The final bell rang, and the school instantly erupted with noise—chairs scraping, lockers slamming, students shouting plans across the hallway.
All of it blended into a chaotic blur.
Except for him.
Haejun stood quietly beside his desk, slipping his books into his bag with slow, gentle movements. He looked peaceful in the storm of after-school energy, like he existed in a different dimension entirely.
I packed my things faster than usual, glancing at him every few seconds.
Not deliberately.
Okay, deliberately.
But I tried to be subtle.
He zipped his bag, then tapped the edge of my desk lightly.
I looked up.
He pointed toward the door.
I nodded. "Let's go."
His expression relaxed just slightly—as if that tiny confirmation was all he'd been waiting for.
We walked out of the classroom together.
And for the first time in a long time… I didn't care who was watching.
---
Outside, the schoolyard buzzed with students rushing to buses, bikes, study rooms, clubs. Autumn leaves drifted lazily across the path as the sun began to lower, painting everything in warm gold.
We walked side by side, not talking, but not needing to.
Silence with him never felt empty.
It felt… safe.
Comfortable.
And strangely full.
As we reached the quieter part of the road, he touched my sleeve lightly—a question in his eyes.
I tilted my head. "What's wrong?"
He took out his notebook and wrote:
"Do you like walking home?"
I blinked at the unexpected question.
"Yes," I said honestly. "It's… peaceful."
He wrote again:
"Even with me?"
My steps faltered.
"Especially with you," I said softly. "Why would you think otherwise?"
He hesitated before placing his pen down.
Then he signed something with small, slow movements.
I didn't understand—but the feeling behind it was clear.
Uncertainty.
Doubt.
He picked up the pen again.
"People avoid me."
I stared at the words, my heart sinking.
Why?
Because he was different?
Because he wasn't loud or flashy?
Because he communicated differently?
"That's their loss," I said quietly.
He looked surprised by how quickly I responded.
"You're easy to be around," I added. "It's not hard. You're not hard."
His sparkles softened, brightening with a warm green glow that made the air feel lighter.
He wrote:
"You're the first person who says that."
My chest tightened.
"Well… then they've been blind until now."
He looked at me for a long moment, studying my expression carefully—as if trying to see if I meant it.
I did.
More than he knew.
---
We walked a little further, fallen leaves crunching under our shoes.
Then he suddenly stopped.
I turned back. "Haejun?"
He stood still, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
His sparkles dimmed a little—not dark, just… muted.
He pointed forward.
Cars.
Honking.
Engines.
Loud.
I looked at him and understood.
The noise.
It overwhelmed him.
Even if he couldn't hear it the same way I did.
Noise wasn't just sound.
It was vibration.
Pressure.
Movement.
I stepped a little closer, speaking gently. "Do you want to take the side street instead? It's quieter."
He hesitated.
Then nodded slowly.
Relief flickered in his sparkles.
I led the way this time—not because he needed me to, but because… he trusted me enough to follow.
That meant something.
Maybe more than he realized.
---
As we turned onto the smaller street, lined with tall trees and fewer cars, he relaxed immediately. His shoulders lowered; his steps evened out.
I noticed everything.
And maybe that was the scariest part—
how naturally my attention gravitated toward him.
After a few minutes, he tapped my arm.
I stopped.
He wrote:
"How did you know?"
"How did I know what?" I asked.
He pointed back toward the main road.
Then at his chest.
Then to his ear.
Understanding clicked.
"Oh," I whispered. "I just… saw your sparkles change."
He blinked.
Then wrote:
"Sparkles?"
Oh no.
I froze.
My heart leaped into my throat.
I never meant to say it out loud.
It just slipped out.
"I—I mean—" I stuttered, panic rising. "It's just… something I see. Like… your mood. Or your feelings. Not literal sparkles or anything—"
He stared at me.
Slow.
Steady.
Unreadable.
Panic bubbled faster.
"I'll stop— I mean, ignore it— I just— forget I said anything—"
Then he wrote calmly:
"You see them?"
I swallowed hard.
"…Yes."
He looked down at the page for several seconds.
Then he wrote:
"What color?"
My heart stopped.
"…Right now?" I asked shakily.
He nodded.
I breathed out slowly.
"Green," I whispered. "Soft green."
He blinked.
Then wrote:
"Good?"
The smallest smile tugged at my lips.
"Very good."
A soft pulse of green shimmered around him.
He looked…
Happy.
Genuinely.
Maybe even relieved.
Then he wrote:
"You're the only one who sees them."
A shiver ran through me.
Not from fear.
From something deeper.
"I won't tell anyone," I promised.
He paused.
Then added:
"I know."
The trust in those two words hit me harder than anything else.
---
We continued walking, the quiet street stretching ahead like a warm, gentle path leading nowhere and everywhere at once.
I didn't rush.
Neither did he.
Eventually, we reached the fork where we usually parted—my street to the left, his to the right.
He stopped again.
Then slowly lifted his hand.
Not to wave.
But to sign something.
I watched carefully, trying to memorize each movement.
Then he pointed at himself.
Then at me.
I blinked.
"What does that mean?" I asked softly.
He sighed, tapping his chin with the pen before writing:
"It means:
'See you tomorrow.'"
Warmth spread through my chest.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I said, smiling.
He held my gaze.
Longer than yesterday.
Longer than he ever had.
Then he gave a small nod, turned, and walked down his street—
his sparkles glowing softly behind him like a trail of quiet, gentle light.
I watched until he disappeared.
Only then did I whisper to myself:
"…I think I'm falling."
And for the first time—
I wasn't scared of the feeling.
Not anymore.