Chapter Text
“So,” Soonyoung says, leaning forward, eyes bright with curiosity that never bothers to hide itself. “You two know each other?”
The question lands lightly. Carelessly. Like a stone skipping across water.
Wonwoo hears the word leave his mouth before he measures it.
“Yeah.”
A single syllable. Calm. Unremarkable.
Except the air shifts. Only slightly. Only for a moment. But enough.
Soonyoung blinks. Mingyu pauses mid-bite. Jihoon lifts his gaze from his cup. Minghao’s eyes flick from Junhui to Wonwoo, then away again. Junhui looks up, expression smooth, polite, unreadable.
“Oh?” Soonyoung says. “From where?”
Wonwoo takes a sip of his drink. The liquid is lukewarm. He swallows.
“High school,” he says.
Junhui inclines his head, as if confirming a detail in a story someone else is telling.
“Our after-school clubs were in the same complex,” Junhui adds. His voice is soft, even, offered for the group’s understanding rather than Wonwoo’s.
“Ah,” Mingyu says. “Small world.”
Conversation flows back into other things. Assignments. Class registration. Who slept the least this week. The moment passes. Or pretends to.
But Wonwoo feels the weight of it settle behind his ribs. The word has been spoken. The past acknowledged. It’s out in the open where others can see it. Although only a tiny fraction of it.
He does not look at Junhui again that night. Looking would mean confirming what has just been admitted.
When they finally leave, the rain has thinned to a mist. The pavement glows under streetlights. Breath turns visible in the cool air.
Mingyu and Minghao head down the main road toward off-campus housing. Jihoon lifts his hood and waves once before disappearing into the subway entrance. Junhui follows Minghao without hesitation, hands tucked into his jacket sleeves, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold.
Wonwoo watches his back for only a second too long.
Then Soonyoung bumps his shoulder lightly.
“Dorm buddies,” he announces, as if nothing unusual has happened at all.
They start walking up the hill toward Yonsei’s back gate. The campus is quiet at this hour. Trees whisper overhead. Puddles reflect the lights in soft distortions.
Soonyoung walks with his hands in his pockets, humming something tuneless. He waits until they are far enough that no one else can hear.
Then, casually, “You and Junhui. You said earlier you knew him.”
Wonwoo keeps his gaze ahead. The incline of the hill demands steady breathing. It gives him something to do with his body.
“I told you earlier,” he says. “We met before.”
Soonyoung makes a small sound.
“You don’t usually say ‘yeah’ like that about someone you only met before,” Soonyoung replies. His tone stays light, but his eyes are attentive now. Watching Wonwoo’s profile. The slight tightening at his jaw.
Wonwoo exhales. The air fogs briefly in front of him.
“I used to have basketball practice in the same complex where he had piano lessons.”
It is true. It is safe. It has to be enough.
Soonyoung looks at him for a long moment. Then he nods.
“Got it,” he says simply.
He doesn’t press or tease. No demand for more. Wonwoo knows its Soonyoung’s way of accepting the boundary. And that’s one of the reasons why Soonyoung is one of his few close friends. Soonyoung may be overenthusiastic most of the times, but he is also perceptive. He knows Wonwoo does not take kindly to being pushed and accepts that there are things that Wonwoo does not share. They never talk about Wonwoo’s family. Now another thing has just been added to the list.
They walk in silence for a while. Their shoes make dull sounds against the wet pavement. A bus passes at the bottom of the hill, lights cutting through the mist.
Finally, Soonyoung nudges his shoulder again.
“If you ever need emergency midnight ramyeon therapy,” he says, “you know where my room is.”
Wonwoo’s lips lift almost imperceptibly.
“I know,” he says.
They enter the dorm building. Warm air wraps around them. The familiar smell of detergent, instant noodles, and too many people living too close.
Soonyoung heads for the stairs, still humming. Wonwoo stands for a moment longer in the lobby, hands in his pockets, listening to the rain outside.
