The next morning unfolded without urgency, without noise, without anything that could anchor the day to a familiar rhythm. It felt like waking inside a dream that hadn't decided whether it wanted to be comforting or unsettling.
Sera dressed slowly, not because she was tired, but because her mind moved as if through soft water. Her hands lifted her hair, tied it neatly, smoothed the loose threads without needing a mirror. Her sweater—light grey, warm at the sleeves—rested gently on her shoulders. She adjusted the hem of it twice, though it didn't need adjusting. Her fingers moved habitually, searching for something her thoughts couldn't catch.
She paused for a moment in front of her window.
The sky was pale, washed, undecided—too bright to be sad, too dull to be cheerful. Students outside were already rushing in the direction of the main gate, their chatter carried upward in little bursts of life. She could hear laughter drifting from the street, someone shouting for a friend to wait, the distant rumble of a scooter passing by.
It was a normal morning.
But Sera's world felt slightly muted, as if a soft layer of cotton separated her from everything happening around her.
She slung her bag over her shoulder, locked the door, and stepped into the cold air. The chill brushed against her skin like a reminder—quiet, grounding, sharp.
Her phone vibrated once in her pocket.
She didn't look.
Not yet.
⸻
The campus was awake by the time she arrived. A few students lingered near the benches, sipping hot drinks. One couple argued about which elective was harder. Someone else walked by with headphones blasting music loud enough that even she could hear it.
Ordinary. Loud. Alive.
She walked through it all quietly.
Her friends hadn't messaged yet. It was early. Too early for Minji's dramatic paragraphs or Haerin's blunt reminders to eat breakfast. She felt grateful for that silence—she didn't want to lie today. She didn't want to pretend.
Her steps led her toward the lecture hall almost naturally, though she slowed before reaching the doorway.
Julian was already inside.
Earlier than usual.
He stood near the windows, the soft morning light outlining the sharp lines of his posture. His hand rested lightly on the window frame, his other holding a folder against his side. He wasn't reading it; he wasn't doing anything with it. It simply hung from his grip, forgotten.
Sera stopped three steps short of entering.
She watched him for a moment—not with longing, not with hurt—just with a distant curiosity, as if studying someone she once understood perfectly but no longer fully recognized.
She finally walked in.
The sound of the door caught his attention immediately.
He glanced her way.
Not sharply. Not nervously. Just instinctively.
Recognition flickered in his eyes, followed by something else—something he swallowed quickly, straightening his shoulders before anyone could see.
She offered him a polite nod.
Only polite.
Not warm. Not soft. Not familiar.
Just polite.
Julian's response mirrored hers: a small incline of his head, perfectly professional, perfectly neutral.
But the neutrality wasn't real.
It was cautious.
⸻
When class began, the tension stretched thin as thread.
Julian lectured with the same calm precision as always, but small cracks appeared in his usually seamless composure. He phrased one explanation in a strangely roundabout way. He paused long enough that one student turned to see if he was alright. He swapped two terms and corrected them so quickly that only Sera caught the slip.
Her eyes followed him.
But her gaze no longer lingered.
She looked away as soon as she understood the point.
She took notes without pausing to see his expression. She raised her hand only once. And when he called on her, she answered with her usual clarity, then shifted her attention back to her notebook immediately, as if refusing to let her thoughts hover too long near him.
Julian felt the shift like a subtle drop in temperature.
He looked her way again—once, briefly—when the class grew noisy. She didn't meet his eyes. She didn't even seem aware of his attention.
He forced himself to look away.
But something inside him tightened with quiet frustration.
⸻
When class ended and the room filled with the sound of zipping bags and shuffling chairs, Julian let his gaze drift toward her again.
She didn't stay behind this time.
She didn't wait near the desk. She didn't linger by the door. She didn't even walk slowly.
She left with her friends—calm, composed, smiling in that small, gentle way she always did. But he could tell her smile was softer today. Not forced, just tired.
And not meant for him.
Julian watched her leave until the crowd swallowed her.
He didn't call her name. He didn't take a step.
But the absence she left in the room was immediate.
He felt it settle into the quiet like dust.
⸻
Sera crossed the courtyard with Minji and Haerin beside her. Their conversation flowed around her—light, silly, warm. Minji kept complaining about a professor who marked her essay with "too much enthusiasm." Haerin rolled her eyes and told her it meant "your handwriting looks like dancing insects."
Sera laughed softly.
Minji grinned in triumph.
Haerin smirked.
But neither of them noticed that Sera wasn't fully there—that her laughter didn't sit in her chest the way it usually did, that her eyes drifted too long toward the sky, that her thoughts slipped sideways every few minutes.
Minji finally nudged her.
"You're really zoning out today."
"I'm just tired," Sera said.
Haerin watched her carefully—not suspicious, not curious, just thoughtful.
"Is it the assignments?" Haerin asked.
"No," Sera replied.
"Then what is it?" Minji asked.
Sera smiled gently. "Nothing."
They accepted that answer.
Even if it wasn't the whole truth.
⸻
Julian spent his afternoon in his office, but his thoughts didn't stay there. He reread the same paragraph three times. He reorganized the same stack of papers twice. He tried running a model and miscalculated a step so simple that he stared at it for a moment in disbelief.
Her quietness gnawed at him.
Not loudly. Not painfully. Just persistently—like a soft ache in the ribs that refused to fade.
He stood and walked toward the window.
Outside, students passed like moving colors, blurred by distance. He scanned the crowd without meaning to. His eyes searched for her—her familiar posture, her soft stride, her way of hugging her books to her chest.
He didn't see her.
He didn't know if that disappointed him. But he knew it unsettled him.
⸻
That evening, Sera sat on her balcony with a blanket wrapped around her legs, staring at the city lights as they flickered to life.
The horizon glowed orange. The wind brushed against her hair. The quiet crept into her bones.
Her phone buzzed again.
She didn't need to look to know the name.
Vale Estate — Calling…
She let it ring.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Then she answered.
She didn't speak.
Neither did they.
The silence stretched for a moment before the calm voice said:
"we can't delay for too long Seraphina. You know it too."
Her stomach tightened.
She ended the call.
The air around her felt still—too still, as if the world was holding its breath.
She rested her forehead on her knees.
It wasn't that she didn't want to go home. It wasn't that she wanted to stay.
It was that she didn't want to leave like this.
Without clarity. Without peace. Without understanding what this quiet distance with Julian meant.
Her chest ached—not with heartbreak, but with something softer.
Like a bruise.
Quiet. Tender. Growing.
⸻
Across the city, Julian stood on his balcony with a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. The evening breeze ruffled his hair slightly, but he didn't seem to notice.
He replayed her behavior all day—and found no answers.
Her politeness. Her distance. Her silence. Her calmness.
He didn't know if she was upset. He didn't know if he had crossed some unseen line. He didn't know if she needed space. He didn't know if he should reach out.
All he knew was this:
He didn't like the emptiness she left behind.
Not when she walked out of class. Not when she passed him in the corridor without stopping. Not when she laughed with her friends but not with him.
He didn't know what he expected.
But he hadn't expected this.
He closed his eyes, letting the night settle around him, and a quiet thought surfaced in his mind, uninvited but solid:
If she steps any further away…
I don't know how to pull her back.