The next few days settled into a pattern Ara pretended not to notice.
Morning: Kang Joon greeting her first the moment she stepped into the classroom.
Breaks: him appearing in the places she thought were hidden.
Afternoons: Minjae's gaze brushing past her like a math problem he hadn't solved yet.
If she didn't name it, maybe it wouldn't become real.
"Han Ara."
She looked up from her desk. Their literature teacher stood at the front, holding a stack of worksheets.
"We're doing pair work today," the teacher announced. "The person next to you will be your partner."
A wave of groans swept through the room.
Ara's stomach sank.
Next to her was an empty seat.
Behind her—
She didn't have to turn. She already knew.
"Kang Joon, you and Han Ara are a pair," the teacher said, confirming her fear. "Seo Minjae, you're with Jiyeon."
Her deskmate twisted around immediately. "Lucky!" she mouthed at Ara.
Ara wasn't sure that was the right word.
The worksheets were passed down. A short story, questions about themes and symbols, space for "free discussion."
Ara stared at the paper.
Kang Joon dragged his chair forward, resting his elbows on her desk so they were facing each other.
"Be gentle," he said. "I'm bad at literature."
"You're good at everything," she muttered.
"Not true. I'm terrible at pretending not to see you."
Her pen slipped. "What?"
"Nothing." His lips curved. "Let's start. Or the teacher will separate us for talking too much and you'll be relieved."
He wasn't entirely wrong.
They read in silence for a while. It was a story about a man who kept traveling back in time to try to save someone and always failed at the last second.
Ara's throat tightened as she reached the ending.
No matter how many times he went back, the woman died. The only thing that changed was how much he remembered.
"What do you think?" Kang Joon asked.
"I don't like it," she said.
"Because it's sad?"
"Because he never succeeds," she replied, eyes on the page. "He keeps trying, but the result is always the same. It's… cruel."
"Isn't that realistic?" he asked quietly. "Some things don't change, no matter what you do."
She thought of Jaemin. Of her mother's timer skipping. Of the vending machine that almost fell and didn't.
"I don't know," she said. "I don't want to believe that."
He watched her for a moment.
"What if," he said slowly, "the story isn't about saving her?"
"Then what is it about?"
"About him realizing that even if she dies, the time they had wasn't meaningless," he answered. "That loving her was still worth it."
Her heart clenched.
"That's worse," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Because it sounds like an excuse," she said. "Like saying it's okay that someone died as long as you felt something."
Silence settled between them.
For a second, she worried she'd said too much.
Then she heard him exhale softly.
"You're right," he said. "It does sound like an excuse."
She looked up, surprised.
"I still think the story is about him," he added. "But maybe… it's also about how heavy it is to keep remembering a death only you feel responsible for."
The paper under her hand blurred.
Does he know? she thought.
He can't.
He shouldn't.
"Ara."
Her name in his voice tugged her back.
He didn't push. He just tapped the question on the worksheet.
"What did you write for 'main theme'?" he asked.
She forced herself to focus. To put her thoughts into neat, distant sentences.
"'Fate and the burden of memory,'" she read aloud.
He smiled faintly. "I wrote 'regret and stubbornness.'"
"That's not very academic," she said, a laugh escaping before she could stop it.
He looked pleased by the sound, like he'd been waiting to hear it.
"Then write the smart answer," he said. "I'll copy it."
"That's cheating."
"It's teamwork," he corrected.
She shook her head, but the heaviness in her chest had eased a little.
For a few minutes, they were just two students complaining about homework.
She let herself borrow that normalcy, just for a while.
At the back of the room, Seo Minjae spun his pen between his fingers, his own worksheet mostly blank.
His assigned partner, Jiyeon, had given up trying to get him to participate and was now writing the answers herself.
Minjae's eyes were on the front.
On Ara, who kept glancing unconsciously at the air above Kang Joon's head.
Nothing showed there.
Minjae frowned.
Interesting.
After class, as students packed up, the teacher called out, "Don't forget to sign up for the career counseling sessions. Third-years need to take this seriously."
Forms were passed around. Boxes to tick, fields to fill: University? Work? Undecided?
Ara stared at the rows of possibilities.
Future.
She hadn't thought much about it.
It was hard enough surviving the present.
"What are you going to write?" Kang Joon asked, peering over her shoulder.
She covered the paper with her hand. "I don't know yet."