He has said it aloud.
They know each other.
The past is no longer only his to carry.
Wonwoo does not linger long in the lobby.
He crosses the polished floor, nods to the student worker at the desk, and heads up the stairs. His footsteps are measured, quiet, as if noise itself might draw attention to what he is thinking. The dorm hallway smells of detergent and instant noodles and too many people living too close together.
His room is at the end of the corridor.
Inside, the lights are off. His roommate has not returned yet. Wonwoo switches on the desk lamp only, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. He sets his bag down, hangs his jacket, folds his umbrella neatly in the corner. Every movement is practiced, precise, a routine built to keep everything in its place.
He sits at his desk.
The textbook opens in front of him. The page is dense with text. He reads the first sentence. Then the second. Then realizes he does not remember either.
He closes the book.
The laptop hums softly as it wakes. The student portal loads. He types Junhui’s name into the search bar without hesitation, as though the thought has been waiting in his fingers all along.
A profile appears.
Wen Junhui. Department of Korean Language. First year, second semester.
Wonwoo’s eyes stay on the screen.
He already knows Junhui is a freshman. Soonyoung introduced him that way. But seeing it in institutional print removes any room for mishearing. It is official. Recorded. Unarguable.
He leans back slightly in his chair.
Junhui is the same age as him.
They entered high school the same year. They prepared for exams side by side. Junhui would not have to serve in the military since he is non-Korean. By every expected path, Junhui should be in his third year now. At the very least, second.
But he is here. A freshman.
Wonwoo does not speculate yet. He only notes the fact, precise and sharp, like a line drawn in ink.
Why only now?
He closes the tab. Shuts the laptop. Returns the textbook to its exact original position, as if restoring order will restore distance. He lies back on his bed, hands folded over his stomach, eyes on the ceiling.
Rain continues outside, soft and steady against the window.
He tells himself there is nothing unusual about delayed enrollment. People change plans. People take time. People start over.
He repeats this until the words lose their edges.
Eventually his roommate returns, loud and cheerful, complaining about a late assignment and cold fingers. Wonwoo responds at the right moments, nods when expected, offers short answers. His body performs familiarity while his mind remains elsewhere.
Later, when the lights are off and the room is dark again, Wonwoo listens to his roommate’s breathing settle into sleep.
Only then does his mind return to the convenience store.
Junhui’s Korean is smoother now. The careful pauses that once shaped each sentence are gone. The slight accent that used to cling to certain consonants has thinned, almost dissolved, noticeable only to someone who once corrected his notebook line by line. His speech flows easily. Polite endings chosen without effort. Tone soft, respectful, perfectly placed for someone younger in the group.
Except he is not younger.
Wonwoo remembers this with a small, precise ache.
Junhui speaks freely with the others. He leans toward Minghao when they share a comment in Chinese, shoulders loosening in a way they never quite did years ago. He listens to Jihoon’s talk about composition with open attention, nodding at the right moments. When Mingyu pushes a skewer toward him, he accepts it without hesitation, bites cleanly, chews quickly, efficiently, as though meals are tasks to complete rather than moments to linger in. When the group laughs, he laughs too, soft and genuine, but the sound never overruns the room. It arrives and leaves exactly when it should.
And when he turns toward Wonwoo, it is only when the conversation requires it. A brief glance. A polite reply. A neutral smile. Nothing more. Nothing that suggests familiarity.
Even his posture feels different. Sleeves remain pulled down despite the warmth of the heater. His hands rest neatly on the table or fold in his lap. No restless fingers. No idle tapping.
There is nothing outwardly wrong. Which is what unsettles Wonwoo most.
Because he remembers another Junhui. One who filled silences with questions. One who leaned closer without thinking. One who let music spill out where words failed. This Junhui does not need translation. He does not need guidance, and does not need anyone to stay beside him.
