The world always feels louder than I can handle. Even now, even after finishing high school, starting at Seoul National University, fulfilling everything Appa and Eomma dreamed and prayed for, the noise never really decreases. People talk too much. They expect too much. They look too much. I've learned to survive by being quiet, by folding myself inward, by keeping conversations short and my world small. It's easier that way. Cleaner. Predictable.
And yet, somehow, despite all the ways I've built my life to avoid distractions, my eyes have always found one person.
Park Danoh.
Not because she tried to be noticeable. She never did. It was the opposite—she was noticeable even when she wasn't trying, the kind of person who pulled attention the way sunlight pulls the gaze even when you're not looking for it.
The first time I saw her wasn't at school. People assume high school was where everything started, but that's wrong. I saw her before that—at a restaurant.
It was late, maybe past nine. I had gone out with Hyuk-hyung because he insisted the best way to study long nights was to eat good food. He claimed ramyeon healed the brain. I didn't really believe him, but I went because saying no to Hyung is harder than taking a mock test. We sat in a small restaurant near our house—the kind with steamed windows and metal chopsticks clinking everywhere. I was tired, thinking about problem sets, CSAT questions, ranking sheets. My head hurt.
And then I saw her.
She walked in with two friends, laughing about something I couldn't hear but could feel. There was this bright, warm energy around her—girl-next-door but somehow more. Her face looked soft, round, almost childlike, but her eyes were sharp and curious. She wore a simple hoodie and jeans, hair tied into two braids that swung with every step. It should have looked childish, but on her it looked… comfortable. Natural. Like she didn't care what anyone thought.
My chopsticks paused in midair.
Hyuk-hyung noticed nothing, too busy inhaling noodles. I just stared at her without meaning to—like something inside my chest recognized her before my mind even formed a thought.
I didn't understand it then. I barely understand it now. But that moment stayed with me.
Later, when I saw her at school—different section, different friends, different world—I felt an unexpected jolt of recognition. Most people from other sections blur into one collective shape, but she didn't blend in. She was always surrounded by her two closest friends, the trio everyone knew. They laughed too loudly in hallways, took silly pictures between classes, argued about food choices like it was life or death. People liked them. Teachers liked them. They were the type who made school seem less like a survival game and more like… life.
I wasn't part of that kind of life.
But sometimes, during lunch or after school, I would see her and her friends sitting under the shade near the back field, eating convenience store kimbap, talking as if the world was gentle.
It was strange to me. I'd never lived that way.
CSAT kids don't laugh during lunchtime. We don't sit casually under trees. We inhale food like medicine and run back to class for more studying. I didn't know how to process someone who lived so differently.
And that difference made me notice her even more. I started recognizing her patterns. Not intentionally. Never intentionally. I'm not the type for obsession. But when you see someone often enough, you build patterns in your mind without meaning to. Like how she tied her hair differently depending on her mood—two braids on tired days, ponytail on busy mornings, loose waves on days she felt playful. Or how she always bought chocolate milk after PE. Or how she hummed songs without realizing.
Sometimes I saw her at the bus stop on rainy days. Her umbrella was always too small for her bag, so her backpack straps would get wet. She'd wipe them with the sleeve of her hoodie, muttering something to herself that I couldn't hear. Somehow that small, clumsy moment always made my chest tighten in a way I never understood.
I never spoke to her. Never stood close enough to. Never tried to change anything. Just existing quietly near her was enough. Or at least I convinced myself it was. Now, sitting in the orientation hall with her right next to me—after all those distant, quiet memories—it feels like the universe is playing a joke I'm not prepared for. When Jeonghan dragged me to the empty seats earlier, I didn't think anything of it. I was scrolling my phone, trying to drown out the noise. Orientation halls are always too bright, too loud, too crowded.
But the moment we sat down—
The moment I saw her—
My heart stopped in a way it hasn't in years.
Park Danoh.
