The first day of university isn't supposed to feel like this—like my entire life is holding its breath. I woke up before sunrise, not because I was nervous, but because every part of me kept replaying the same thought over and over again: I'm finally a student at Seoul National University. Even just thinking it feels like it should echo somewhere, like the walls of my small apartment room should vibrate from the weight of those words.
I'm here. I made it. Computer Science and Engineering, Seoul National University.
And yet, even with all that excitement buzzing beneath my skin, none of it compares to the jolt that strikes through my heart the moment I step onto campus and see him.
Jeon Hanbin.
The most handsome boy I have ever seen in my entire high school life. The boy whose name floated through hallways like a rumor, but whose presence was always real enough to make people go quiet when he walked by. The boy who never talked much, never smiled much, never existed loudly—but somehow everyone noticed him anyway. He was in a different section from me, but that didn't matter. People talked. Whispered. Admired. And I… I wasn't immune either. Back then, he didn't know I existed. And now, unbelievably… fate—or maybe coincidence—is placing us in the same university, the same department. Computer Science. The same major. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. As I stand at the edge of the CSE building courtyard, students brush past me, chatting loudly, looking around in awe, posing for pictures with their new IDs. But my eyes stay locked on one single person across the walkway.
Hanbin. He looks exactly the same and somehow even more unreal. Tall. Straight posture. White shirt layered under a black jacket. Dark hair falling softly above his eyes as he scrolls through his phone. Earphones in. Expression unreadable. And even in a crowd of the smartest students in the country, he stands out without even trying.
Then I see him.
Kim Jeonghan.
Hanbin's best—and only—friend.
Jeonghan wraps an arm casually around Hanbin's shoulder as they walk together, laughing about something I can't hear. I remember hearing rumors in high school that Jeonghan was the only person Hanbin talked to freely, like he was the filter between Hanbin and the rest of the world. Seeing them now, it makes sense. Jeonghan has this easygoing, loud energy that seems to fill all the empty space around Hanbin, but somehow without suffocating him.
Every girl nearby glances their way. Every guy does too. Some try to pretend they're not staring.
Most fail. I overhear a group of girls whispering behind me.
"That's him… Jeon Hanbin, right?"
"He looks even better in person."
"He's in our department? Seriously?"
"No way I'm going to survive this year."
It's almost comforting to know I'm not the only one whose heart stutters a little when looking at him. Not that it matters. I'm realistic. I don't believe in fantasy crushes leading to real-life romance. But I would be lying if I said my pulse doesn't quicken the moment our eyes almost—almost—meet from across the courtyard.
I look away first. Of course I do. The orientation hall is buzzing when I walk in. Rows of chairs fill the space, and students scramble to find seats with their new friends or cling to whoever they walked in with. I'm alone. Not because I don't want to meet people, but because I like taking everything in first. I want to remember this day clearly—what it felt like, what it smelled like, how the air vibrated with nerves and excitement.
Only two chairs remain empty near the middle. I slide into one of them, placing my bag beside my feet. The seat is cool, the plastic bending slightly under my weight. I'm scrolling through the orientation schedule on my phone—gift bags, professor introductions, course guidance, ice-breaking games (which I silently pray I won't be forced into). Then the noise around me shifts—like a ripple passing through the hall. People start whispering. Turning. Sneaking glances. Trying not to look too obvious. My spine stiffens. I don't need to look to know why. Still… I do. And my heart almost stops. Jeon Hanbin and Kim Jeonghan are walking down the row toward the two empty seats.
No.
No way.
Seriously?
My fingers tighten around my phone, but I keep my expression neutral. I'm good at pretending things don't affect me even when they do. But inside, every nerve in my body is firing like I've been plugged into a circuit board.
They pause.
Jeonghan grins. "Oh hey, two seats left."