Wonwoo tells himself this is good. He tells himself this is exactly what he wanted. But the thought sits poorly in his chest, like a stone that does not quite fit.
He turns onto his side, staring at the faint outline of the curtain against the window.
He is only noticing, he tells himself.
Only noticing.
Yet noticing has never been neutral for him.
And sleep comes slowly, careful and thin, like everything else he refuses to name.
–
Days fall into pattern.
Wonwoo attends lectures, takes notes, answers when called upon. He eats with the group when schedules allow. He trains at the gym, showers, returns to the dorm, studies until the numbers on the clock blur. From the outside, nothing has changed. He is still the same quiet, reliable presence moving efficiently through each obligation.
Except now, Junhui exists in the same space.
And once Wonwoo is aware of something, he cannot become unaware again.
He sees Junhui in the library. It’s not that Junhui stands out, but Wonwoo’s eyes find him without conscious intention. A corner table near the windows. Laptop open. Notebook beside it. Junhui sits upright, shoulders relaxed, fingers moving in quick, practiced strokes as he types. Occasionally he pauses, glances at the screen, murmurs a sentence under his breath. The sight settles strangely in Wonwoo’s chest.
He should walk past. He does walk past. But slower than necessary, just long enough to notice the way Junhui’s hair has grown, the way the light falls on his cheek, the way his bag rests on the chair instead of the floor.
Junhui never looks up.
By the time Wonwoo exits the library, he is already telling himself that noticing is not the same thing as longing.
In the lecture hall once a week, they share the same space again. Junhui sits two rows ahead, slightly to the left, always in the same seat. He arrives early, opens his laptop, waits without restlessness. When the professor begins speaking, Junhui’s fingers move quickly over the keyboard. He does not fidget and does not slouch. He does not drift. Every movement is purposeful, like his body has been trained into efficiency.
Wonwoo finds his gaze lifting toward him more often than he intends. He notices the way Junhui tucks his hair behind his ear when it falls forward. His sleeve always sits a little too low, even when the room is warm. He drinks water in small measured sips, never gulping, never spilling. There is something disciplined in it, something that did not exist before.
When class ends, Junhui packs his things quickly and disappears into the crowd without hesitation. Wonwoo lingers in his seat a moment longer, letting the room empty before he stands, as if delay might restore balance.
On campus paths, he passes Junhui in motion. Near the student union, Minghao says something in Chinese that makes Junhui’s shoulders loosen, laughter breaking softly from him. Outside the cafeteria, Junhui waits alone in line, phone in hand, face calm, patient. Wonwoo notices him crossing the quad, earphones in, gaze forward, steps even. He belongs here. Easily. Quietly.
And in group gatherings, Junhui fits as though he has always been there. He listens more than he speaks, but when he does speak, his words land neatly. He laughs when Mingyu exaggerates a story, then lets the sound fade without clinging to it. He speaks to Soonyoung and Jihoon with polite endings, respectful distance. To Minghao, something warmer. To Wonwoo, only what is necessary. A glance. A reply. A nod. Nothing that reaches across the space between them.
Wonwoo notices all of it.
Once, in a crowded hallway, someone bumps Junhui’s shoulder hard enough that a notebook nearly slips from his grip. For a fraction of a second, Junhui’s body stiffens. Not flinching. Not startled. Just a tightening, a brief stillness, then release. He adjusts his grip and continues walking as if nothing happened.
Wonwoo sees it.
No one else does.
Another time, at a shared study table in the library, Junhui lifts his arm to tie his hair back. Fabric slides up, just for a breath of a moment. Wonwoo notices the ink on Junhui’s skin. A string of umbers on the inner curve of his left wrist. Then the sleeve falls back into place, and Junhui continues speaking to Minghao about an assignment as if no one saw.
Wonwoo says nothing.
But his fingers curl slowly around his pen until the plastic bends.
