The day passed slowly.
Outside, the sky was overcast, as if the sun itself had been censored.
Inside, Ji-Woo sat alone at the back of the class, eyes half-focused on the chalkboard.
But he wasn't listening.
He was watching Min-Ho's back.
The way his shoulders never relaxed.
The way his pencil tapped — steady, rhythmic, controlled.
Too controlled.
---
When the final bell rang, Ji-Woo didn't move.
He waited until the classroom was empty.
Until the noise faded, and only silence remained.
Then he walked to his old locker.
He hadn't opened it since he came back.
The lock was stiff, slightly rusted.
When it finally gave way, the metal door creaked like a secret being whispered.
Inside: books, dust… and a folded piece of paper.
---
Ji-Woo stared.
He didn't recognize the handwriting right away.
It wasn't neat. It was nervous, scratched in quick strokes like someone writing under pressure.
He unfolded the page slowly.
> "I didn't know how to say it.
So I never did.
If you're reading this, maybe it's not too late."
No name. No signature.
But Ji-Woo knew.
The way you know the shape of a voice even when it's written.
It was Min-Ho.
---
His fingers trembled as he folded the letter back.
He didn't cry.
Not anymore.
Instead, he slipped the note into the inside pocket of his blazer — close to his chest.
He walked out into the hallway.
---
That evening, as Ji-Woo passed the school courtyard on his way home, he saw him.
Min-Ho.
Standing alone under the pale winter sky, surrounded by empty benches and bare trees.
Their eyes met. Just for a second.
Min-Ho didn't move. Didn't wave.
Didn't smile.
But Ji-Woo did something he hadn't done in a long time.
He looked back — and didn't look away.