Jae-hyun's POV
It was harder than he thought it would be—knowing the truth and pretending he didn't.
After discovering Seo-ah was MoonWriter, something inside Jae-hyun shifted.
Not because she was his favorite writer online, or because he finally had an answer to the question that had haunted him since he read Paper Planes and Moonlight.
But because now he could see the quiet ache behind her eyes.
And he realized: every page she wrote wasn't just fiction.
It was a breadcrumb trail of her soul.
The next few days passed in a blur, but his awareness of her sharpened.
He noticed everything.
The way she tapped her pen twice before writing. The way she hugged her sketchbook to her chest in crowded corridors. The soft hum in her throat when she was focused. The slight tremble in her hands when she read aloud in class.
And how, in between all of it, she still offered quiet encouragement to others. A small nod. A gentle smile. A note passed under the desk with: "Your metaphor in line three is beautiful."
He didn't know how he hadn't seen it earlier.
The same girl who created Seon-woo—the gentle, observant boy with quiet strength—was sitting two rows ahead of him, sometimes next to him, completely unaware that she had already impacted his life in ways she couldn't imagine.
He could've told her then. He could've handed the diary back with a folded note:
I know who you are.
But he didn't.
Because knowing her story didn't give him the right to become part of it.
Not unless she let him in.
So he made a vow to himself: not to act differently, not to force anything—but to become someone worthy.
Someone like Seon-woo.
Not the fictional perfection she'd crafted, but the soul of him: The boy who listened without needing to fix. The one who knew that love wasn't rescue—it was presence.
It started subtly.
In writing class, when the professor asked about character archetypes, Seo-ah hesitated before answering. Jae-hyun spoke instead, his voice calm but deliberate.
"I think there's a difference between a hero and someone who simply stays," he said. "Sometimes, staying—quietly, patiently—is the bravest thing a character can do."
She turned to look at him. Her expression is unreadable.
But later, he saw her scribble something in the corner of her notebook:
"He said staying is brave."
He offered her coffee one rainy morning, wordlessly placing a warm cup beside her sketchpad as she arrived early to class, drenched and shivering.
She blinked at it, then at him.
"Why?" she asked softly.
He shrugged, smiling. "You looked like you needed something warm."
Her eyes lingered on his for a beat longer than necessary.
"…Thank you."
On Thursdays, they both visited the campus library. She sat on the third floor by the window, always with earbuds in, sketching characters or scribbling lines into her battered notebook.
He stayed one row behind, not to spy—but to be near. Her presence quieted his mind. She didn't speak often, but when she did, it was thoughtful, intentional.
Once, their eyes met across the poetry aisle.
She smiled.
And he smiled back, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He found himself emulating Seon-woo, not in a performative way, but from instinct.
Seon-woo was steady. Not loud, not showy. He noticed when the heroine was tired, and brought her silence instead of questions. He read her work without judgment. He knew how to exist beside pain without crowding it.
Jae-hyun was learning to do the same.
Not to impress her.
But because he understood now—Seo-ah didn't need grand gestures.
She needed someone who stayed in the background until she was ready. Someone who saw her the way she saw others.
Delicately.
I like poetry.
One evening after class, she stayed back, erasing a few lines on the whiteboard with distracted motions. He walked up beside her to grab his notebook.
"Have you ever thought about writing poetry?" he asked, gently.
She glanced at him. "Sometimes. But I get scared it'll sound too… exposed."
He nodded. "That's how you know it's real."
There was a pause. Her eyes searched for him.
And for a heartbeat, he swore she saw right through him.
But then she looked away, smiling. "Maybe one day."
He watched her walk down the hall, her bag slightly slipping from her shoulder, and thought to himself:
I hope she lets me be part of her poetry someday.
But until then—
He'd keep becoming someone worthy.
Not of her fantasy.
But of her reality.
Because behind the words she wrote was a girl who needed to know that not all quiet boys disappeared.
Some stayed.