Paper lanterns floated across the main quad, strung between trees and lampposts like soft stars waiting for wishes. Students wove between booths and food stalls, laughter rising above the music spilling over the grass.

Ji-Hoon stood at the edge of it all, hands buried in his hoodie pocket, wondering why he’d agreed to come.

Min-Soo had asked gently. No pressure, just:

> “There’s a lantern festival this Friday. Come with me?”

And, to his own surprise, Ji-Hoon had said:

> “…Okay.”

Now, surrounded by the swirl of light and noise, he felt himself unraveling. He didn’t belong in places like this. He never had.

But then—

“Ji-Hoon!”

He turned, just as Min-Soo jogged up with a lantern-shaped candy stick in one hand and a lopsided flower crown perched on his head.

Ji-Hoon blinked. “What are you wearing?”

Min-Soo grinned. “Some girl from drama club shoved it on me. Said it matched my ‘main character energy.’”

Ji-Hoon fought the tug of a smile. “It doesn’t.”

“That’s cold.” Min-Soo offered him the second candy stick. “Here. Sugar helps with social anxiety.”

Reluctantly, Ji-Hoon accepted. And together, they let the current of the festival carry them along.

---

They wandered between food stalls—Min-Soo swearing fried squid on a stick was “an experience,” which Ji-Hoon immediately regretted—and paused to watch a student band belt out love ballads, earnest and off-key.

Then the music quieted, the lights dimmed, and the lantern release began.

Each person was handed a paper lantern and a pen.

“Write your wish,” a volunteer explained. “When we send them up, it carries your hope with it.”

Ji-Hoon stared at the blank glow of his lantern. He hadn’t wished for anything in years.

Across from him, Min-Soo scribbled with an easy smile.

Hesitant, Ji-Hoon finally pressed pen to paper.

> Let me stop being afraid of being loved.

He folded the words inside the lantern, showing no one.

---

Lanterns drifted upward, scattering into the dark like new constellations. Ji-Hoon tilted his head back, following the tiny light that carried his secret into the sky. A knot tightened in his throat.

Beside him, Min-Soo leaned close. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Ji-Hoon nodded.

“Do you want to dance?” Min-Soo asked softly.

Ji-Hoon’s eyes widened. “Here?”

“There’s music. Lights. People.” Min-Soo’s voice was gentle, careful. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. Unless you want it to.”

The ballad playing was slow, strings thrumming like a heartbeat.

Ji-Hoon stared at Min-Soo’s outstretched hand, his chest aching with the thought of reaching back.

And for a single second—he did.

Fingers slipped into Min-Soo’s palm.

They moved together—awkward, slow, hardly more than swaying—under the drifting lanterns. Ji-Hoon felt his pulse hammering, every breath too fragile, too exposed. Something raw inside him stirred as Min-Soo leaned in—

And he pulled away.

Quick. Sharp. Like a snapped thread.

“I—I can’t,” Ji-Hoon whispered, voice trembling.

Min-Soo froze, startled. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No.” Ji-Hoon shook his head. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m… not ready. Not for this. Not for closeness.”

The silence lingered.

Then Min-Soo nodded, slow and steady.

“You don’t have to explain. I’ll wait.”

Ji-Hoon’s throat tightened. He gave the smallest nod, then turned, slipping into the crowd before he came completely undone.

---

Later, back in the quiet of his room, Ji-Hoon opened his notebook.

He wrote just one word at the top of the page:

> Almost.