The next day.
The hallway outside homeroom vibrated with post-game energy. Junseo's name ricocheted off lockers in hushed, giggling bursts—"Did you see his three-pointer?" "The way he lifted his jersey to wipe his face—" "No way he's single." Kimdan slowed his steps, letting the current of students part around him. A girl's elbow jabbed his ribs as she whisper-screamed to her friend: "His hands are huge, I swear they wrapped around the whole—" The rest dissolved into muffled laughter. Kimdan's collar grew damp where his teeth had worried the fabric.
At lunch, Junseo held court by the vending machines, surrounded by a rotating orbit of admirers. His tie hung loose—midnight blue with pinstripes Kimdan had counted during a particularly dull chemistry lecture—as he mimed the championship's final shot. The motion stretched his uniform shirt taut across shoulders that had broadened since last semester. Someone passed him a sports drink; his fingers dwarfed the bottle when he twisted the cap off. Kimdan watched from three meters away, physics notes crumpling in his grip. The TV at home had died during halftime last night, right as Junseo was pivoting for that impossible rebound. His mother's apologetic shrug over the repair bill had stung worse than missing the winning basket.
Between classes, snippets of conversation followed Junseo like comet tails: "...carried the whole team..." "...heard scouts were watching..." Girl's fingertips lingered on his elbow when passing him notes, their manicures bright against his sweat-damp skin. Kimdan catalogued it all—the way Junseo's left shoelace was fraying where he constantly retied it, the fresh tape around his right wrist peeking from under his sleeve, the half-second delay before his trademark grin clicked into place for admirers.
Alone in his apartment that evening, Kimdan traced the water stain on his ceiling where it vaguely resembled the arc of a free throw. The broken TV screen reflected his silhouette back at him—too thin where Junseo was broad, too still where Junseo moved with unconscious grace. He folded yesterday's stolen paper towels into precise rectangles, aligning them with the edge of his desk. Outside, a basketball bounced rhythmically against concrete—one, two, three times—before fading into the humid night.