The high school library was tucked behind the main academic wing. Wildly disproportionate in height by comparison to the rest of the campus. It was rectangular, framed in tall pale green walls and narrow windows that filtered in daylight through blinds. 

Rows of metal bookshelves stood in neat rows, their books spines labelled in both Hangul and English, a mix of Korean literature, translated classics, and test prep materials with dog-eared corners. The shelves were utilitarian, powder-coated steel in muted grey, with laminated signs reminding students to return books on time and to keep quiet.

A bank of outdated desktop computers with CRT monitors flickering in plain sight of the librarian's desk. Students queued to print essays or check university entrance requirements. The chairs were moulded plastic, bolted to the floor in some cases, but all slightly too low for the tables.

A bulletin board near the entrance displayed handwritten notes about study groups, prep sessions, and motivational quotes. Above it, a framed photo of the school’s founder hung slightly askew, watching over the room.

In the centre, long wooden tables bore the marks of generations' scratches, initials, the occasional ink stain. Students sat hunched over textbooks, highlighters in hand, pens twirled like batons in absent-minded fingers as they poured over content. The silence wasn’t absolute, but it was respected. Even the sound of a pen cap clicking felt amplified.

In the corner, near the window that overlooked the school courtyard, was the quietest spot of all. A single long table, often claimed by the most diligent or the most introverted. Seo-jin hunched over her notes, hand cramping around a pen that sputtered uselessly mid-sentence. She gave it a shake, nothing. Tried again. A weak, translucent smear where black ink should’ve bloomed.

She sighed, the kind of quiet exhale born from hours of memorising formulas that refused to stick. Her eyes flicked sideways toward her bag, but she didn’t move. Everything she needed was either at home or packed too tightly to be accessible.

Without a word, another pen slid across the table toward her. Precise. Deliberate.

She blinked.

Hyun-woo didn’t look up. Already back to his own notes, head bent, posture relaxed in that way only someone completely self-contained could be. He was neat in his uniform, didn't stand out for any special reason, but his watch was analogue, his pencil case metal. Some things about him were quietly out of fashion, but equally timeless.

Seo-jin stared at the pen.

Matte black, fine-point, the exact kind she liked. Not borrowed, not offered, just given. She reached for it slowly, as if it might vanish under too much scrutiny. Her fingers brushed the ridged barrel, comforting and familiar.

Her gaze drifted to him. A little too long. Not enough to be obvious. But enough to remember.

She clicked the pen open and returned to her notes, but her line of thought had already been rewritten.

June’s end usually brought a sky pressed low and heavy, swollen with rain. The colour of the days were dulled, overtaken by the tyranny of Jangma, the monsoon season.

Light filtered through a dense shroud of grey, muting everything: the chatter of students, the glare of classroom windows, the edges of thought. In the halls, the air was thick with the scent of damp concrete and drying polyester.

Rain poured in clean, ceaseless sheets, the kind that made every surface gleam with uncertainty. If it hadn’t soaked you on the way in, it would be waiting for you on the way out. Jackets and umbrellas lined the corridors like exhausted soldiers. No one thought to ask if it would let up.

Seo-jin left her classroom, already hearing the downpour hammer the roof above. As she descended the stairs to a hallway that was alive with noise. Students darted from the doorway in practised chaos. Umbrellas springing open, jackets flung over heads, sneakers squeaking as they vanished into the grey afternoon. The scent of damp concrete drifted in, metallic and clean.

Seo-jin lingered, just inside the frame of the double doors, blazer drawn up around her neck, one shoulder angled slightly toward the downpour like a swimmer testing the water. She had forgotten her umbrella in the rush to leave the house in the morning.

A hum built at the base of her throat. Not dread. Not quite hesitation. A stalling that didn't know what it was waiting for. Then, a motion at her side.

Hyun-woo.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. Just passed close enough to brush past her sleeve, and in that same motion, slid an umbrella beneath her arm. Smooth. Unannounced. Like handing someone a thought he’d had hours ago.

By the time she'd turned her head, he was already down the steps. He paused only long enough to lift his backpack over his head for cover, then bolted across the courtyard in the direction of the bus stop, shoulders hunched, a flash of navy against the rain.

Seo-jin looked down at the umbrella. Slim, navy blue. Still warm from where his hand had gripped it. She didn’t open it right away. She drew in a breath, then flicked it open slowly, carefully, like the canopy might reveal something written beneath it.

The wind tugged at her as she stepped into the rain, the umbrella tilting slightly with the breeze. She walked in the opposite direction to him, but she kept glancing back. Not expecting him to turn. Not hoping he would. Just needing to confirm he’d actually been there.

A crowd had gathered around the notice board near the front stairwell, the usual hum of post-announcement chatter echoing off the tiled walls. Sunlight cut through the upper windows in pale strips, dust drifting lazily like confetti in its light. Seo-jin stood still, her name etched cleanly at the top of the rankings.

“Seo-jin!”  

“You did it!”  

