The next day.
The third period bell was muffled through the walls. Kimdan counted flickering lights until his eyes burned—one, two, three—but the rhythm felt hollow now, syncopated. He pressed his thumb into the cracked corner of the mirror until the glass edge bit skin. The pain was clean. Clarifying.
Rain slapped the windows when he finally left. He took the stairs two at a time, dodging couples sharing umbrellas in the courtyard. His physics notes bled ink in his back pocket where his sweat had seeped through. At the vending machine by the east gate, Junseo's laugh carried over the downpour—rich and easy, the way it never was in bathroom stalls with flickering lights. Kimdan didn't turn.
Monday smelled like wet wool and chalk dust. The bathroom mirror had been replaced over the weekend—no more cracked corner to press his thumb against. Kimdan scrubbed his hands raw under scalding water until his skin burned pink. The door didn't creak open.
Wednesday's pop quiz had a basketball analogy in question four. Kimdan erased his answer three times. The clock ticked louder than usual.
Friday. Empty paper towel dispenser. Water dripping from the faucet in uneven intervals. Kimdan adjusted his glasses for the eighth time in three minutes. The fluorescent light buzzed—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—before flickering out completely.
When it sputtered back to life, Junseo was there, leaning against the sinks with his jersey sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His forearms shone with sweat instead of sink water. "Late today," Kimdan said to the mirror, voice cracking on the last syllable. Junseo exhaled through his nose, the sound rattling something loose in Kimdan's chest.
They stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the sinks, close enough that Kimdan could count the fading tan lines on Junseo's wrists. The water ran cold between them. Junseo shook his hands out—three droplets, always three—and this time, Kimdan caught them in his palm before they could hit the tiles.
Junseo blinked like he'd forgotten where he was. His eyes darted past Kimdan's shoulder toward the door, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh. The paper towel dispenser gurgled as it spat out fresh sheets, untouched. The silence stretched tight between them, taut as the jump ropes coiled in the gym bags by their feet.
Kimdan pressed his damp hands to his thighs, watching Junseo's reflection shift weight from foot to foot—a restless energy humming under his skin. "You're—" he started, then bit his tongue when Junseo's phone buzzed in his pocket. The sound was sharp, intrusive. Junseo fished it out one-handed, thumb already swiping open a message Kimdan couldn't read from this angle. Something in his expression shifted—lips pressing into a thin line, shoulders squaring—before he shoved it back, untucked now, half-sliding from his pocket.
"You should see someone about that," Kimdan blurted, nodding at Junseo's elbow where a fresh scrape glistened red. Junseo startled, as if genuinely surprised Kimdan had spoken. His fingers brushed the wound absently. "It's nothing," he murmured, but his gaze kept skipping past Kimdan, toward the hallway where laughter echoed off the lockers.
Kimdan adjusted his glasses, counted the flickers—one, two, three—and wondered when the rhythm had broken. The bathroom door swung open, letting in a gust of chatter and the scent of boxed lunches. Junseo's head snapped up, already stepping toward the sound before pausing mid-motion. He turned back just enough for Kimdan to catch the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing through words he wouldn't say.
"Later," Junseo promised to the empty air between them, already halfway gone. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Kimdan with the drip-drip-drip of the faulty faucet and three crumpled paper towels Junseo hadn't bothered to throw away.