In the same chair row. In the same department. In the same university. A part of me didn't believe it at first. Maybe she just looked similar. Maybe I was imagining it. But then she lifted her head slightly, and that familiar softness in her features confirmed it. Her eyes widened for the smallest second—barely noticeable—but enough to tell me she recognized me too.
I didn't look at her after that.
Couldn't.
If I did, I wouldn't be able to hide how fast my heartbeat had picked up. I could feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in the tips of my ears.
I kept my eyes on the stage, pretending to absorb the program material, but all my senses were pulled to the girl sitting just centimeters away from me. I could feel the heat of her presence. Every shift of her posture, every shallow breath she took. She tried to be composed—she was good at it—but I've always been too observant for my own good.
Jeonghan was laughing beside me. Making jokes. Whispering sarcastic remarks about professors. Normally, I would have responded with a small nod or quiet hum, but today even that felt difficult. It was like my whole mind was split—half listening to the orientation, half drowning in the awareness of her existence beside me.
When our sleeves brushed by accident, I almost jerked my arm away. I held still instead, afraid she would notice.
I remembered her wearing two braids during summer exams. The way she wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. The way she would share snacks with friends when teachers weren't looking. I remembered the softness she carried even on days everyone else seemed hard and stressed.
And now she sits next to me in the department I worked my entire life for.
Impossible. Unreal. And yet happening.
The hours passed slowly. I kept my expression blank, but on the inside, I was unraveling. Every time someone laughed loudly in the hall, I flinched. Every time Jeonghan nudged me, I forced myself not to overreact. And every time I heard Danoh shift in her seat, my breath hitched quietly.
Then came the last part of orientation.
Night had fallen outside by then, the sky dark through the windows. The room was dimmer, softer, almost intimate. The seniors wheeled out tables filled with snacks, juice, beer, and soju. "It's the CSE welcoming party!" someone shouted. "You can drink if you want! Don't worry, just don't get too drunk!"
I stiffened. I don't drink. I hate crowds. I hate the loudness that alcohol brings out in people. I hate unfiltered emotions, unrestrained noise, unpredictable behavior.
But everyone else started drinking anyway. Cups were passed around. Soju bottles clinked. Even Jeonghan accepted a cup, though he gave me a questioning look first.
"You good?"
"I'm fine," I muttered.
Then I saw her.
Danoh.
Holding a small plastic cup.
Staring at the clear liquid inside.
Her fingers slightly trembling—not with fear, but with curiosity, like she wasn't used to drinking but didn't want to be left out.
She lifted the cup to her lips. Drank. Coughed a little. Laughed it off.
No one wasn't here to stop her. She came alone today. And I don't know why that made something cold curl in my stomach.
When she poured herself a second cup, my lips pressed together. Tight. Tighter.
By the third cup, I wasn't listening to anything anymore. Not Jeonghan's jokes. Not the seniors' speeches. Not the music in the background.
I was just watching her. Why is she drinking so much? She doesn't look like someone who drinks often. Her face is turning pink. She's going to get dizzy. She might get sick.
I flinched.
"Hanbin Oppa," Harin's voice came through the phone speaker when I answered. She sounded upset. "Oppa, did you see my notebook? I can't find it and I need it for tomorrow—"
I sighed quietly, standing up. "Harin-ah, calm down. I'll check at home."
"I'm scared Appa will scold me…"
"Appa won't," I said softly. "I'll handle it."
I excused myself from the table, stepping outside the hall where the air was cooler and quieter. I talked her through her panic, reminding her to check under her bed, inside her drawers, in the living room. Finally she found it, laughing weakly. "Oppa… I would die without you."
"You won't."
It came out automatically.
My voice always softens around my siblings. By the time I hung up, the noise from inside felt louder. Thicker. Messier. I rubbed my eyes and walked back in. The first thing I did was look for her.
But—She was gone. Her chair was empty. Her cup abandoned. Her bag—gone. Her presence—vanished. A sharp, unfamiliar panic shot through me.