The world never felt soft to Y/N.
From the moment she was old enough to notice, life had always been a little too cold, a little too loud, and never quite fair.
She was born on a rainy Tuesday in the middle of February, in a cramped apartment tucked into one of the city's older districts. The walls were a faded yellow, cracked in places where time had dug its nails in, and the ceiling light flickered more often than it shone steadily. Her father was gone before she even turned two, leaving behind a worn-out wedding photo and a debt her mother never spoke about but always seemed to be paying for.
Her mother worked double shifts—morning in a bakery, night in a small convenience store—coming home with tired eyes and the smell of yeast clinging to her clothes. Y/N loved her, but she grew up learning that love didn't mean presence. More often than not, she was left alone in that apartment, the television murmuring in the background while she sat cross-legged on the floor, drawing little pictures in her school notebooks.
She wasn't lonely in the way people imagined. Loneliness wasn't an ache—it was a quiet numbness. It became her normal.
School was no kinder than home. Y/N was the quiet girl in the back row, the one who never brought new shoes or the latest pencil case. Her uniform always looked a little worn, the cuffs slightly frayed, and her lunch was usually simple—rice, a boiled egg, and maybe a piece of fruit if her mother could afford it that week. Children could be cruel in ways they didn't even understand. A snide remark here, a whispered laugh there, until Y/N learned to keep her head down and her words locked away.
But it was in that same classroom, in the corner of a bright spring morning, that she first saw him—Jihyun.
He wasn't like the others. He didn't blend into the noise or the arrogance of their peers. He carried himself with an easy confidence, yet there was a gentleness in his eyes when they landed on her. They'd been paired together for a group project by sheer chance, and Y/N expected the same pattern as always: polite distance, minimal words, get it over with.
Instead, Jihyun had smiled at her like she wasn't invisible.
"You draw really well," he'd said, noticing the small doodles in the margin of her notebook. His voice wasn't mocking—it was warm, genuinely curious.
She had blinked at him, unsure how to respond. Compliments weren't something she collected often. "It's… just for fun," she murmured.
"That's the best kind of drawing," he replied without hesitation. "The ones you make because you want to, not because someone told you to."
It was such a small exchange, yet it lingered with her far longer than she wanted to admit. Day by day, he chipped away at the quiet walls she had built. Jihyun would wait for her after class, walk beside her even when she didn't speak, and share his snacks during break without making a show of it.
For the first time in her life, someone wasn't trying to fix her, pity her, or use her. He simply… saw her.
And Y/N, though she didn't realize it yet, would one day come to understand that meeting Jihyun was the moment her life quietly began to change.
By the time Y/N was eight, she had learned to keep her head down and her mouth shut. School was just another place to sit quietly, copy notes, and watch time pass until she could go home. She didn't have shiny hair ribbons or the newest stationery like the other girls, and she didn't care to fight for the front row seat in class. Teachers barely remembered her name—she was the girl who always turned in her homework, never got into trouble, and never raised her hand.
It wasn't that she hated people; she just didn't trust them to stay.
But one afternoon, in the fifth grade, something shifted.
The classroom was noisy after lunch, sunlight spilling through the tall windows, dust floating lazily in the air. Y/N was at her desk, sketching a little cat in the corner of her math notebook, when a shadow fell over her paper.
"Hey," a voice said.
She looked up. A boy stood there, his school tie slightly loose, hair falling into his eyes. He had that easy kind of confidence, like he belonged anywhere he stood. His name was Jihyun—she knew because the teacher had called it out earlier that morning when introducing him as the new transfer student.
"You're Y/N, right?" he asked, leaning forward slightly.
She blinked, caught off guard. "…Yeah."
He smiled, the kind that showed just a hint of mischief. "Can I sit here? My seat's next to the window and the sun is burning my face."
She wanted to say no—just to keep her quiet corner to herself—but instead, she gave a small shrug. "…Sure."
From that day, he kept sitting beside her.
At first, it was small things. Asking to borrow a pencil. Making little comments about how boring the lessons were. Sliding his snack onto her desk when he didn't feel like eating it. She didn't respond much, but he never seemed bothered. If anything, her quietness only seemed to amuse him.
