Ji-Hoon sat tucked into their usual library corner, pencil scratching between problem sets and half-formed sketches, stealing glances at Min-Soo, who lounged nearby with a battered paperback. Their rhythm had settled into something steady now—no confessions, no labels. Just two boys in a hidden corner of the world, sharing time as if it cost nothing.

When his phone buzzed with a group project reminder, Ji-Hoon packed up quickly, murmuring a soft, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He didn’t realize until hours later—after class, after dinner, after the weight of everyone else’s voices had smothered him—that he’d left behind the one thing he never meant to.

His notebook.

---

By the time he returned, the sun had long since slipped behind the skyline. The corner was empty.

Empty, except for Min-Soo.

Holding the notebook.

Ji-Hoon froze, panic sparking through every nerve.

“Wait—don’t—” His voice cracked as he rushed forward.

Min-Soo stood, holding it out carefully. “I didn’t read past the first page,” he said quietly. “I saw your name inside and figured you’d come back.”

Ji-Hoon took it like it might break in his hands. “You… you didn’t read the rest?”

“No.”

His grip tightened on the cover. He didn’t know which frightened him more—that Min-Soo might have read his words, or that he never would.

“It’s not… good or anything,” he muttered.

Min-Soo tilted his head. “You wrote a poem about the rain. I liked it.”

Ji-Hoon’s breath caught.

“You write,” Min-Soo said softly, “like someone trying to forgive the world.”

Ji-Hoon couldn’t answer.

Silence stretched again—not comfortable this time, but heavy.

With fear.

With vulnerability.

With something that wavered between hope and hesitation.

---

“I never let anyone read it,” Ji-Hoon admitted at last.

Min-Soo nodded. “Then thank you for trusting me, even if it wasn’t on purpose.”

When Ji-Hoon lifted his eyes, there was no teasing waiting for him. No smugness. Only warmth—and patience.

“Would it be okay,” Min-Soo asked, “if someday… you let me read one on purpose?”

Ji-Hoon swallowed hard. The edge of his fear softened under that gentleness.

“Maybe,” he said. “Someday.”

---

Later that night, Ji-Hoon sat at his desk, notebook open, pen hovering.

For the first time in years, he didn’t write about the past.

He wrote about a boy who waited before reading.

About a question that asked instead of demanded.

About how trust wasn’t a key handed over, but a door someone knocked on—and waited to be let in.

In the corner, he signed in small, hesitant handwriting:

> For M.