Spring had a habit of making Seoul look romantic even when it was late for homeroom. Cherry blossoms clung to every branch like confetti that refused to fall, and the morning light bounced off apartment windows in soft flashes of gold.
Ji-Ho pedaled his bike through the narrow lane leading to Hangye High, uniform blazer open, tie dangling somewhere near his shoulder. His earbuds blasted an upbeat pop song; he mouthed the words dramatically, earning a glare from an elderly lady sweeping petals off her storefront.
"Sorry, halmeoni!" he called, nearly crashing into a delivery scooter.
Behind him, Tae-Sik jogged with a backpack twice his size. "Yah, Ji-Ho! If you die before exams, can I inherit your math notes?"
"I don't have any!" Ji-Ho shouted back, grinning.
That was the rhythm of their mornings—noise, laughter, a little chaos. The group gathered at the corner where the bakery smell mixed with perfume from the florist next door. Min-Ji was already there, hair tied up with pink ribbons, waving a chocolate croissant like a flag.
"You're late!" she said. "Again."
"I was practicing cardio. For the track team."
"You were racing pigeons," Seok-Cheol said dryly, adjusting his glasses. "And losing."
They broke into laughter. The easy chatter filled the air until something made Ji-Ho glance up the hill ahead.
A breeze stirred. Petals lifted from the asphalt, swirling in lazy circles.
And there—walking down through the fluttering white and pink—was a girl in the same school uniform. Her bag was hugged to her chest, hair catching the light like strands of silk. The petals drifted around her shoes, sticking to her skirt hem.
Time didn't just slow; it paused.
Ji-Ho's bike wheel stopped spinning. The chatter faded into a muffled hum. Every sound dulled except the faint crunch of petals beneath her steps.
She brushed a stray petal from her cheek, and the motion—small, familiar, heartbreakingly gentle—pulled something deep in his memory.
Where have I seen you…?
The girl looked up. Their eyes met for the briefest heartbeat. Ji-Ho's chest tightened; the sunlight hit the cracked pavement just right, reflecting gold between them like that long-ago sugar.
Then—
"Yah! Ji-Ho!" Min-Ji snapped her fingers in front of his face. "You alive?"
He blinked. Time rushed back. Cars honked, Tae-Sik snorted. Ji-Ho's bike began to roll again—straight into a lamppost.
CLANG.
The impact wasn't dramatic—just enough for the lamppost to thunk in protest and Ji-Ho to nearly drop his backpack.
Tae-Sik doubled over. "Hyung! You just confessed your love to a pole!""Maybe it'll say yes," Min-Ji said, pretending to dab tears from her eyes.
"Shut up," Ji-Ho groaned, rubbing his forehead. He tried to act cool, but the petal that landed perfectly on his nose ruined the effort.
Seok-Cheol offered a handkerchief. "For the wound—or your pride?"
"Both."
They started walking again, and Ji-Ho risked another glance up the hill. The girl was gone—disappeared into the stream of students crossing the gate. For a second he wondered if he'd imagined her.
Inside the school grounds, the morning announcements echoed from the speakers. The smell of chalk dust and cafeteria kimchi stew mixed in the air—ordinary, noisy, familiar.
Ji-Ho reached his shoe locker, swapping sneakers for slippers. A tiny fragment of dalgona candy wrapper tumbled from the pocket of his bag, crinkling as it hit the floor. He picked it up with a faint smile.
"Still keeping that thing?" Tae-Sik asked."Lucky charm," Ji-Ho said."For what? Head injuries?"
He laughed but didn't answer.
Homeroom began with the usual chaos—desks screeching, gossip flying, the teacher shouting for silence. Ji-Ho half-listened, doodling a star on his notebook corner.
"Alright, class," the teacher said finally. "Before we start, we have a new transfer student joining us today."
The door slid open with a faint click.
Ji-Ho's pencil froze mid-stroke.
The girl from the hill stepped inside, bowing politely.
"Hello," she said, voice calm but a little nervous. "I'm Thanu Seo. I just moved here from Busan."
The sound of her name sent a strange warmth through him, like hearing an old melody for the first time in years.
Thanu.
He whispered it under his breath, testing it.
She looked up as if she'd heard. Their eyes met again—this time longer, steadier.
Ji-Ho felt his pulse stutter.
"Mr. Ji-Ho Han," the teacher snapped, "perhaps you'd like to stop staring and show Ms. Seo where to sit?"
Laughter rippled through the class. Ji-Ho shot to his feet, knocking over his chair. "Ah—yes, sir! This way! Uh—this empty seat—here—next to—uh—me."
He cursed internally. Why did his mouth forget how to function when he was nervous?
Thanu smiled politely and took the seat beside him. "Thanks."
He nodded, avoiding eye contact, then immediately bumped his elbow on her desk.
"Sorry—uh, gravity issues."
Her laugh was quiet but genuine. "You always this clumsy?"
"Only around, uh… lampposts."
The class rolled on in a blur of chalk dust and half-hearted note-taking. The teacher's voice faded in and out as Ji-Ho tried—truly tried—to focus on the board.
But his mind kept orbiting one person.
Every time Thanu tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his pen paused. When she tilted her head while reading, a faint line of sunlight caught her cheek, and Ji-Ho forgot how breathing worked.
He was painfully aware of everything—the scratch of her pencil, the small hum she made while thinking, the faint scent of her cherry shampoo drifting between them.
"Mr. Han," the teacher said sharply. "Would you like to share your answer?"
He blinked. "Uh—thirty-seven?"
The teacher squinted. "It's a history question."
Snickers broke out across the room. Tae-Sik gave him a thumbs-up from the back.
Thanu tried to hide her smile behind her notebook, but Ji-Ho caught the shimmer of it anyway—and for some reason, that made the humiliation worth it.
When the bell finally rang, the room exploded with chatter. Students rushed to lunch, laughter echoing in the hallways.
Ji-Ho stayed behind, pretending to pack slowly.
"Hey," Thanu said softly. She stood beside his desk, clutching her textbook. "You dropped this earlier."
It was his pen—rolling away from the corner of her desk.
"Oh—thanks," he said, taking it. Their fingers brushed—barely a second—but it was enough to make his chest ache.
There was an odd flicker in her eyes then. A kind of recognition.
She tilted her head, as if searching his face. "Have we… met before?"
Ji-Ho froze. The memory of the festival—years ago, the stolen dalgona, her laugh under the sunset—flashed behind his eyes.
He wanted to say yes. To tell her about the sticky candy, the chasing dog, the laughter.But his voice caught.
"Maybe," he said instead, smiling faintly. "Or maybe I just have one of those faces."
She smiled too, that soft, half-curious smile that would one day destroy him and save him all at once.
"Maybe," she said.
They left the room together, walking down the hallway flooded with afternoon light. Outside, cherry blossoms drifted through the air, scattering across the courtyard like snow.
For a moment, time slowed again—like the world itself was holding its breath.
And Ji-Ho thought, without understanding why:This feels like déjà vu.