Weeks passed, and somewhere between shared snacks and whispered jokes, Y/N realized she had started looking forward to school.
One rainy afternoon, while they were stuck inside during recess, Jihyun leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. "You know, you're not like anyone else here."
She frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You don't… try," he said, tilting his head at her. "Not in a lazy way. Just… you're not pretending to be something you're not. I like that."
Y/N wasn't used to people noticing her, let alone saying things like that. She didn't know how to respond, so she just muttered, "…You talk too much."
He laughed, and that was the moment she knew—without really understanding why—that Jihyun would be different.
What she didn't know was that their paths wouldn't just cross; they would tangle, knot, and twist into something far more complicated than she could have imagined.
Change didn't come to Y/N in loud, dramatic bursts.
It arrived quietly, slipped under the door like a draft she couldn't block out.
When her mother told her they were moving, Y/N only nodded. No protests, no questions about the new place—just an unspoken understanding that it wouldn't be the first time she had to start over. The boxes stacked in their living room were proof enough that permanence had never belonged to them.
Her mother's new job was in a different district, a slightly better-paying position at a larger bakery. It meant longer hours, but "better" was the word her mother repeated, as if saying it enough times could convince them both that it was worth it.
The new apartment was on the fourth floor of an old concrete building. The stairs groaned under her feet the first time she climbed them, and the hallway smelled faintly of boiled cabbage and paint thinner. Her bedroom was smaller than her last one, but the window overlooked the street, where a single cherry blossom tree stood stubbornly in the corner of the block.
School started the following Monday.
---
The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint sweetness of spring blossoms mixed with the exhaust of passing buses. The uniform blazer felt stiff against Y/N's shoulders, the wool scratchy at her wrists. She clutched the strap of her schoolbag a little too tightly as she approached the gates of Hanwol High School.
The building loomed tall, its windows reflecting pale blue sky. Students swarmed in clusters at the entrance, laughter ringing out in uneven bursts. Names were called, greetings exchanged, a ball from the soccer field thudded against the fence in the distance.
Y/N kept her gaze forward. Her footsteps slowed just enough to avoid bumping into anyone.
Inside, the corridors stretched long and clean, the tiles catching light from the high windows. The faint smell of chalk lingered in the air, mixed with the warm scent of floor polish.
Her homeroom teacher, a woman in her late thirties with a neatly tied bun, led her down the hallway with brisk, purposeful steps. "It's always a little intimidating to start fresh," the teacher said lightly. "But our class is a good one. You'll adjust."
Y/N gave a polite nod she didn't mean. Adjusting wasn't the hard part—it was what came after.
When the classroom door slid open, a hush fell over the chatter.
Dozens of eyes turned toward her. Some were curious, others indifferent. A few whispered behind their hands.
"This is Y/N," the teacher announced, smiling as if that could soften the weight of every stare in the room. "She's transferred from Seoryeong Middle School. I hope you'll all welcome her."
Y/N bowed. "I… I'll do my best."
The teacher scanned the room, then pointed toward the back corner. "You'll sit next to Jihyun. Raise your hand, Jihyun."
From the farthest desk by the window, a hand lifted lazily. The boy attached to it sat half-slouched, his tie loose, dark hair brushing his forehead. His gaze was direct, unhurried—almost as if he'd been expecting her.
Y/N crossed the classroom, the sound of her shoes muffled against the wood floor. Each step felt heavier than the last. She set her bag down at the empty desk beside him, eyes fixed on arranging her things, trying not to notice that his gaze hadn't shifted away.
And then—quietly, almost like a test—he spoke.
"You always look at the floor when you walk?"
Her head tilted just slightly toward him, caught off guard by the low, even tone. "…No."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Guess I'll find out."
The bell rang, breaking the moment, but the sound of his voice stayed in her mind longer than she wanted to admit.
Y/n pov
By the time I got home, the sun was slipping low behind the cherry blossom tree outside.
Its petals caught the light like soft embers before drifting down to the sidewalk.