He tells himself that he is only noticing because Junhui exists in the same environment now, because their paths once crossed, because coincidence has a way of folding past and present into the same narrow corridor. Nothing more. Nothing worth naming.
But each day, his attention drifts toward Junhui before he can stop it. Not because Junhui demands it. Junhui never even reaches for him. It’s simply because presence has weight, and Junhui’s presence has settled into his world with quiet inevitability. Once something enters Wonwoo’s awareness, it does not fade on its own. It remains. It accumulates detail. It sharpens.
He does not approach. He does not ask. He does not bridge the space between them. Distance is still the rule he built his life around, and he holds to it with the same discipline that once felt like safety.
So he watches instead. From across rooms, across tables, across walkways crowded with passing bodies. He listens to tones, registers pauses, tracks movements too small for anyone else to care about. Each detail settles into place inside him. And each piece of observation brings a question with it. Why the delayed enrollment. Why the sleeves pulled down. Why the laughter that arrives and leaves on cue.
The questions build quietly, layer by layer, observation by observation, until Wonwoo’s inner world is crowded with them. He does not allow them to reach his face. He does not let them shape his actions. But they exist now, multiplying in the spaces he once kept empty.
And once questions take root in Wonwoo’s mind, they do not disappear on their own.
–
Wonwoo never takes his friends for granted.
He does not say this aloud. He does not show it easily. But he knows what it means to have a group that gathers without agenda, that fills shared tables and dorm rooms and late-night study sessions with noise and presence. He knows how rare it is to be accepted without performance. He knows that walking away from them now, simply because Junhui has re-entered his life, would be a kind of cowardice.
So he does not distance himself.
Their outings are semi-regular. Nothing formal. A text in the group chat. A time. A place near campus. Whoever is free shows up. Whoever is tired stays home. It is casual in the way only friendships that feel secure can be.
Tonight, it is a narrow restaurant wedged between a stationery shop and a fried chicken joint. Warm air carries the smell of broth and grilled meat. Metal chopsticks strike ceramic. Chairs scrape tile. Mingyu chose the place, proudly declaring it cheap, filling, and impossible to ruin.
They push two tables together.
Minghao and Junhui sit side by side, heads bent over the menu. Jihoon squints at unfamiliar dishes. Soonyoung insists they order enough for everyone. Mingyu waves down the server.
Conversation unfolds in overlapping threads.
“This place better be good,” Mingyu says, already chewing.
“If it’s bad, you chose it,” Jihoon replies.
Soonyoung laughs and turns to Junhui. “Second semester treating you alright?”
Junhui nods. “It’s good. Professors are kind. Assignments are manageable.” His tone is light, faintly amused.
Wonwoo sits at the end, jacket folded beside him, gaze drifting without urgency.
He watches Junhui.
When the food arrives, Junhui thanks the server in polite Korean. His pronunciation is clean, natural. He eats neatly, efficiently, lifting rice in careful portions, sipping soup without noise, cutting meat into precise bites. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Practiced.
Wonwoo remembers another version of this.
A boy hunched over a plastic table in a convenience store, poking uncertainly at unfamiliar food. A soft laugh when spice hit too hard. Ice cream melting faster than Junhui could eat it because he kept stopping to talk.
This Junhui does not hesitate. Does not ask. Does not wait. He simply eats the food served in front of him.
Minghao says something in Chinese to Junhui. Junhui answers in quick and fluid Chinese, shoulders loosening as they share the exchange. Then he turns back to the group, slipping into Korean again without pause.
At some point Mingyu leans back, eyes flicking toward Wonwoo.
“You’re too quiet. Thinking about stocks again?”
Soonyoung snorts. “Please. Jeon Wonwoo doesn’t think about stocks. Stocks think about him.”
Jihoon adds, dry as ever, “I heard his family owns half the city.”
Minghao hums. “Only half?”
They laugh. Even Junhui smiles, small and genuine, eyes flicking briefly toward Wonwoo before returning to his food.