Hanbin barely looks up from his phone, only following when Jeonghan nudges him lightly. Jeonghan takes the seat on my left. Hanbin takes the seat on my right. Right beside me. As in our elbows could touch if either of us moves even slightly. My breath catches so sharply I worry he might hear it. Hanbin doesn't look at me. Not in a rude way—just in the natural, indifferent way of someone who's used to keeping to himself. His presence is quiet but heavy. Not loud, not overbearing, not showy. Just… noticeable. Impossible not to feel. Like he carries a gravity field around him that pulls your attention even when you try to look elsewhere. His scent is faint—clean, fresh, soap-like. His breathing is slow, steady. He holds his phone loosely in his hand, thumb hovering over the screen. And he is so tall that sitting down beside him still makes it feel like he occupies more air than the rest of us. Jeonghan, meanwhile, taps on his shoulder, leaning in. "Bro, look at this. Someone made a meme already about orientation."
Hanbin hums softly, barely audible. A sound so quiet it feels like something you have to earn the right to hear. And I'm sitting here, trying not to look like my entire nervous system has short-circuited. I look straight ahead, my eyes locked on the stage like it's the most interesting thing I've ever seen. But my awareness keeps drifting back to the boy on my right—his subtle movements, the way he shifts slightly in his seat, the way his knee brushes the air just centimeters from mine.
I am overly aware of everything.
And yet we don't speak.
Not a word.
The orientation begins with loud music and enthusiastic student leaders cheering into microphones. Everyone claps. Some shout. Some laugh nervously. I sit with my hands on my lap, back straight, breathing carefully.
Beside me, Hanbin barely moves. He's attentive but quiet, the kind of student who observes without reacting. When the dean gives his welcome speech, Hanbin doesn't fidget. When the department head makes jokes, he doesn't laugh. His face remains neutral, composed, unreadable.
When I steal a small glance at him—just one—his eyes are fixed on the stage, not bored but steady, like he's trying to absorb everything with minimal expression. I wonder if he's always been like this. Or if the pressure of SNU makes him shrink inside himself the way pressure makes me hyper-aware of every breath I take.
Jeonghan, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. He claps loudly. Laughs loudly. Whispers jokes to Hanbin that earn nothing but a barely visible smirk in response. The contrast between them is almost ridiculous—but somehow it works, like two halves of a strange equation balancing each other perfectly.
During a break between sessions, people walk around introducing themselves, but no one approaches the three of us. Everyone glances our way, but no one dares come close. Maybe they're intimidated by Hanbin's presence. Maybe they assume we're already friends. Maybe they're just shy.
I keep my hands wrapped around my phone, pretending to scroll even though I'm not reading anything.
Then I feel it.
A shift.
Hanbin adjusts in his seat, and for the briefest moment, his sleeve brushes against mine. My pulse jumps so hard I almost drop my phone. He withdraws instantly, careful not to touch again—not because he noticed me, but because he seems naturally cautious with personal space. He sits perfectly still after that, as if creating invisible boundaries around himself.
It shouldn't affect me.
But it does.
Even his silence feels like an entire language. The ice-breaking game begins—thankfully optional—and I stay seated. Jeonghan goes immediately, dragging Hanbin with him despite Hanbin clearly wanting to refuse.
"Bro, come on. It's fun."
Hanbin shakes his head, voice quiet. "I don't want to."
"Exactly why you should."
And somehow, they end up standing anyway.
I watch from my seat as they join the group in the center. Jeonghan talks. Hanbin stands slightly behind him, expression stiff, uncomfortable. When people introduce themselves, he bows politely but barely speaks. A few girls try to include him in conversation, but he responds with simple nods, short answers, minimal eye contact.
It's strangely endearing. Not pity-inducing—not that kind of situation. Just… human. Real. Like beneath his perfect student reputation and quiet perfection, he's just a guy who doesn't know how to handle large groups. I understand that feeling more than anyone.
When the game ends, Hanbin returns to his seat first, sitting carefully, quietly—relieved. Jeonghan follows, elbow bumping him playfully.
"You survived."
Hanbin exhales softly, like the weight of ten years just slid off his shoulders.
I pretend not to look.
Not to listen.
Not to notice.
But I notice everything.
The orientation stretches on for hours. Presentations. Course guides. Department rules. There's so much information that I start feeling overwhelmed. My chest tightens from the weight of it all—homework load, project expectations, lab requirements, competition, rankings. I knew Computer Science would be intense, but hearing it all laid out at once makes my heart race.
If Hanbin feels the same, he does an amazing job hiding it. He sits straight, focused, absorbing everything silently. I envy that kind of calm.