“I told you, unstoppable!”

Congratulatory voices overlapped. Hands reached to squeeze her shoulder. Laughter bubbled behind her. She offered a polite smile. A bow. Another nod. But her eyes weren’t on her name. She was scanning lower.

Fourth. Hyun-woo.

Not at the bottom. Not near her. Just far enough to be removed, just close enough to matter. Her gaze drifted from the board to the press of students behind her. Brows furrowed in frustration. Others delighted, already brandishing screenshots of their results, others not so. School bags thumped against legs. Voices layered, tangled.

She looked once, turned back to the board. Then looked back again.

There.

Across the hallway, half-obscured by a cluster of second years, he was already watching her. Calmly. No smugness. No challenge. Just a quiet smile, somewhere between acknowledgement and familiarity.

She looked away quickly, feigning interest in something. Anything. But the damage was done. That kind of gaze unsteadied things. Turned the polished floor beneath her shoes into something slippery. Flustered, she dipped her head, pushed gently through the crowd, murmuring apologies. Her friends called something behind her, but she didn’t answer.

She needed air. Or space. Or distance from the fact that he’d seen her looking before she even knew she was.

The bell had rung ten minutes ago, and the hallway had resumed its usual Friday shuffle, snatches of laughter, locker doors clanging, shoes migrating toward the courtyard. But inside Room 3-2, the air still felt thick.

Desks stood in slightly uneven rows, half-pushed back by students eager to leave. A single sheet of paper lay on Hyun-woo’s desk, creased at the corner from being gripped too tightly. He hadn’t moved.

His eyes were fixed on the score, lower than it should’ve been. Not a failure. Just a falter. But it mattered.

His jaw was still, but his fingers betrayed him, tightening against the edge of the desk, disappointment registering in the crease between his brows. Then, as if the effort of composure needed release, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to his hand. Just for a second.

Seo-jin saw it all from the hallway.

She hadn't meant to pause; her steps had simply slowed, then stopped, her eyes drawn to the stillness inside the room. For a moment, he looked like someone else. Or perhaps just more fully himself? Not the calm presence from study halls or the quiet boy with the borrowed pen. But someone trying and falling just short.

She watched longer than she meant to. Not intruding. Just observing. It hadn’t occurred to her before that he struggled too. That he cared, maybe more than he let on.

She continued on, not hurrying. But her thoughts didn’t follow her out.

Seo-jin sat at one of the cafeteria tables tucked to the side, hidden partially by a column, away from her usual spot. She rested her elbows on the table, fingers pressing into her temples, as if she could knead the equations directly into memory. A slight headache, just behind her eyes.

She hadn’t touched her lunch. The rice was still neatly boxed, as though opening it would demand too much attention.

She didn’t hear him sit down. Only noticed the shift in weight across the table, a slight creak in the floor, and then, quietly, something placed beside her hand. A juice box. Strawberry. Her favourite. No words. She looked up, first at the drink, then beyond it.

Hyun-woo.

His expression is not blank, not cold, but present. Eyes calm. Posture relaxed. As if dropping off a small kindness was part of a routine no one had asked him to explain. Before she could speak, before she could even thank him, he was already on his feet, walking away like he hadn’t done anything remarkable.

She stared after him. Then, at the juice. How many times now had he done something like this?

Today, under the weight of too much studying and too little sleep, its possible meaning appeared larger than it should have been. The gesture unfolded inside her like warm water.

The notice board glowed beneath the harsh hallway lights. Beside it, Seo-jin stood calmly, her name printed cleanly at the top of the rankings. Again. It was the name under hers that drew her attention. Hyun-woo. Second.

She stole glances at the sea of faces. Looking for him, but looking to have the advantage this time. See him before he sees her. She eventually loses her nerve, retreats from the board and heads to her locker. 

She opened her locker door to return her slippers and grab her shoes. She was distracted by the fact that she hadn’t seen him. Had he seen her first, beating her again?

As she closed the locker door, Hyun-woo was standing against the locker beside her, shoulder posture loose, as if he hadn’t waited to see if she’d be alone.

She looks at him. Hides the fact that he's taken her by surprise. 

“You’re annoyingly consistent,” she said, not looking directly at him, but letting the words land like something known.

“Well,” he replied, gaze now forward, casual, “you never made it easy.”

Then, quieter: “But I think I’ve always been around. I just wondered if you’d noticed.”

The sound of a student’s laughter bounced down the hallway and faded. Seo-jin went still, not startled, not defensive, but pulled taut with something. She turned and looked at him. Really looked. No deflection. No rush. His face didn’t shift under her gaze.

And she nodded. Small. Barely perceptible. But full.

The kind of gesture that doesn’t unearth the past or promise the future, just confirms something. Hyun-woo smiled. Quiet. A little lighter now. He pushed off the lockers, straightened, and the hallway flowed back around them as they stepped forward.

They didn’t touch. Didn’t speak again. But they moved in parallel, two lines, long running and finally aligned, stepping into the crowd.