Min-Joon had always seen the world differently. While others rushed past cherry trees without a glance, he noticed how the petals drifted like forgotten thoughts. His sketchbook bore witness to all the things no one else seemed to see. And lately, it had been filling up with one particular thing—or rather, one person.

Lee Yujun.

Not that anyone would ever know. Yujun was the type of boy whose name carried weight in the hallways. Quiet, composed, athletic without trying. Girls liked him. Boys admired him. And Min-Joon—well, Min-Joon followed two steps behind, as if the gravity between them could not be escaped.

That spring afternoon, they walked home together again, just like always. Yujun’s shoulder brushed Min-Joon’s occasionally, a silent rhythm neither of them addressed.

"You spaced out again," Yujun said, glancing sideways. His voice was low and careful, like the way he moved through the world.

"Just thinking," Min-Joon replied, eyes on the pavement.

Yujun didn't ask what about.

He never did.

But Min-Joon wondered, if he had, would he have said, you?

Later that evening, Min-Joon returned to that moment in his sketchbook. He drew the way Yujun’s shadow stretched toward his own. He shaded it softly, like a secret not yet spoken. Somewhere between the graphite lines and white space, he caught something that felt almost like longing.

The next morning, as sunlight filtered in through cracked blinds, Min-Joon added final touches to a drawing—Yujun's silhouette at twilight, coat slung carelessly over his shoulder. There was something magnetic about the way Yujun never looked fully at the world, as if saving his attention for something he hadn’t found yet.

They met at the usual corner. Yujun stood waiting, sipping from a carton of banana milk.

"Want one?" he asked, holding out another.

Min-Joon blinked. "You brought two?"

Yujun shrugged, handing it over. "I had a feeling."

They walked in silence, sipping. The warmth of the milk did nothing to steady the fluttering inside Min-Joon’s chest.

Later, as they passed a group of first-years, he overheard the whispered giggles.

“That senior is cute.”

“The quiet one looks soft. Bet he’s single.”

Without a word, Yujun shifted. He slung his arm around Min-Joon’s shoulder with casual confidence.

"He’s taken," Yujun said, smiling slightly.

The girls blinked in surprise. Min-Joon froze.

Taken.

By who?

The arm lingered. Warm. Protective. As if it belonged there.

And Min-Joon couldn’t stop the quiet smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.

School felt both familiar and strange. Min-Joon sat by the window as always, the light catching in his lashes as he doodled abstract shapes in the margins of his notebook.

Yujun was across the room, surrounded by classmates, but his gaze flicked over often. Like a metronome—steady, quiet, constant.

During lunch, someone from another class—Jiho—approached Min-Joon.

"Hey, you draw, right? Want to join the art club after school? We need another member for the festival banner."

Min-Joon hesitated. Jiho was friendly. Too friendly.

Before he could reply, a shadow appeared beside him.

"He’s already helping me with something after school," Yujun said.

Jiho blinked. "Oh. Okay. Maybe next time then."

Min-Joon turned to Yujun once Jiho left. "What exactly am I helping you with?"

Yujun didn’t flinch. "Not being around people who don’t know how to shut up."

Min-Joon rolled his eyes, but his chest warmed.

That afternoon, as rain began to fall, students scattered. Min-Joon stood beneath the awning, empty-handed as usual.

Yujun appeared again, umbrella in hand.

"You always forget."

"And you always remember."

They shared the umbrella. Close. Closer than necessary.

The sound of the rain made the silence between them feel even louder.

As they crossed the last street to Min-Joon’s house, a car swerved a little too quickly through the puddles.

Yujun didn’t hesitate.

He pulled Min-Joon back with a swift tug on his sleeve, pressing him close to his own side.

"Watch it," he muttered, jaw tight.

Min-Joon blinked up at him.

In the dim light of the storm, Yujun’s hand was still on his wrist.

For a moment, Min-Joon remembered a childhood day—a memory dulled by time but not forgotten.

He had scraped his knee chasing a paper airplane. The pain was small, but the tears had come fast. And Yujun, even back then, had knelt beside him, patting the dirt from his legs with awkward hands and a too-serious frown.

"Don’t cry," Yujun had said. "You’re okay. I’m here."

Min-Joon looked at him now and realized—he still was.

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The next evening, Min-Joon sat alone in his room, sketchbook open across his lap. He flipped through the pages—familiar lines, practiced shadings—but his breath caught when he came to one he didn’t remember drawing.

It was Yujun again.

This time, his expression was softer. Vulnerable. His eyes looked directly at the viewer, lips parted as if he were about to speak but hadn’t yet found the words.

Min-Joon touched the paper, fingertips hovering over the charcoal lines.

That’s not how Yujun looked at the world.

But maybe it’s how he looked at me.

His phone buzzed. A message from Yujun:

“Come outside. I have something to show you.”

Under the moonlight, they walked in silence. Yujun led him to the riverside.

There, tied to a tree branch, was a small, floating lantern.

Min-Joon blinked. “You made this?”

Yujun rubbed the back of his neck. “Tried to.”

Min-Joon laughed, the sound cutting through the quiet night.

“It’s crooked.”

Yujun shrugged. “I figured it fits us.”

They stood there, shoulders touching.

The lantern bobbed gently.

And neither of them said it—but both knew this was something beginning.

The next morning, a rumor floated through the halls.

Min-Joon had been seen laughing with Jiho by the bike racks.

Yujun didn’t ask about it. But his silence changed.

It was colder now. Shorter glances. Muted nods.

Min-Joon noticed.

