The soft scrape of chairs filled the lecture hall as class ended, followed by a growing wave of chatter as students gathered their things. Sera remained seated for a few seconds longer, fingers lightly resting on the open page of her notebook. She stared at the neat rows of handwritten notes, at the ink slowly drying. Everything she had written felt strangely distant now, as if her hand had followed the lecture while her mind wandered somewhere else entirely.
Julian stayed at the front, arranging his papers with unnecessary precision. He aligned them once, then once more, each movement too deliberate to be casual. His jaw was tight, and the crease between his brows refused to soften. From the outside, he looked composed. To anyone else, he looked focused. But she sensed it—the tiny fracture in his rhythm.
She closed her notebook slowly, almost reluctantly, as if shutting it might seal the tension she didn't want to acknowledge. When she finally rose, she gathered her bag with her usual calm movements. She didn't want to leave too quickly. She didn't want to expect too much either.
She walked toward the exit.
Behind her, she felt him look up.
She didn't turn back.
She didn't need to.
She could feel him noticing she was leaving, then forcing himself not to react.
That invisible tug between them tightened, stretched, then softened again as she stepped into the hallway.
⸻
The hallway felt brighter than the room she left behind. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting patterned shadows across the polished floor. Students passed her in clusters, talking loudly about lunch plans, assignment deadlines, club meetings. The energy around her felt too fast compared to the slow quiet inside her chest.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't check it.
The feeling beneath her ribs wasn't heaviness. It was something quieter—an echo of the tension that had hovered between her and Julian during class. A shift so small she couldn't name it, but large enough that she felt it in every breath.
She walked down the steps into the courtyard.
The sunlight touched her skin with gentle warmth, grounding her. Leaves rustled on the branches above, scattering tiny flecks of gold across the grass. For a moment, she let herself breathe in the calm.
She spotted Haerin and Minji under the big oak tree. Minji was talking animatedly, hands flying in wide gestures, while Haerin watched with an expression that suggested she regretted every life choice that led her here.
Sera approached.
Minji gasped dramatically the moment she saw her. "Finally! I swear, you disappeared like a ghost. We thought Professor Lee kidnapped you."
Haerin rolled her eyes. "She was in class, Minji."
"Exactly. Suspicious behavior."
Sera smiled faintly. "I forgot I needed permission to leave a classroom."
"Not permission," Minji corrected. "Notification. Emotional transparency. Weekly updates."
Haerin shoved Minji's shoulder. "Stop being ridiculous."
She scooted closer and quietly handed Sera a juice box. "Drink."
"I'm fine," Sera murmured.
"I didn't ask how you were," Haerin replied. "I said drink."
Sera took it. The coldness of the box against her palm grounded her more than she expected. She sank down onto the grass beside them, letting the sunlight warm the back of her neck. The laughter and chatter around them softened into a comforting hum.
Minji leaned dramatically onto Sera's shoulder. "Haerin yelled at me."
"You deserved it," Haerin said, picking off a piece of leaf stuck to Minji's hair.
Sera chuckled, a small sound, light and genuine. Her friends' nonsense eased something inside her—lightened the tightness just a little.
They spent a few minutes discussing silly topics—cafeteria disasters, club events, a rumor about a professor who once accidentally microwaved metal in the staff lounge. Sera listened, responded when needed, but her thoughts floated somewhere else.
Her phone buzzed again.
She ignored it.
Minji didn't notice.
Haerin didn't either.
They continued bickering about whose handwriting was worse.
Sera was thankful for that.
⸻
When it was time for her next class, she stood and brushed off her skirt. Haerin gave her a small nod, and Minji waved with both hands like she was sending someone to war.
Sera walked across campus alone this time.
The pathways were lined with fallen leaves still damp from last night's drizzle. The breeze gently tugged at her hair. Her steps echoed each thought she wasn't ready to examine—thoughts that circled Julian without ever touching the center of him.
His avoidance hadn't been harsh.
It wasn't distance born from indifference.
It was caution.
Caution she didn't fully understand.
She reached the academic building. The glass doors reflected her calm expression back at her, though underneath, something else stirred—something she carefully kept hidden from everyone.
Even herself.
⸻
As she entered the corridor, her eyes found him instantly.
Julian.
He stood near the tall window at the far end—leaning slightly against the frame, a file in his hand. The sunlight washed across him, sharpening the clean lines of his shirt, casting a pale glow across his face. His posture was composed, but his shoulders were stiff in a way that betrayed tension even he might not have noticed.
He wasn't talking to anyone now.
He wasn't reading the file.
He was just standing there, caught somewhere between thought and silence.
And then—
He turned.
As if pulled by a thread he didn't want to acknowledge.
His gaze met hers.
It happened softly, almost quietly—like the moment before a breath.
A flicker.
A pause.
His eyes didn't widen.
He didn't tense.
But something shifted in that one second.
Something she felt deep in her chest.
He didn't smile.
He didn't greet her.
He didn't look away instantly.
He just… saw her.
And for a heartbeat, she felt every emotion he didn't know how to express.
Then, slowly, carefully—he broke the moment.
He looked away. Not sharply. Not dismissively.
Just intentionally, delicately.
The retreat of a man afraid of how close he had already come.
Sera inhaled slowly, letting the breath settle in her chest. She walked past him without a word, her steps steady, her expression composed. But as she passed, she felt the quiet pull—the one neither of them acknowledged.
She didn't look back.
Neither did he.
But she knew he felt her presence just as deeply as she felt his silence.
⸻
Inside the classroom, she sat down and opened her notebook again. Her fingers hovered over the empty page for a moment before she lowered her pen.
The ache wasn't sharp.
It wasn't painful.
It was a quiet shift—like stepping off a stone you thought was stable.
A strange, soft imbalance.
Something in her whispered:
Something is changing.
Something is tightening.
Something is going where you don't recognize.
But she didn't let the thought linger.
She wasn't ready to acknowledge it yet.
She forced a soft breath and wrote the date at the top of the page, pressing the pen a little too firmly.
Because pretending everything was fixable— pretending nothing was breaking yet—
felt easier than facing a truth she wasn't prepared to name.
Not today.
Not now.
Just a little longer.