High School Years Before Everything Broke
Some memories don't knock.
They drift in quietly, like sunlight through old curtains,like laughter you don't remember missing until it returns.
Back then, time didn't feel precious.
It felt endless.
The school bell rang with its familiar sharpness, echoing down the corridor like a starting gun, and students poured out of classrooms in messy waves, ties loosened, skirts adjusted, bags slung over shoulders with careless confidence.
Hae-min was the first to bolt out, soccer cleats hanging from his backpack, already halfway down the stairs before anyone could tell him to slow down.
"Practice starts in twenty minutes!" he shouted back, grinning.
Seon-woo followed more calmly, sketchbook tucked under his arm, sleeves rolled up just enough to show ink smudges on his fingers. He walked like he had nowhere urgent to be, like the world could wait for him to finish whatever thought lived in his head.
And then there was Ha-yoon.
She walked between them, adjusting her glasses, expression half-amused, half-resigned.
"You're going to get detention one day," she told Hae-min.
"One day," he echoed dramatically. "But not today."
Seon-woo laughed under his breath. "He says that every day."
The three of them had formed something unspoken over time.
No confession.
No agreement.
Just a natural alignment, three people who kept choosing the same seat at lunch, the same route home, the same after-school hours.
Friendship, before it learned how to complicate itself.
The rooftop was their secret.
Officially off-limits.
Unofficially theirs.
They climbed the stairs two at a time, pushing open the heavy metal door that screeched every time, announcing their rebellion to the sky.
The city stretched out before them, low buildings glowing under the late afternoon sun, clouds drifting lazily like they had nowhere better to be.
Hae-min dropped his bag immediately and collapsed onto the concrete.
"I'm starving," he announced.
"You're always starving," Ha-yoon said, sitting beside him and pulling out a neatly packed lunch.
Seon-woo sat cross-legged near the edge, sketching the skyline without looking at the page, like his hands already knew what to draw.
They ate slowly.
Shared snacks.
Argued about nothing important.
"Do you think we'll still talk after graduation?" Hae-min asked suddenly, staring up at the sky.
Ha-yoon frowned. "Why wouldn't we?"
Seon-woo didn't answer right away. He watched a bird cut across the clouds.
"People change," he said finally. "Not because they want to. Life just… pulls."
Hae-min scoffed. "You sound like an old man."
Seon-woo smiled faintly. "Maybe."
Ha-yoon looked at both of them, something soft and determined settling in her chest.
"Then let's promise," she said. "Even if life pulls, we pull back."
Hae-min sat up. "Like a tug-of-war?"
"Yes," she said. "But without losing."
Seon-woo closed his sketchbook. "Okay," he said quietly. "I promise."
None of them knew how heavy that promise would become.
And they made a pinky promise.
___________________
It rained that day.
Not suddenly.
Not violently.
Just enough to turn the streets reflective, to soften the city into something gentler.
They ran from the bus stop, shoes splashing, laughter echoing off the walls.
Hae-min didn't even try to avoid the puddles. He jumped into one deliberately, water spraying everywhere.
"Are you five?" Ha-yoon yelled, trying and failing not to laugh.
Seon-woo held his jacket over his sketchbook, shielding it like it was alive.
"Priorities," he said.
They ducked under the awning of a closed shop, breathless, damp, cheeks flushed.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the sound of rain and shared warmth.
Hae-min leaned against the wall, hair plastered to his forehead. "This is kind of perfect."
Ha-yoon nodded. "Yeah."
Seon-woo watched them both, how easy it was then, how happiness didn't demand anything in return.
He didn't know he was memorizing it.
They studied together most nights.
Sometimes at Seon-woo's place, where his mother brought them sliced fruit and pretended not to notice when they stayed too long.
Sometimes at Ha-yoon's dining table, her father humming softly in the background while her brother peeked at them from the hallway.
Sometimes at convenience stores, plastic stools, cheap ramen, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
They talked about the future like it was flexible.
Hae-min wanted to play professionally, obviously.
Ha-yoon wanted law school, though she rarely said it out loud.
Seon-woo wanted… something creative. Something honest.
"You'll design things people keep forever," Ha-yoon once said.
He blinked. "You think so?"
She smiled. "I know so."
That night, he drew her hands instead of the skyline.
____________________
The school festival came with noise and lights and too much sugar.
Hae-min volunteered at the sports booth, competitive even when it didn't matter.
Seon-woo sold handmade bracelets, pretending he didn't care when people bought them.
Ha-yoon walked between them, camera in hand, capturing moments she said she wanted to remember.
"Smile," she told them, raising the lens.
Hae-min threw an arm around Seon-woo's shoulders. "Like this?"
Seon-woo stiffened, then relaxed.
The shutter clicked.
They didn't know it then, but that photo would survive everything else.
______________________
They ended the night on the hill behind the school, fireworks blooming in the distance.
No one spoke.
Because some moments don't need words.
Ha-yoon hugged her knees, hair catching the light.
Hae-min leaned back on his hands, eyes shining.
Seon-woo watched them both, heart strangely full and strangely afraid.
"If we could stay like this," Hae-min said softly.
"We can," Ha-yoon replied.
Seon-woo said nothing.
Because some part of him already knew, time doesn't ask for permission before moving forward.
The memory fades like a song ending mid-note.
Laughter dissolves.
Fireworks dim.
Rain dries.
And somewhere between then and now, everything changes.
But for a moment, just one moment,
they were only three teenagers
standing at the edge of the future,
believing happiness was something that lasted.