But Ji-Hoon never came.

Min-Soo waited twenty minutes, checking his phone every few seconds. No calls. No texts. Just the blur of students passing by—laughing, rushing, existing in a world where nothing had gone wrong.

When Ji-Hoon finally appeared—hood pulled up, eyes shadowed—Min-Soo stood in relief, ready to smile.

But Ji-Hoon didn’t.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t even meet his gaze.

“Hey,” Min-Soo tried softly. “I thought something happened.”

Ji-Hoon brushed past him. “I forgot.”

“You forgot?” Min-Soo echoed, following. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

Ji-Hoon stopped, shoulders stiff. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just—” Min-Soo hesitated. “You’ve been distant since the other night.”

“I needed space,” Ji-Hoon snapped. “That’s not a crime.”

“No, it’s not,” Min-Soo said carefully. “But when you shut me out without a word, I start wondering if I did something wrong.”

Ji-Hoon turned then, eyes worn. “You didn’t. It’s me. It’s always me.”

“Ji-Hoon…”

“I’m trying,” Ji-Hoon whispered, voice raw. “Do you think I don’t want to be okay? That I don’t want to hold your hand without flinching, or kiss you without second-guessing every breath?”

Min-Soo’s chest ached. “I know you’re trying. I see it. Every day.”

“Then don’t expect me to be perfect.”

“I never did,” Min-Soo said, steady. “But I do expect you to talk to me. Not disappear the moment it gets hard.”

The words landed heavy.

Ji-Hoon opened his mouth, then closed it. The silence between them wasn’t the quiet they once shared—it was sharp, cutting.

Min-Soo finally stepped back. “I care about you, Ji-Hoon. Deeply. But I can’t keep guessing if I’m holding you… or chasing you.”

That struck something. Ji-Hoon lowered his head, fists clenched. “I’m scared,” he admitted. “Every time something feels good, I wait for it to fall apart. And I hate that part of me still believes it should.”

Min-Soo’s voice softened to almost a whisper. “Then let me be the one thing that doesn’t.”

---

They didn’t fix everything that night.

They didn’t kiss.

They didn’t hold hands.

But Ji-Hoon didn’t leave.

He sat beside Min-Soo on the steps, letting the silence settle—not to hide inside it, but to heal within it.

When the sky began to dim, Ji-Hoon finally spoke. “Next time… I’ll tell you when I need space.”

Min-Soo nodded. “And I’ll listen. No pressure. Just presence.”

---

That night, Ji-Hoon opened his notebook and wrote:

> He didn’t leave when I pushed.

He paused.

And waited for the door to open from the inside.