"You're good at studying," he said. "You could go anywhere."
"That's not true," she said. "There's money. Distance. Family. A lot of things."
"And you?" she added quickly. "What will you do?"
"Me?" He leaned back. "I don't have much of a choice."
"What do you mean?"
"My family has a company," he said easily. "I'm supposed to go into business. University, then straight into the machine."
"Do you want that?"
He hesitated.
"Wanting doesn't change much," he said. "But if I have to do it anyway, I'd rather not do it alone."
She blinked. "What?"
He cleared his throat. "I mean, it'd be nice to have someone to complain to about it."
"Oh."
Her heart had jumped too fast. She pressed it down.
Later, on the rooftop, the air was clear for once. The rain had finally stopped. The sky was a pale, washed-out blue.
Ara leaned against the fence, watching sunlight catch on damp rooftops.
She heard the door open, felt the now-familiar shift as someone stepped out.
"You always find me," she said without turning.
"You're easy to find," Kang Joon replied. "You shine."
"I don't."
"You do," he insisted. "Even if you're the only one who doesn't see it."
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks felt warm.
They stood in companionable silence for a while.
"Do you ever think about the future?" he asked suddenly.
"Sometimes," she said. "It feels… fake."
"Fake?"
"Like trying to plan a day that might never come," she replied. "People say, 'In ten years, I'll do this,' but they don't know if they have ten years."
"Pessimistic," he murmured.
"Realistic," she said.
He didn't argue.
"Then how far ahead do you let yourself think?" he asked.
She thought of timers above her parents' heads. Of Jaemin's zero.
"Tomorrow," she said. "Sometimes next week. I don't like thinking further."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Ara," he said at last. "Can I ask you for something selfish?"
Her fingers curled around the cold metal of the fence. "That depends."
"If you don't like it, you can say no," he said.
She nodded cautiously.
"Let me think about you when I think about my future," he said simply.
Her breath stopped.
"That's… stupid," she managed.
"Probably," he agreed. "But I want to do it anyway."
She turned to face him. "Why?"
"Because," he said, meeting her eyes, "ever since I came back, this place feels different when you're in it."
Her heart crashed against her ribs.
It was such a small confession. No dramatic declarations, no "I like you" or "I love you."
Just a quiet request to be allowed to imagine her in his tomorrow.
She knew exactly how dangerous that was.
She knew what happened when feelings solidified, when affection turned into something heavier.
She looked up, reflexively.
Nothing.
Still nothing above his head.
Because she didn't love him.
Because she couldn't.
"Ara?" he prompted.
She swallowed.
"You can… think whatever you want," she said, the words scraping her throat. "I can't control that."
It wasn't a yes.
But it wasn't a no.
His shoulders relaxed. A real smile, small but unguarded, tugged at his lips.
"Then I'll be selfish," he said. "Just in my head."
"Don't tell me about it," she muttered.
"Why not?"
"Because I'll feel guilty," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For something I can't give you."
He studied her face, the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers dug into the fence.
"You're always so sure you can't," he said. "You never ask if you want to."
Her chest ached.
Wanting wasn't the problem.
Wanting was exactly the problem.
"I should go," she said, stepping back. "My mom will worry."
"Ara."
She paused.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, "will you come up here again?"
She shouldn't promise.
She shouldn't create habits.
Habits turned into expectations. Expectations turned into attachments.
"Yes," she heard herself say.
When she went home that night, her mother was humming in the kitchen again. The timer above her head ticked down, steady, unchanged from the day before.
Ara exhaled in relief, tension draining from her shoulders.
Maybe today, nothing had broken.
She ate dinner. Did her homework. Took a shower.
In bed, lights off, she stared at the darkness and thought of a boy with no numbers above his head asking to put her in his future.
It was reckless.
It was impossible.
It felt… warm.
She pressed her palm over her heart, as if she could physically hold it down.
"Don't," she whispered to herself. "Don't you dare."
Her heart beat against her palm anyway, stubborn and alive.
Borrowed time, she thought.
That's all this is.
Time she was stealing from the rule she'd made.
And somewhere in that stolen space, in the quiet between her fear and his persistence, something small and dangerous continued to grow.
Not love.
She refused to call it that.
Because the moment she did—
something would change.
Her fingers tightened slightly against her chest.
No.
She had already learned what came after that.
She wasn't going to make the same mistake again.
…was she?