The next morning, I woke up before my alarm.
Not because of anxiety.
Not because of stress.
Because I wanted to see him.
It was embarrassing how quickly I sat up, brushing my hair, checking my reflection twice—even though I knew he didn't judge appearances like other people did.
Still, he noticed details no one else did.
The little flick of hair behind my ear.
The way my sleeves extended past my wrists.
The way I held my notebooks close to my chest.
He saw everything quietly.
And somehow, that made me want to look… a bit nicer.
Just for him.
I stepped out earlier than usual. The air was cool—fresh enough to sting my cheeks lightly. The sky was a soft gradient of pink, as if mirroring the sparkles he wore yesterday.
When I turned the corner near the school gates…
I froze.
He was already there.
Again.
Standing under the same ginkgo tree—the leaves above him fluttering like golden confetti.
His backpack hung loosely from one shoulder.
His hands were tucked deep into his sleeves.
And his sparkles today—
They were a pale yellow.
Warm.
Soft.
Glowing like morning sunlight.
He saw me before I could speak.
His eyes widened slightly, and for a second—just one second—it looked like he forgot how to breathe.
Then the sparkles brightened.
Not flashy.
Not dramatic.
Just… warm.
Like he was relieved.
Like he was happy I came.
He lifted his notebook.
Wrote slowly:
"You're early."
I smiled. "So are you."
He hesitated.
Then wrote:
"I wanted to be."
My heart tripped over itself.
"I'm glad," I whispered.
He shifted closer—not too close, but closer than yesterday—and tilted his notebook again as if wanting to share more.
His handwriting was smaller this time.
More careful.
"I like seeing you before everyone else."
Time stopped.
Or maybe I did.
His sparkles softened into something warm enough to melt the tips of my fingers.
I swallowed, trying to keep my voice steady. "Me too."
His head lowered slightly, as if hiding a shy smile.
---
We walked to class side by side.
Not touching.
But something subtle had changed.
His steps matched mine without effort.
His shoulder brushed within centimeters of mine.
And every time a group of students passed by, his sparkles flickered—not from fear, but from awareness—then steadied only when his eyes found me again.
As if I grounded him.
As if my presence was something he reached for instinctively.
When we entered the classroom, he stopped at the door first and turned his head slightly, making sure I was still behind him before he stepped inside.
A tiny gesture.
But it made something flutter painfully in my chest.
We took our seats.
For the first half of class, he was calm.
Focused.
Soft.
Comfortable.
He even scribbled tiny shapes in the margins of his notes—stars, small circles, patterns almost like the sparkles that followed him.
But halfway through, a loud bang echoed from the hallway.
A locker slammed shut.
Not by a student—by a teacher in a hurry.
Everyone jumped a little.
But he—
His entire body froze.
His shoulders flinched sharply, and his sparkles snapped from soft yellow to sharp white in an instant.
His breathing hitched.
He lowered his head, hands going stiff on his desk.
My heart tightened.
I leaned closer, whispering, "Haejun… it's okay."
He didn't look up.
His sparkles flickered erratically—too fast, too bright.
I reached out slowly, stopping just before touching his sleeve.
"Hey," I whispered again, softer this time. "You're okay. I'm here."
That made him inhale.
A shaky, quiet breath.
His sparkles softened a little.
Then he turned his head—not fully, just enough so one eye met mine.
His expression wasn't panic.
It was something smaller.
More fragile.
Like a child flinching from a sudden shadow.
I smiled softly.
He blinked slowly.
Then the sparkles dimmed to pale yellow again.
Calm.
Warm.
He wrote something after a moment, sliding his notebook gently toward me so the teacher wouldn't notice.
"Sorry."
I shook my head immediately. "Don't ever apologize for that."
His eyes softened.
He wrote again:
"Just… startled."
"That's okay," I whispered.
And for the rest of class, he stayed close—his knee brushing mine again, this time deliberately.
---
At lunch, he took out his lunchbox with more composure than earlier.
But I could tell he was still clinging to something.
To calmness.
To routine.
To me.
He nudged his lunchbox toward me.
Today, it was rolled omelette slices—perfectly cut, bright yellow and soft-looking.
He wrote:
"You try?"
I blinked. "Feed you again?"
He shook his head.
Then slid his chopsticks across the table—
toward me.
I stared at them.
Then stared at him.
"You… want me to eat first?"
He nodded once, shyly.
I lifted a piece slowly.
His eyes followed the movement—carefully, quietly—as if watching mattered more than anything else.
I took a bite.
Warm.
Slightly sweet.
Perfect.
"It's really good," I said.
He didn't smile—he rarely smiled fully.
But the corners of his eyes softened.
His sparkles glowed deeper yellow.
He wrote:
"I made it."
My jaw nearly dropped. "You cooked this? Yourself?"
He nodded again.
Heat bloomed in my chest. "It's amazing."
He wrote, smaller:
"Wanted… to try."
"For me?"
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
I nearly melted into the table.
---
After school, we lingered again at the courtyard.
The wind was gentler today.
The sky was pale blue with streaks of gold.
Students rushed past, chattering loudly.
He didn't flinch this time.
He just stood there, watching me with soft yellow sparkles drifting around him like lazy fireflies.
He lifted his hands.
Signed something.
I froze.
"…I—I don't know that one yet."
He lowered his hands slowly, thinking.
Then he wrote:
"Means:
'I want more days like this.'"
My breath caught.
Completely.
I stared at him, unable to speak for a moment.
Finally, I whispered, "Me too."
His sparkles warmed—yellow shifting slightly toward gold.
He signed again, slower:
I want more days like this.
And this time, I tried to mimic the sign.
Clumsy.
Imperfect.
Shaking a little.
But honest.
His eyes softened so gently it hurt.
Then he did something unexpected.
He lifted a hand—
slowly—
toward me.
Not to touch.
Just halfway between us.
Inviting.
Testing.
Hoping.
There was so much space between us.
And yet—
It felt like the smallest, bravest gesture in the world.
I lifted my hand too.
Not touching.
Just close enough that our fingertips were separated by only a breath of air.
His sparkles brightened—soft, shimmering gold.
The space between our hands hummed with something warm and trembling.
Something neither of us named.
Not yet.
Then he pulled his hand back, slow and careful.
Not rejecting.
Just… shy.
Before leaving, he wrote one last thing.
"Tomorrow?"
I smiled.
"Always."
He didn't hide his smile this time.
And the sparkles around him lit the entire street in warm gold as he walked away.