Not heavy, not like before—just a thin, steady drizzle that draped the campus in silver. The kind of rain that shrank the world down, made it gentler, quieter.

Ji-Hoon found himself back in the library corner. This time, he was the one who arrived first.

His notebook lay open in front of him, pen resting between his fingers, the pages already crowded with ink and hesitation. But he didn’t write. He didn’t even try.

He just… waited.

He didn’t realize that’s what he was doing until Min-Soo appeared.

No fanfare. No dramatic entrance.

Just Min-Soo—umbrella in hand, damp hair clinging to his forehead, smile soft as he sat across from him.

Neither spoke. The silence didn’t press. It lingered, light and expectant, like the pause before a held breath.

---

“I hated him,” Ji-Hoon said at last, voice barely louder than the patter of rain against the tall windows.

Min-Soo looked up, listening without question.

“My ex,” Ji-Hoon clarified. “Seung-Hwan. We were friends before we were… anything. We studied together after school almost every day. He told me he liked the way I listened.”

His fingers curled tighter around the pen.

“One day he kissed me. Said it was an accident. A week later he did it again—on purpose.”

Min-Soo stayed still, his silence patient.

“I thought maybe… maybe I could be someone worth loving.”

The words cracked as Ji-Hoon forced them out.

“But then someone saw us holding hands in the art room. He panicked. Told everyone I’d forced him. Said I tricked him. That I was obsessed. That I was confused.”

Min-Soo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“My classmates stopped talking to me. I got threats. My parents never found out, but the whispers spread through my neighborhood. I became…” Ji-Hoon’s throat closed around the word. “…poison.”

His eyes lifted, glassy.

“I’ve never told anyone that before.”

For a long beat, the rain was the only sound between them.

Then Min-Soo leaned forward, voice steady, low.

“I believe you.”

Ji-Hoon blinked.

“I believe you,” Min-Soo said again, firmer this time. “And I’m sorry. That should never have happened to you. None of it.”

The tears came quietly—not a sob, not a collapse. Just slow, steady drops sliding down Ji-Hoon’s cheeks, like they’d been waiting for someone who wouldn’t flinch.

Min-Soo’s hand moved across the space, unhurried, gentle. He took Ji-Hoon’s hand in his own.

Ji-Hoon didn’t pull away.

“I still don’t trust easily,” Ji-Hoon whispered.

“I don’t need you to,” Min-Soo replied softly. “I just need you to be here.”

---

That night, Ji-Hoon didn’t write a poem.

Instead, he turned to a clean page and wrote one line:

> He believed me.

He underlined it twice.

And left the notebook open.