chapter 3

Sometimes, I wonder when it began.

The watching. The waiting.

The way my eyes always found him in a crowd, even when I told myself not to look. The way my heart would tighten, not from pain, but from some strange, aching hope.

Ji-won.

His name lived in the spaces between my sketches. In the piano notes I imagined when the world was too loud. In the paper cranes I folded beneath my desk.

And though he never looked my way—at least not until today—my smile had always been his.

Only his.

I never gave it to anyone else, not really. Not even the teachers who praised my paintings or the classmates who tried to include me out of polite obligation.

But for him, it came easily.

It bloomed quietly—when he passed me in the hallway, unaware. When he sat by the window, humming to himself with earbuds in, tapping rhythms against his thigh. When his fingers danced over piano keys during morning assembly, and I imagined what his music might sound like if he played for no one but himself.

For so long, I lived in the safety of those invisible moments.

Now, suddenly, we’ve shared real ones. Words. Glances. Paper cranes and dreams too fragile to speak aloud.

And I don’t know what scares me more—the hope… or the possibility that I could lose it before it ever becomes real.

Lunch comes too quickly.

The courtyard is buzzing with laughter and chatter, but my feet drag as I cross the paved path under the cherry blossom trees. A few petals cling to my blazer. The wind brushes past like a whispered memory.

I see him.

Sitting on the same bench as this morning, alone this time. His sketchbook is closed, resting on his lap. He’s staring up at the sky, brows slightly furrowed, lost in thought.

And for a second, I hesitate.

This isn’t like me. I don’t approach people. I don’t interrupt.

But something changed in the art room. Something I can’t ignore.

I take a step forward.

Then another.

And suddenly, I’m standing in front of him, heart pounding like a paint-splattered drum in my chest.

He looks up.

His expression softens. “Hey.”

I try to speak, but my voice catches. I end up offering a tiny smile instead—the one that’s always been his, whether he knew it or not.

He sees it this time.

And smiles back.

“I was hoping you’d come,” he says.

“I wasn’t sure if I should,” I admit.

He pats the space beside him. “You should.”

I sit.

Our shoulders don’t touch, but the space between us hums like an unfinished chord. The breeze plays with the paper cranes still resting beside him. He’s brought them here. Mine and his.

“Do you always carry them with you?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not always. Just when I don’t want to forget something important.”

I blink. “What’s important about today?”

He glances sideways at me. “You.”

My breath catches.

He says it so easily. No hesitation. No dramatic pause.

Just truth.

I’ve spent so long hiding behind silence that I forgot how powerful a single word can be when it’s real.

I lower my gaze, unsure what to say. He doesn’t rush me.

After a while, he asks, “Do you smile like that for everyone?”

My head jerks up.

“What?”

“That smile,” he says, not teasing. “It’s different. Not the kind people give just to be polite.”

I swallow. “No… it’s not for everyone.”

He nods, as if he already knew the answer.

And suddenly I feel seen again, in a way that makes my chest ache and bloom at the same time.

“I want to tell you something,” he says, looking at the paper cranes. “But you have to promise not to laugh.”

I smile. “I won’t.”

“I think…” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think I’ve been writing about you for longer than I realized.”

I stare.

“You’ve… what?”

He pulls a folded page from his notebook and hands it to me. It’s from one of his lyric drafts.

I unfold it carefully.

The words are soft, poetic—rough in some places, but honest. Lines like:

"She moves like shadowlight,

Not to disappear,

But to stay unseen—

Until someone looks deeper."

Tears prick the corners of my eyes.

He watches me gently. “I didn’t know it was about you at first. I just kept thinking about this girl I saw… always sitting alone, always drawing like she had entire worlds no one else could touch.”

I press the paper to my chest.

“I always thought I was invisible to you,” I whisper.

“You were,” he says. “But only because I was blind.”

I shake my head. “No. You saw me exactly when I needed you to.”

He smiles. “Maybe we both did.”

We fall quiet again.

But it’s a golden kind of silence. The kind that doesn’t demand to be filled.

Around us, petals drift down like confetti from a celebration no one else can hear. The breeze is gentle. The sunlight warm. The paper cranes stay still, like they know this moment matters.

I lean back, letting my eyes close for just a second.

And in that moment, I imagine a future.

Not a loud one. Not a perfect one.

Just a quiet studio with tall windows. A boy humming while he writes music beside me. My paintings on the walls. My smile no longer hidden in shadows, but given freely.

To him.

Always to him.

Because somehow, without ever asking for it, he gave me a reason to believe I could exist beyond the silence.

When I open my eyes again, Ji-won is looking at me—not the way others do. Not like I’m strange or fragile or forgettable.

But like I’m real.

Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

And maybe—just maybe—he’s right.

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