That afternoon, Jiho found him again, this time waving two tickets.

“Movie night? My treat.”

Min-Joon hesitated. “I—”

Then Yujun appeared, gaze unreadable.

“He’s busy,” he said.

Jiho raised an eyebrow. “You’re not his boss.”

“No,” Yujun said. “But I know when he doesn’t want to say no.”

Min-Joon’s heart thudded.

After Jiho left, he turned to Yujun. “Why did you do that?”

Yujun didn’t meet his eyes. “Because I didn’t like how he looked at you.”

Silence.

Then Min-Joon whispered, “That’s what jealousy feels like.”

Yujun’s lips parted. “I guess it is.”

They didn’t talk about it after that.

But in Min-Joon’s sketchbook that night, he drew Yujun again—this time, facing him, with a line of stormy clouds behind his eyes and a single caption below:

You always say nothing. But I hear it all.

...

The first whispers of the summer festival drifted through the hallways like pollen, landing on every conversation.

"You're joining the art committee, right?" Jiho asked again, hopeful.

Min-Joon hesitated.

"He's already helping me," Yujun said, voice neutral, not looking up from his book.

Jiho raised a brow. "Since when?"

Yujun met his eyes. "Since always."

That was the end of that.

Later, when they sat side by side in the art room, Yujun leaned close, eyes fixed on the sketches Min-Joon was laying out for the festival banner. Lanterns, handholds, fireworks—each one soft with meaning.

"This one," Yujun said, pointing to two silhouettes standing under a paper lantern. "That’s us, isn’t it?"

Min-Joon didn’t answer. His pencil trembled slightly.

"I remember that night," Yujun added, voice low. "You had a fever. I carried you back."

"You were eleven," Min-Joon murmured.

.............

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The art room smelled of acrylic and old wood, a strangely comforting mix that clung to the corners like old memories. Min-Joon sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through tangled strands of ribbon and marker pens. Outside the windows, the light was beginning to soften into evening gold.

Yujun leaned against the doorframe, watching him quietly.

"You’ve been quiet today," Yujun said.

Min-Joon didn’t look up. "Just tired."

But it wasn’t the kind of tired that sleep could fix. It was the ache of wanting something he couldn’t name out loud. The weight of words left unsaid.

Yujun walked over and crouched beside him. “Want to ditch and grab something sweet?”

Min-Joon paused. “We still have work.”

Yujun grinned, nudging his knee. “So responsible lately. You didn’t even flinch when I said ‘ditch.’”

Min-Joon smiled faintly. “I flinched inside.”

They ended up at their usual spot anyway—a tiny bakery tucked between two alleys, where the owner knew them by name and always gave Yujun an extra custard bun “for being handsome,” which Yujun accepted with an embarrassed shrug and pink-tipped ears.

Min-Joon sipped at his iced cocoa as they sat on the curb outside.

“You ever think about after?” Min-Joon asked.

“After what?”

“High school. Us.”

Yujun didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he turned his head and looked at Min-Joon directly. “I don’t like thinking about things ending.”

Min-Joon’s heart twisted.

“It doesn’t have to end,” he said softly.

Yujun’s eyes flickered to the sidewalk. “Sometimes it does, even when you don’t want it to.”

The silence that followed was filled with the low hum of passing scooters, distant laughter, the clink of dishes from the bakery.

Min-Joon stared at his reflection in the cocoa. His voice was barely a whisper when he asked, “What if I said I want it to stay like this?”

Yujun looked up again, something unreadable in his expression.

“I’d say... I want that too.”

Their hands brushed on the concrete between them.

Just a brush.

But neither moved away.

And in that soft space between what was and what could be, the world felt painfully, beautifully still.

Rain painted the windows of the classroom in blurry streaks, softening the world into something dreamlike. Most students had already rushed out, umbrellas popping open like petals in the distance.

Min-Joon lingered behind, carefully closing his sketchbook. His heart had been restless all day—he kept catching himself glancing at the seat beside him, waiting for Yujun to show up like he always did.

But today, Yujun had disappeared during lunch. No message. No explanation.

As Min-Joon stepped out into the courtyard, he spotted a familiar figure under the old sycamore tree. Yujun, soaked to the shoulders, stood there without an umbrella, head tilted back to the sky.

Min-Joon rushed over. “Are you crazy? You’ll catch a cold.”

Yujun didn’t move. “Do you remember the first time it rained like this?”

Min-Joon blinked. “You mean when we were kids?”

Yujun nodded. “You were crying because your drawing got ruined. I tore out one of my notebook pages and made you a new one. You said it wasn’t the same.”

“I still have it,” Min-Joon murmured.

Yujun turned, surprise flickering in his eyes. “You do?”

Min-Joon pulled his umbrella over both of them, the small circle of space forcing them close—too close. Their foreheads almost touched. The rain drummed softly above.

“I was upset that day,” Min-Joon said, voice low. “But you stayed with me. Even when I pushed you away.”

Yujun smiled faintly. “I’ll always stay.”

That did it. Min-Joon’s grip on the umbrella tightened.

“You say things like that and pretend they don’t mean anything.”

Yujun looked at him fully then—eyes steady, unreadable. “What if they do?”

The space between them was no wider than a breath. One small step, one confession, and everything could change.

But Min-Joon stayed still. He wasn’t ready for change. Not yet.

So instead, he offered the only truth he could manage. “I’m scared.”

Yujun’s hand reached out, fingertips brushing Min-Joon’s wrist. “Me too.”

They stood in the rain like that—scared, trembling, hearts too full to speak—sharing warmth under a borrowed sky.

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