Spring Semester — Early April
Morning sunlight drifted lazily across the classroom floor, warm and pale, the kind of soft light that made everything feel slower — as if the world was padded in cotton. Dohwa Jeong sat by the window, her cheek resting against the back of her hand, eyes half-lidded. Spring had a way of making her feel drowsy, unguarded, the edges of her thoughts loosened like threads coming off a sweater.
She wasn't asleep, but she wasn't fully awake either — instead, she floated in that quiet in-between space where thoughts turned blurry and emotions felt too close to the skin.
Her pencil rolled slightly across the desk. She didn't catch it.
Outside, cherry blossoms swayed in the faint breeze. Their petals weren't in full bloom yet; they were cautious, half-open, like they were unsure if they were ready to greet the world. Dohwa understood the feeling well. She often felt half-open herself — wanting connection, warmth, laughter… yet keeping so much of her heart tucked carefully away.
Sometimes she wondered if she was fragile or simply scared of being seen too clearly.
Her thoughts wandered.
Maybe both.
A voice broke the quiet.
"Jeong Dohwa, you'll drool on your textbook at this rate."
Her heart jumped, though the tone was gentle. It always was.
Haneul Park sat beside her, his own head resting on the fold of his arms on the desk. He tilted his head slightly as she turned, looking at her with a half-smile — the kind that wasn't teasing exactly, just soft, like he was amused by her existence in a way she didn't fully understand.
His eyes were warm brown, a little sleepy themselves, but steady. Always steady.
Haneul had that quiet, natural sense of care — IV on your list — the kind that wasn't loud but always somehow there.
Dohwa's ears warmed.
"I wasn't sleeping," she murmured.
"You were drifting," he said. "Your expression goes blank when you drift."
"It does not."
He hummed, eyes crinkling, unconvinced.
Dohwa turned away, embarrassed even though he wasn't making fun of her. A faint heaviness sat in her chest — not sadness, just that old softness that came whenever spring arrived. She blamed the weather. The season always made her nostalgic for things that hadn't even happened.
Her gaze returned to the window, following the movement of the branches.
Sometimes, in moments like this, she wished she could stay in this part of the year forever — where everything was beginning, but nothing was demanded of her yet. Before summer homework and cream school, before the Joint College Entrance Exam loomed overhead like a storm cloud. Before expectations became pressure.
The teacher's chalk tapped the board softly. Class droned on.
Time passed in the rhythm of spring.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
Dohwa blinked down. Her pencil had rolled off the desk again. She reached down to retrieve it — but another hand touched it first.
Haneul's.
He offered it to her without a word, fingers brushing hers in the briefest second.
Tiny moment.
Ridiculously tiny.
But her breath caught anyway.
She had cried easily all her life — quietly, privately. Tears weren't dramatic for her; they were simply the overflow of feelings that refused to stay hidden. Her crying was soft — D on your list — trembling breaths, small sniffles, her hand covering her mouth. Never loud. Never noticeable. She hated the idea of being a burden.
Right now, she wasn't crying.
But she felt that familiar tightening behind her ribs — the type that whispered, Be careful, you're feeling too much again.
She accepted the pencil. "Thank you."
Haneul only nodded, turning back to his textbook — but the corner of his mouth pulled upward in that way it did when he found her reactions endearing.
Dohwa felt caught between wanting to hide and wanting to be seen.
The bell rang eventually, breaking the stillness. Students stretched, chairs scraped, chatter filled the warm air.
Dohwa took her time packing up, moving slowly, savoring the lazy rhythm of the afternoon sun, the easy quiet of early spring. She liked days like this. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heavy.
As she stood, her hair catching the light, she thought:
If only the whole year could be this soft.
But she knew better.
Life never stayed soft for long.
Haneul walked in front of her desk, pausing only a moment — brushing her shoulder lightly with his hand as if checking she was awake and grounded.
"See you at lunch, Hwa," he said, using the nickname he'd given her sometime in winter two years ago.
Because her cheeks flushed easily.
Because she was delicate in the way early blossoms were.
Because he noticed more than she expected.
She stared at him, almost absentmindedly for a moment, until he disappeared into the hallway.