The apartment was quiet, except for the faint hum of the refrigerator.
Mom wasn't home yet—her shift wouldn't end for another two hours—so I toed off my shoes, leaving them neatly beside the door, and slipped into the small living room.
The boxes we hadn't unpacked yet lined the walls like silent reminders that we were still strangers here. I brushed my fingers over one marked "Books", but didn't open it. My head was too full from the day.
School hadn't been… terrible.
No one had been outright cruel. But there's a kind of loneliness that doesn't need words—just the weight of being the only new face in a room full of history you don't belong to.
And then there was him.
Jihyun.
The way he looked at me wasn't like the others.
It wasn't judgment, exactly, but it wasn't warm either.
It was… curious. As if he'd caught something in me he couldn't name yet.
I set my schoolbag down by the low table and sank into the floor cushion. The day's moments kept replaying, sharp and clear—the scrape of the classroom door, the pause before he raised his hand, the way his voice carried that faint challenge.
"You always look at the floor when you walk?"
The words stayed in my head longer than they should have.
I sighed, pulling my knees up to my chest.
There were rules I'd learned over the years of transferring schools:
Keep your head down. Don't get attached too quickly. Avoid the kinds of people who pull you into storms you can't control.
From the way Jihyun had looked at me, I wasn't sure if he was the kind to start a storm…
or the kind you couldn't help walking into.
The clock ticked quietly in the kitchen.
Outside, the wind rattled the loose window latch, scattering another handful of petals into the street.
And somewhere deep down, I had the strange, uneasy feeling that today had been the beginning of something I wouldn't be able to walk away from.
The next morning smelled like rain.
Not the heavy, pouring kind, but the faint metallic scent that lingered in the air, like the sky was still deciding whether to cry or not.
I left the apartment earlier than I needed to, partly to avoid the crowded hallways before class and partly because the quiet streets before the city fully woke up felt like a place I could breathe.
The school gate stood tall and unfamiliar, the chatter of students spilling out like a stream. I kept my steps measured, my gaze on the cracked concrete beneath my shoes.
Keep your head down.
Rule number one.
"Morning," a voice said, breaking through the noise.
I looked up.
Jihyun was leaning casually against the gate, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a carton of strawberry milk.
The pink of the carton stood out against his dark uniform, his hair falling slightly into his eyes.
"You're early," he said, like it was something worth noting.
"I like walking," I replied simply.
He tilted his head, studying me again with that same unreadable curiosity from yesterday. "Or maybe you just don't like people?"
My lips twitched—not into a smile, but into something between amusement and irritation. "Maybe."
For a moment, he didn't say anything. Just sipped his milk, his gaze lingering like he was turning my words over in his head.
Then, without warning, he started walking toward the building.
"You're coming or what?"
It wasn't really a question.
And against every rule I'd set for myself, my feet moved to follow him.
The day passed in that strange, almost unspoken pattern—Jihyun wasn't exactly friendly, but he had a way of showing up. Passing me the extra pen I didn't ask for. Making an offhand comment when he caught me staring out the window during math.
"You look like you're somewhere else," he murmured.
"Maybe I am," I answered, and for a moment, something flickered in his expression.
By the final bell, I wasn't sure whether to call him a nuisance or the only interesting thing about this school.
As I walked home, I caught myself replaying our conversations.
Not because they were deep or meaningful, but because they made me feel like someone was actually seeing me—and that was dangerous.
The hours between first bell and last stretched out like they always did—slow, repetitive, and tinted with the low hum of conversations that had nothing to do with me. I kept my head low, taking notes, keeping my answers short when the teachers called on me.
But Jihyun was… persistent in small, almost invisible ways.
In history class, he slid his textbook slightly toward me when mine slipped to the floor. During lunch, he didn't sit next to me, but across from me, as if keeping a deliberate distance while still making it clear he was there.
When the girl from yesterday—Minji, I remembered—stopped by our table to talk to him, she threw me a sideways glance that felt like it could peel skin.
I didn't meet her eyes.
I didn't need to.
"You always eat that slow?" Jihyun's voice cut in, pulling me from my thoughts.
