Minji was talking about nothing important.
Something about a drama she'd binged far too late, how the male lead had ruined the ending by "suddenly developing a personality," how Haerin had terrible taste for defending him. Their footsteps matched easily as they walked toward the lecture building, coffee cups warm in their hands, the morning sun falling soft and familiar across the stone paths.
"Tell me I'm wrong," Minji insisted, stopping mid-sentence.
"You're wrong," Haerin replied instantly, without even looking up from her phone.
Minji scoffed. "You didn't even hear the argument."
"I didn't need to," Haerin said calmly.
They laughed, the sound light and easy.
Sera should have been with them.
Minji slowed without realizing it, her gaze flicking backward out of habit — the way you check for someone without consciously thinking they won't be there.
Nothing.
She blinked once.
"She's probably already inside," Minji said casually, more to herself than Haerin. "You know how she gets when she's early."
Haerin nodded. "Or she overslept."
Minji snorted. "That girl wakes up before alarms exist."
Still, Minji pulled out her phone, thumbs moving quickly.
Where are you?
Sent.
No urgency. No worry yet.
They reached the lecture hall. Minji pushed the door open, stepping inside first, her eyes instinctively scanning the third row — the seat Sera always took, close enough to the aisle, close enough to the front.
It was empty.
Minji stopped walking.
"…Huh."
Haerin stepped in behind her, following her gaze. "Bathroom?"
"Maybe," Minji said, though her brows knit slightly. "She usually texts."
Minji checked her phone again.
No reply.
They slid into their seats anyway, telling themselves it was nothing. The room filled gradually with students, the familiar low buzz of conversation rising, chairs scraping softly against the floor.
Minji tapped her phone against her palm.
"She might be sick," Haerin said quietly. "She looked tired yesterday."
"Yeah," Minji agreed too quickly. "Probably migraine. Or stomach thing."
But Sera always replied when she was sick.
That thought arrived uninvited — small, sharp, uncomfortable.
The clock crept closer to the hour.
Julian Lee walked in.
As always, the room adjusted itself around him. Spines straightened. Conversations softened. Attention settled.
He placed his materials on the desk with precise movements, adjusted the angle of his laptop, straightened a stack of papers that were already straight.
Then, without thinking, his eyes moved to the third row.
And stopped.
Just for a fraction of a second.
No one noticed.
Except him.
Minji didn't look at Julian. She was watching the door.
"She's really late," she whispered.
Haerin didn't answer.
Julian cleared his throat and began class exactly on time.
His voice was steady. His pacing controlled. His explanations clean and articulate, the way they always were.
But something about the room felt… thinner.
When he reached attendance, his pen paused slightly above the page.
"Sera Kim."
Silence.
Minji's stomach tightened.
Julian glanced up automatically.
The empty seat.
Again.
He waited half a beat longer than necessary.
Then marked it.
Absent.
The pen made a soft sound against paper — sharper than it should have been in the quiet room.
Julian continued without comment.
No reaction. No question. No visible change.
But inside, something felt misaligned.
He had seen her that morning.
Early. Walking beside Chairman Park.
Calm. Composed. Unhurried.
Very much not sick.
So why wasn't she here?
He didn't allow the question to linger. He moved on, explaining the next section with the same clarity he always did, calling on students, maintaining the rhythm of the lecture.
But every time he turned slightly toward her side of the room, the absence pressed harder.
Minji stopped taking notes entirely.
Her phone buzzed.
Nothing.
"She always replies," she murmured under her breath.
Haerin leaned closer. "Maybe her phone died."
"Her phone never dies."
The lecture dragged.
Not because it was boring — but because worry had nowhere to go.
They couldn't leave. They couldn't check her dorm. They couldn't ask anyone.
They were trapped in their seats, forced to listen, forced to wait.
Julian noticed the distraction.
He noticed Minji's pen tapping too fast. Haerin staring at the door between explanations. The unease rippling through that section of the room.
He didn't ask.
He didn't pause.
But the lecture felt heavier than it should have.
When the bell finally rang, the sound was almost violent.
Minji stood immediately. "I'm checking her dorm."
"She might already be there," Haerin said, though she was already gathering her things.
Julian watched them go.
He didn't stop them. Didn't call anyone back. Didn't say a word.
He remained standing at the desk long after the room emptied, his gaze drifting — unwillingly — to the seat that had quietly anchored his class for months.
He told himself not to overthink.
She wasn't sick. She wasn't missing.
But she was gone.
And for the first time, the space she left behind felt impossible to ignore.