First day of school
The first day of a new semester never actually changes. Same chaos, different year.
The scratch of desks echoed through the room, sharp enough to make me jump. Voices reverberated off the walls, crowding over one another in a chaotic chorus as everyone scrambled to get to their friends before the bell would sound. Bags dropped onto desktops, chairs creaked, laughter burst out in waves that crested and crashed.
Even the teacher, planted at the front with a roll book under her arm, already appeared to be tired— and it was hardly the first period of the first day.
I sat by the window, in my usual seat, acting busy. My notebook was open, a new page staring back at me, but the only thing I'd ever managed to get onto it was the date in the top left-hand corner.
The rest of the room yawned in front of me, a white blank page void I didn't have the energy to fill. I thumped the tip of my pen against it in time with my thoughts, as though I could coax words into being.
I never enjoyed first days. Too loud. Too many smiles hastily exchanged, "let's hang out" promises that everyone knew would evaporate in a week.
That was when the teacher's voice interrupted the noise.
"Ha-neul. You'll be sitting here, next to Minjae."
The name caught in my head.
Strange.
I'd never heard it before.
I raised my head before I knew I was doing it.
The boy who moved forward was not supposed to be there. Transfer students tended to stumble, their feet shuffling or their heads ducking too low, smiling awkwardly to mitigate the oddness of being new.
But him? His gait was smooth, deliberate. His face placid. Too placid, as if nothing in this room could reach him.
Light-brown hair caught the sun as he walked by, strands shining like well-polished silk. For an instant, I asked myself if it were really that soft or if it was just the window light making me pretend.
He didn't say hi to the class. Didn't bow. Didn't even look my way. He slipped into the vacant seat next to mine like it had always been expecting him, his movements fluid and languid.
The transition was immediate.
The room was still humming— someone in the back was yelling over three rows, two girls by the door were already whispering about what to do after school— but the atmosphere by my desk seemed. changed. Like he'd brought a bubble of silence with him, and by sitting there, he'd ensnared me within it as well.
"Minjae," the teacher barked, and I sat up straight. "Assist Ha-neul with whatever he requires."
"Y- yes, teacher."
The answer vanished from me too quickly, my voice more biting than I'd meant. Ha-neul didn't flinch. He'd already produced a notebook from his bag and opened it with a practiced jerk of the wrist. His actions economical, neat. Not one unnecessary movement. The sort of habits that you don't learn in school but through something more austere.
I considered speaking up. Hi, nice to meet you. Something easy. Something natural. But the words lodged in my throat. Speaking never came easily to me, and with him… it was impossible. Like speaking would violate some unspoken rule, like his silence was intentional and I wasn't permitted to interrupt it.
He glared at the empty page before him. Not scribbling. Not drawing doodles. Simply glaring, as if he were waiting for the page to magically tell him something.
I squirmed in my seat, glancing anywhere else— the blackboard,classmates,their backpacks, the rear of the room, the storm of chalk dust by the window— but ever back to him. His frame was upright, his breathing steady. He didn't shift, didn't moves his hands, didn't glance sidelong at the clock. He hardly budged at all.
Nearly as though he weren't a student at all, but an imposter playing the part.
I strained my eyes back to my own pages, but my hearing betrayed me. I heard every small creak from him— the soft tap of his pen, the gentle rustle when he shifted in his seat. Even those little sounds felt deliberate, as if nothing about him occurred by happenstance.
The space between our workstations wasn't even a handspan, yet it felt like a wall. Not the kind you can climb. The kind you stand before and hesitate, wondering what's on the other side and if you should attempt to discover.
I instructed myself to concentrate on the lesson, but the words on the board faded into incoherent lines. Instead, my mind continued to orbit the same questions: Who was this fellow? Why did he seem so different from everyone else?
The bell finally broke through the haze of my thoughts.
The hallway suddenly erupted into chaos. Chairs scraped against the floor, voices clashed, plans leaked out into the hallway— cafeteria trips, school game matches, muted gossip already in full bloom. It was an electric energy, a whirl of sound and motion that filled every inch.
Ha-neul walked differently.
He snapped his notebook shut, folded it, and placed it neatly into his pack, and rose. No hurry. No hesitation. He didn't glance at me, didn't join in the laughter, didn't utter a word. His feet were steady, quiet, and he eased out the door without leaving a trace, the door swinging softly shut behind him.
I sat longer than I intended, my bag only half packed. The voices around me became background noise, irrelevant compared to the quiet he'd left.
He hadn't spoken at all. Not to me. Not to anyone.
And yet, his silence was louder in my mind than the combined voices in the room.