Sera didn't sleep well.
Her thoughts had stretched thin into the night, twisting softly around the memories of sitting beside Julian on the stone steps — the way he seemed near and far at the same time. She stared at her ceiling for hours, letting the quiet settle into her like fog.
It wasn't pain.
Not yet.
But something inside her chest felt unsteady, like a glass set too close to the edge of a table.
When morning arrived, she sat at the edge of her bed, fingers brushing lightly over the half-zipped suitcase sitting beside her. She had packed without thinking last night — a few clothes, a sweater, a book. She didn't remember doing it. It felt like instinct more than decision.
Her phone buzzed.
A long international number lit up the screen.
She declined it.
She didn't want to hear anything they had to say.
Not until she figured out what to do with the heaviness in her chest.
She got ready slowly, almost ritualistically, and stepped out into the chilly morning light.
⸻
The campus felt unusually bright when she arrived — too bright. Students hurried around with energy she couldn't absorb. She blended into the flow, quiet and invisible even when people waved or nodded at her.
Her heart felt steady.
But it didn't feel warm.
She took her seat in the lecture hall long before class began, opening her notebook without really looking at the pages. Her fingers traced the edge of her pen, her thoughts drifting in slow circles.
⸻
Julian entered the classroom three minutes before the bell.
His steps were crisp, his expression composed.
But the moment he saw her sitting in her usual seat, something flickered — a small tightening around his eyes, a quick inhale he didn't mean to take.
He didn't greet her.
He didn't ignore her.
He simply looked away too quickly, as if meeting her eyes would confirm something he wasn't ready to name.
⸻
Class began.
His explanations were sharp today — too sharp, too fast, as though he was trying to outrun his own thoughts. The students kept glancing at one another, confused by the pace.
Sera wrote nothing.
She sat quietly, her gaze distant but present, listening because she always listened — but not looking up when he searched for her reaction.
He avoided her row the entire time.
Not intentionally.
But because he didn't trust himself to pause near her.
And that, more than anything, unsettled her.
⸻
Near the end of class, he presented a difficult model and asked for volunteers.
Sera lifted her hand softly, almost naturally.
He froze.
Only for a second —
but it was enough.
He hesitated too long.
Then he chose someone else.
A small ripple spread across the room.
Sera lowered her hand slowly, her expression unchanged.
But something inside her tightened —
quiet, deep, almost imperceptible.
Julian didn't look at her.
⸻
When class ended, she packed her things with calm, steady movements. Julian lingered behind the desk, shuffling papers he didn't need to reorganize.
She moved toward the door.
"Sera."
Her name left him before he could hide it.
She turned, her eyes gentle but no longer warm.
"Professor."
That one word lodged itself sharply in his chest.
He cleared his throat. "You weren't here yesterday evening."
"I needed time alone."
"You could've told—"
He stopped, correcting himself.
"You usually tell me."
She held his gaze for a moment.
"You usually tell me things too," she said softly.
He inhaled sharply, as though the words touched something raw.
"Sera… did I do something?"
His voice was quieter now, not demanding — almost afraid to know.
"No," she whispered. "You didn't do anything."
But it didn't ease him.
It only confused him more.
She wasn't blaming him.
She wasn't accusing him.
She was just… drifting.
And he didn't know how to reach her.
⸻
Before he could speak again, her phone buzzed loudly in her hand.
She glanced at the screen.
A long, international caller ID—no name, no saved contact.
Julian couldn't recognize it.
He didn't know what it meant.
He only saw the way her breath caught, the way her fingers gripped the phone too tightly before she hit decline.
His brows pulled together.
"Sera… who keeps calling you?"
"It's nothing."
"You don't decline 'nothing' like that," he said, more sharply than he intended.
Her eyes softened in surprise.
She didn't respond.
He stepped closer, restraint slipping for just a moment.
"Is something happening?"
He didn't say: "Are you leaving?"
He didn't say: "Are you slipping away from me?"
He just waited.
But she shook her head gently.
"It isn't about you, Julian."
He stopped breathing for a second.
"You care about things that shouldn't matter," she added quietly.
He swallowed hard.
"It matters."
That was the closest thing to confession he'd ever allowed himself.
And she felt it.
Every word.
Every crack.
She looked down.
"Julian, Not everyone have time" she whispered, the first real truth slipping out.
His expression changed.
Subtly.
Painfully.
"Sera… what does that mean?"
She didn't answer.
She just stepped past him, her movements soft but firm, leaving nothing harsh behind her — only the weight of something unspoken.
Julian didn't follow.
He couldn't.
He stood there, stiff and still, feeling the echo of her absence settle into him like a bruise he couldn't see.
⸻
That was the moment,
the quiet one,
where something began to break.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But unmistakably.
Sera walked away from the building slowly, letting the cold air settle against her skin. The sunlight had softened into early afternoon warmth, but inside her chest everything felt cool, like her heart had drawn a thin curtain over itself. Not to hide. Just to breathe.
She crossed the courtyard without really seeing the people around her. A group of students laughed near the fountain. Someone waved because they thought she made eye contact. She didn't correct them. She simply kept walking, her steps neither hurried nor slow—just measured, almost like she was trying to match the rhythm of something steady inside herself.
Her phone vibrated again.
Another international call.
She didn't even look this time.
She just slipped it deeper into her bag and placed a hand over it, silencing the world on the other side.
She reached the far bench underneath the tall oak tree—the one she used to sit under with Minji and Haerin. Today, the shade felt different. Still peaceful. But quieter. A little distant, like the world around her had begun to pull away by a few inches.
She sat down, rested her notebook on her lap, and stared at the blank page. She tried to write. She couldn't. Her fingers trembled once before she curled them into her sleeve.
For the first time, she wondered:
If leaving feels this heavy already…
how will the final goodbye feel?