The morning felt lighter than it had in weeks — but not in the way sunshine feels light.
More like a soft, pale thinness settling over the campus, blurring everything just enough to make it feel unreal.
Sera walked across the courtyard with sunlight warming her shoulders and the breeze tugging gently at the ends of her hair. Students were already everywhere — holding iced drinks, waving papers, laughing, complaining about deadlines — but their voices felt far away. Standing at the center of all that noise, she felt strangely untouched, as if a thin layer of glass separated her from the world.
She wasn't running from anything today.
But she wasn't moving toward anything either.
She was simply… moving.
Her mind held a quiet that didn't feel peaceful, but it wasn't heavy either. It was a quiet born from too many small thoughts laid side by side, none sharp enough to hurt, but all noticeable when gathered.
Last night's moments replayed in fragments — not like a memory but like a sensation.
His stare lingering…
The hesitation in his voice…
The careful way he stood near her…
The way something in him eased then tightened again…
She didn't feel hope.
Not yet.
Not even close.
But she felt awareness.
A soft, steady awareness that settled beneath her ribs like something fragile trying to grow.
And she wasn't sure if she wanted it to.
She pushed open the lecture-hall door, letting the familiar scent of chalk, paper, and sunlight wash over her. The room felt unusually calm. Sunlight stretched long and warm across the desks, turning everything gold.
She sat down, opened her notebook, and let her pen rest across the page.
Then he walked in.
Julian.
The air shifted — not loudly, not noticeably to anyone else — but Sera felt it immediately. Even before she looked up, something in her spine straightened, something in her pulse softened.
He moved with his usual clean precision — books set down perfectly parallel, laptop opened at the exact angle, sleeves rolled to the same cuff length on both arms.
But today… the precision wasn't confidence.
Today, the precision was a shield.
And she noticed.
He didn't look for her immediately — or maybe he was forcing himself not to.
Instead, he arranged every paper, adjusted the laptop twice, clicked his pen once, lifted it, put it down again, and only then allowed his eyes to lift.
Their gazes met for half a second.
Half a second —
warm, aware, hesitant —
before he looked away.
Not cold.
Not dismissive.
Just… careful.
Too careful.
Sera blinked once, hiding the tiny sting behind her lashes.
He wasn't avoiding her.
He was managing himself.
And somehow, that hurt more.
---
Julian began the lecture with his usual structured clarity. Students perked up, scribbling quickly, hanging on every explanation.
But Sera noticed every crack.
The slight stumble when he shifted topics.
The moment he lost his sentence mid-thought.
The way he rubbed his thumb against his palm once — a quiet stress tell he rarely showed.
The way his gaze flickered toward her row, then instantly elsewhere, like a reflex he was trying to suppress.
This wasn't distance.
This was tightening.
Restraint wearing itself thin.
And she felt it in her bones.
Halfway through class, he posed a difficult question. Several hands rose. She lifted hers slowly.
He hesitated.
For just a breath —
a single, stretched moment —
but she felt it like a bruise blooming.
And then he called on her.
Her voice was calm, steady, exactly as he expected, and something in his expression softened — but he covered it instantly, replacing softness with a small, safe nod.
No praise.
No subtle warmth.
Just neutrality he forced himself to hold.
The kind of neutrality that felt like a wall being quietly built.
---
When class ended, students scrambled to pack their things, creating a loud scatter of movement. Sera stood slowly, gathering her notebook, smoothing its edges, her movements gentle, almost careful.
She expected nothing.
She wanted nothing — except honesty.
Julian didn't call her name today.
Not immediately.
Not in the way he usually did.
He simply gathered his materials with an exactness that didn't match his expression — as if he controlled his hands because he couldn't control his thoughts.
She walked toward the door.
Halfway there, he finally spoke.
"Sera."
She paused.
Turned.
He didn't move closer; he stayed behind the desk, gripping its edge lightly, grounding himself with the solid wood.
"There's a departmental meeting this afternoon," he said, voice steady.
She waited.
"I won't be available."
Not a refusal.
Not a distance.
Just information.
But it wasn't what he usually offered her — not this early, not in this tone. It felt like he was telling her not to wait.
"I understand," she said.
Her voice was soft, but not fragile.
He swallowed — just once — and something flickered in his eyes, but he nodded instead of speaking again.
She stepped out of the room.
---
Sera met Haerin and Minji near the courtyard fountain. They were laughing about something ridiculous — Minji accusing Haerin of stealing her pastry, Haerin insisting it was fair compensation for "all the emotional support she provided this morning."
"Sera!" Minji waved, holding up a bag. "We robbed the bakery."
Haerin lifted a brow. "We paid. She just calls it robbery because she likes drama."
Sera smiled — a real one, soft at the edges.
"I'll join for a bit."
They dragged her into the brightness of their chatter, filling the air with jokes and mock fights and stories about other students. They kept her anchored without knowing it. Their presence wrapped around her like something warm, something familiar.
But beneath her smiles, Sera felt it —
a shift inside her that had no name,
an imbalance she couldn't steady.
Like a picture frame tilted slightly on the wall.
Something was off.
Not wrong.
Just off.
---
Julian sat in the departmental meeting physically present but mentally elsewhere. Words blurred around him — equity trends, course restructuring, upcoming deadlines — but none of it landed.
He couldn't stop replaying the small moments of the morning:
Her slow breath before she answered.
Her quiet nod when he said he wouldn't be available.
The gentleness in her voice when she said "I understand."
The calm distance in her eyes.
He didn't want it.
He didn't want distance.
But he didn't know how to step closer without crossing lines he'd built for years.
So he stayed quiet.
When the meeting ended, he lingered in the room, pressing his fingers to his temples, breathing in slow, measured pulls of air.
Why was it so hard to speak to her normally?
Why did she unsettle his boundaries so easily?
Why did he keep stopping himself, even when he didn't want to?
Why did her voice linger in his chest longer than it should?
He stood abruptly.
He did not go looking for her.
Even though a part of him wanted to.
---
Evening settled over the campus with a cool hush.
Sera walked alone, scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. Lamps flickered alive one by one, casting warm gold circles on the pavement.
She wasn't sad.
Not exactly.
But she felt… unsteady.
Like she stood on the edge of something she couldn't see, something forming quietly beneath her.
When she reached her dorm, she paused at the door, her fingers brushing the wood gently.
"Maybe it's just today," she whispered to herself.
Maybe the distance was temporary.
Maybe the silence wasn't a warning.
Maybe tomorrow would feel different.
She opened the door and stepped inside.
The light from the hallway faded behind her.