Morning unfolded colder than usual, the kind of cold that seeped quietly into the skin rather than biting sharply. A thin mist hovered above the courtyard like a veil the sun hadn't yet managed to lift. Students moved through the haze in clumps—sleepy, hurried, wrapped in scarves and hoodies, carrying steaming cups that fogged the air around them.
Sera walked among them slowly.
She wasn't tired.
She wasn't overwhelmed.
She wasn't lost.
She had simply slipped a little deeper into herself.
Her hair was neatly tied; her brown sweater fell softly around her wrist; her steps were measured, almost soundless against the stone path. She watched the mist curl around the fountain, drifting like pale smoke. There was a strange stillness around her, a small calm that didn't quite match the movement of the world.
She pressed her fingers lightly against her phone through her coat pocket.
Not to check it.
Just to feel its weight.
The message she hadn't replied to lingered quietly in her mind.
It's time, Seraphina.
No explanation.
No urgency.
Just certainty.
She exhaled a slow breath that released in a soft cloud.
And kept walking.
⸻
Julian arrived to his lecture later than usual—not late, but later than the time he always chose. His hair was slightly tousled from the wind, and there was the faintest crease between his brows, a sign he'd woken earlier than necessary and hadn't stopped thinking since.
He entered the classroom with the same calm composure, but the moment he stepped in, he instinctively looked toward the third row.
Her seat was empty.
It shouldn't have affected him.
But it did—quietly, sharply, in a way he felt at the base of his throat.
He turned away before anyone could notice the shift in his expression and began preparing for the lecture, movements a touch too quick, too controlled. He didn't pace—he never did—but he exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
He began the lecture exactly on time, voice steady, pacing precise.
But twice, as he explained price shocks, his gaze flicked toward the door.
She didn't appear.
And his voice tightened almost imperceptibly each time.
When class ended, he dismissed the students with a clipped nod, trying—and failing—to convince himself that her absence had nothing to do with him.
Fourteen seconds of silence passed after the last student left.
Then he closed his laptop, collected his things, and left the room with unusual urgency.
⸻
He checked the library first.
It was quiet inside, the air cold and carrying the soft smell of old paper. Pale winter sunlight filtered through tall windows, illuminating particles of dust that floated like tiny stars.
He scanned the aisles slowly, eyes passing over students hunched over laptops, scribbling notes, whispering in low voices.
Not her.
He exhaled quietly through his nose.
Not disappointment—just a small, hollow shift in his chest.
⸻
Next, he crossed the courtyard.
The wind pulled gently at his shirt sleeves as he approached the stone bench where Minji and Haerin were sharing pastries, laughing about something Minji spilled earlier.
He approached them with his measured steps, voice calm.
"Is Sera with you?"
Minji froze mid-bite, crumbs falling onto her jeans.
"What? No—she said she was heading to class. Why?"
Haerin's eyes sharpened, but only with curiosity.
"Is something wrong?"
Julian's chest tightened.
"No."
It came out too quickly.
He corrected himself softly: "I was asking because she wasn't in the lecture."
Both girls exchanged a look.
Minji nodded slowly. "She did seem… quiet this morning."
Haerin frowned lightly. "More than usual."
Julian's fingers tightened around the folder he held—not visibly, but enough for him to feel it strain beneath his grip.
"I see," he said calmly. "Thank you."
He walked away before they could ask more.
⸻
He found her outside the old administration hall—
a quiet, nearly forgotten corner of campus, where ivy climbed up stone walls and the air always smelled faintly of eucalyptus.
She sat on the low steps, notebook resting on her knees, hair falling loosely around her face. Her pen moved slowly across the page—measured, deliberate. She wasn't scribbling mindlessly. She was thinking with her whole being.
He watched her for a moment, unseen.
She looked small in her stillness.
Not fragile—just inward.
As if she were building a world inside her that no one else could enter.
"Sera," he finally said.
She looked up.
Her expression didn't shift the way it used to.
No slight spark of warmth.
No softening around the eyes.
Just calm recognition.
"Professor."
The title cut between them before he could stop it.
He moved a little closer, instinct rather than intention.
"You weren't in class."
"I know."
Her voice was peaceful. "I needed some time alone."
His eyes flickered briefly. "You should've informed someone."
She gave a faint shrug—not careless, not defiant—just simple acceptance.
"I didn't think it mattered."
Something inside him pulled tight—quiet, controlled, suddenly unsteady.
"It does," he said, the words escaping before he could adjust them.
She blinked, surprised—not by the words, but by the rawness behind them.
"Why?" she asked softly.
He opened his mouth—
but nothing came out.
There was too much he couldn't say.
Too much he didn't understand.
Too much he wasn't allowed to want.
She waited a moment.
Then let it go with a small nod.
"I understand."
And that—
that gentle acceptance—
hurt more than if she had been angry.
He sat beside her eventually, leaving just enough distance that it felt like both a comfort and a boundary.
"You should come to class tomorrow," he said, voice softer now.
"I will."
She didn't smile. Not even the small, polite smile she always gave him.
Her gaze went back to her notebook, and he watched her fingers trace the edge of the page—slow, absent, thoughtful.
He could feel her slipping away, inch by inch, not intentionally, not cruelly—
just quietly.
They sat like that for a few minutes—
close enough to feel each other's presence,
far enough for neither to reach across the space.
When she stood, the motion was gentle, almost soundless.
"I should go."
He rose as well.
"Take care on your way home," he said.
"I will."
She walked past him, her steps steady, quiet, unhurried.
He didn't call her back. He didn't ask her to stay. He didn't touch her arm, didn't move closer, didn't cross the line he built.
But when she disappeared behind the corner of the building, he let out a breath that trembled at the edges.
The day felt heavier.
As if something small—but important—had shifted just slightly out of place.
Not broken.
Not yet.
But undeniably changed.