chapter 4

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The bell rang, echoing across the marble-floored hallways of Daehan Academy. As uniformed students bustled out of classrooms, their chatter filled the corridors like the soft hum of bees. Today was just like any other—except for Seo Ha-eun.

Ha-eun didn’t walk with the others. She never did. While the crowd surged forward, she slipped quietly into the corridor’s far end, near the old storage staircase rarely used by anyone but the janitor. From there, her gaze scanned the hallway for just one person.

There he was.

Ji-hun.

Tall, with the kind of charisma that commanded attention without trying, Ji-hun was Daehan’s golden boy. He wore the school uniform like it was tailored to him—shirt slightly untucked, tie loose in just the right way. A basketball captain, honor student, and heir to a chaebol empire. People followed him without question.

Ha-eun followed him, too. In secret.

She clutched her sketchbook to her chest, heart thudding with an ache that was both familiar and cruel. Every page of that book was filled with him—his smile, his profile when he turned toward the sun, the curve of his fingers around a pen. She had memorized him in graphite and ink.

He passed by, laughing with his friends, never noticing her. He never had.

“Still hiding here like a ghost?” came a voice from behind.

Ha-eun turned, startled, but relaxed when she saw Mi-rae. Her best friend. Her only friend.

“You scared me,” Ha-eun whispered, ducking her head.

Mi-rae rolled her eyes but smiled. “You scare yourself, Ha-eun. How long are you going to keep doing this? Watching him like he’s a painting in a museum?”

Ha-eun said nothing. Her gaze returned to Ji-hun, now turning the corner with his entourage, his laughter echoing behind him.

“He doesn’t even know you exist,” Mi-rae said gently, laying a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“I know,” Ha-eun replied. Her voice was barely audible. “I just... I like watching him happy. That’s enough for me.”

Mi-rae sighed. “You sound like a tragic novel.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Or maybe you’re just afraid.”

Ha-eun didn’t respond. She opened her sketchbook instead, flipping to her newest drawing. It was from this morning—Ji-hun sitting beneath the cherry blossom tree, earbuds in, head tilted back against the trunk. The expression on his face had been peaceful, lost in a world no one could touch.

“I want to tell him,” she said suddenly.

Mi-rae blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Someday. Not now. But someday.”

Mi-rae gave her a look. “You’ve been saying that for two years.”

“I wasn’t ready before.”

“And now?”

Ha-eun looked up. Her expression was no longer dreamy, but resolute. “Now... I think I’m beginning to want more than just his shadow.”

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The sun lit the corridors of Daehan College with an almost golden glow, but Ha-eun's world stayed dim.

She moved quietly, clutching a folder tightly to her chest. Every step toward the old locker section felt like walking closer to a memory she buried years ago. The lockers here weren’t used much anymore—students preferred the newer block near the atrium—but this row held a secret she never dared tell anyone.

Her locker. Number 187.

To others, it was just a dusty old compartment. To her, it was a time capsule of every word she was too afraid to say.

She glanced over her shoulder. No one was there.

Ha-eun turned the dial. 4-1-7. The numbers of her birthday. With a soft click, it opened.

Inside: folded letters, sketches, photographs, tiny poems clipped to faded paper. Some sealed in envelopes. Some crumpled from tears. All addressed to one person—Ji-hun.

She never sent any of them.

This was where she came to cry. To write. To remember. And now she was here to let go.

Except the locker wasn’t empty anymore.

A folded piece of paper sat on top of her sketches.

Her breath caught.

She hadn’t placed that there.

Hands trembling, she picked it up. It was newer, neatly folded with a familiar handwriting she hadn’t seen in years.

“I know now. I remember you. The girl behind the tree. The drawings. The whispers. I’m sorry.”

Her fingers loosened. The letter fluttered to the ground.

He knew.

Somehow… Ji-hun knew.

And he had found her secret before she could even confess it.

For a moment, her vision blurred. But not with sadness.

It was fear—and a fragile hope that maybe… just maybe… this story wasn’t finished yet.

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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