"I'm not in a rush," I said, stabbing another piece of the cafeteria's bland rice with my chopsticks.
"Or maybe," he said, a faint smirk ghosting his lips, "you just don't like the food."
I almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, I shook my head and muttered, "You talk too much."
That earned me a soft chuckle, and for the rest of lunch, he didn't speak again.
---
By the time the final bell rang, the sky outside had dulled into that pale shade of gray that warned of rain. Students spilled into the courtyard in clusters, but I slipped away toward the quieter side streets.
Halfway home, I realized I could still hear footsteps behind me.
When I glanced back, there he was—hands in his pockets, walking at a pace that wasn't quite slow enough to be casual.
"You're following me now?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Coincidence," he replied, not even pretending to sound convincing. "This is my way home too."
When we reached the intersection where our paths split, Jihyun slowed his steps.
"This is where I turn," he said simply.
I gave him a small nod. "See you tomorrow."
He hesitated for just a fraction of a second—like he had something else to say—but only gave a half-smile before walking away.
The moment he was out of sight, I heard an all-too-familiar voice behind me.
"Yunaaa!" Naomi's voice cut through the quiet street, light and teasing. She jogged up beside me, her ponytail bouncing with each step.
I exhaled through a small smile. "You scared me."
"That's because you're always in your head." She looped her arm through mine before I could protest. "So, who was that?"
"No one," I said immediately.
Naomi's eyebrows shot up. "Uh-huh. Sure. Because random 'no ones' just happen to walk next to you all the way to the intersection like they're auditioning for the role of mysterious new friend."
I rolled my eyes. "He's new. Jihyun. He sits next to me."
"And talks to you," she added with a grin. "Which is shocking, considering you have the social energy of a houseplant."
"Wow. Thanks."
"I'm just saying," Naomi laughed, "maybe you should let yourself talk back once in a while. You might actually like having a friend who isn't me."
I gave her a side glance. "Don't start. You're enough trouble as it is."
She grinned like that was the exact answer she wanted. "Good. I'd hate to lose my title."
We walked the rest of the way to my building with her chattering about a group project she'd been stuck with, her voice filling the spaces that I usually let stay empty.
And for a brief moment, I didn't mind the noise.
By the time we reached my building, the sky had deepened into that soft indigo that always felt like it belonged to no one—too late to be day, too early to be night. Naomi stopped at the front steps, still mid-story about how her lab partner had accidentally broken a beaker.
"Text me later," she said, pointing two fingers at me in mock warning. "And don't disappear like last week. I will come to your door and drag you out."
I gave her a small nod. "I'll try."
"You'll do more than try." She winked before turning down the street, her voice fading into the hum of the city.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside, the faint scent of dust and old wood wrapping around me. The hallway was dim, one of the lightbulbs buzzing like it was fighting for its life. My footsteps echoed in a way that reminded me just how thin the walls were here.
Inside our apartment, the air was cool and still. Mom's shoes weren't by the door—she wouldn't be home until after midnight. I locked the door out of habit and set my bag down on the kitchen counter.
The fridge hummed quietly when I opened it. Half a carton of milk. A plastic container of leftover rice. I poured myself a glass of water instead, drinking it slowly as I stared out the small window above the sink.
From here, I could see the city lights beginning to flicker on, scattered like someone had spilled glitter across the horizon.
I thought about Jihyun. The way he had walked beside me without asking for anything. The way he didn't fill the silence with questions or small talk, yet didn't seem uncomfortable in it.
It was… different.
Most people tried to make you open up. Push their way in. But he didn't.
And that—somehow—made me feel more exposed.
I set the empty glass in the sink and headed to my room. The desk by the window was cluttered with half-finished sketches, pencil shavings, and the faint charcoal smudges that never seemed to leave my fingers. I picked up my sketchbook, flipped past pages of faceless people, and stopped at a blank one.
For reasons I didn't fully understand, my pencil began to trace the curve of a jawline. A shadow of hair falling across a forehead.
When I realized who I was drawing, I froze.
Jihyun's eyes stared back at me from the page.
To be continued...