew the answer.
I nodded.
She smiled. Just a little.
From that day on, she talked to me like it was normal. Like I belonged beside her. When I forgot my pencil, she passed me one without a word. When I got my test back and saw a low score, she didn't laugh or pity me. She just asked if I understood where I went wrong.
Sometimes, I made jokes.
They weren't very funny. But she laughed anyway.
I didn't know it then, but that was the moment something settled quietly inside me. Not loud enough to be called love. Not clear enough to be understood.
Just a feeling that stayed.
At that age, I thought moments like that would last forever.
I thought classrooms stayed the same.
I thought people stayed close.
I didn't know how easy it was for everything to change.