Wonwoo exhales softly. He never confirms or denies it. The joke is familiar. Comfortable. His family remains an outline at the edge of conversation, acknowledged but untouched.
The plates empty. The noise settles.
Jihoon starts talking about a composition project. “Piano and strings. I’m stuck on the transition. It sounds like regret.”
“Everything you write sounds like regret,” Mingyu says.
“That’s because I’m an artist,” Jihoon replies.
Soonyoung groans. “Anyway—does anyone here actually play instruments, or is Jihoon the only tortured soul?”
Minghao shrugs. “I played Guqin. A little. When I was younger.”
Jihoon turns to Junhui. “What about you?”
Junhui pauses, chopsticks hovering for half a beat. Then he sets them down neatly.
“I used to play piano,” he says.
Jihoon’s eyes brighten. “Classical?”
Junhui nods. “Mostly.”
“So why ‘used to’?” Soonyoung asks, leaning forward in gentle curiosity. “You should come jam with Jihoon sometime.”
Junhui smiles. Polite. Easy.
“Other things took up my time,” he says. “I don’t play anymore.”
No hesitation. No weight in his tone. Just a statement.
The table moves on. Mingyu complains about having no talent. Soonyoung declares everyone here secretly impressive. Jihoon returns to chord progressions. Minghao tells Junhui about a Chinese restaurant near campus.
Only Wonwoo remains still inside himself.
He watches Junhui lift his cup, drink in measured sips, sleeve covering the inside of his wrist. He watches how Junhui answers smoothly, laughs lightly, never once looking toward him unless spoken to directly.
He hears the sentence again.
Other things took up my time.
And in his mind, it does not remain a sentence. It becomes a fracture line. Every detail he has gathered shifts, aligns, sharpens. The delayed enrollment. The disciplined posture. The absence of music. The tattooed numbers on the inside of his wrist.
Each observation now points toward a possibility he has never allowed himself to consider.
The pieces do not yet form a picture, but refuse to sit neatly apart.
For four years, Wonwoo has carried a quiet understanding of how things were meant to unfold. High school ends. People drift. First loves hurt for a while, then soften at the edges, then become stories told with a small smile. He has believed that their parting, though difficult, had been gentle enough to allow both of them to walk away intact. He has believed that Junhui, who once laughed so easily and adapted so quickly, would have moved on, met new people, found new rhythms to fill the silence they left behind.
That belief has been steady. Reliable. Logical.
Now, small inconsistencies begin to press against it. Something has caused Junhui to stop playing the piano.
Wonwoo remembers how the piano once anchored Junhui’s entire world. The way his fingers moved before his thoughts did, as though sound was the first language he ever learned. The way he sat at the bench, playing not to improve but simply to exist inside something that felt safe. The way he filled the practice room with melodies that sounded like quiet confession, like longing shaped into something bearable. Piano was never just a hobby for Junhui. It was where he placed feelings too large for speech, where he returned when homesickness tightened his chest, where he steadied himself when everything else felt unfamiliar. People do not simply walk away from something that once held them together.
He keeps his expression unchanged. Keeps his posture relaxed. Keeps his voice steady when he speaks again.
But inside, a new question takes shape among the others, quiet but distinct.
What happened to Junhui after they parted?
The question does not push him toward action. Only toward awareness. Because wanting to know and having the right to ask are different things. They are no longer what they once were. Whatever closeness existed between them has been folded away, sealed under years of silence and polite distance. To ask now would be to admit that he has been watching. That he has noticed. That he has not, in fact, let the past remain where it belongs.
And even if he asked, would Junhui answer? Would he offer truth to someone who left his life by choice, no matter how gentle the departure had seemed at the time?
Wonwoo understands the simplest solution.
If he wishes to maintain distance, then the correct move is not to ask.
So he does nothing.
And lets the question remain where it is, alive and unanswered, eating its way through the careful order of his mind.