The morning sun felt heavier than usual, as if the campus itself knew something had shifted. Eun-ji walked to class with her bag slung loosely over her shoulder, careful not to look anywhere near Ji-ho. Her steps were measured, soft. She wasn't pretending today. She was exhausted from yesterday's storm of emotions, and pretending would have been too much.
Ji-ho was already in the classroom when she arrived, seated at his usual spot near the window. His gaze, as always, seemed to notice everything, yet he made no move to approach her. He controlled himself. His hands rested on the desk, fingers twitching ever so slightly as he fought the memory of yesterday's near loss of control.
The professor announced a surprise group project, pairing students randomly. Eun-ji's heart skipped a beat when the cards dealt her to Ji-ho's group.
The room seemed to shrink.
Ji-ho didn't look at her directly, but she could feel the weight of his eyes following her as she took her seat across from him. Her classmates chatted around them, but an invisible bubble enclosed just the two of them.
Glances were exchanged. Tiny, careful. No words. Nothing yet could bridge the space that had formed overnight.
At lunch, she noticed the boy from her statistics group again. He lingered nearby, joking casually with other classmates. Ji-ho's jaw tensed subtly when their laughter reached his ears, the faintest flicker of jealousy crossing his sharp gaze. She noticed, of course—his protectiveness radiated even from a distance. It made her stomach flutter, but also softened her heart toward him.
Their group project gave them forced proximity. Sharing notes, debating ideas, and passing papers, their hands brushed occasionally. Each contact was electric yet safe—just enough to remind Ji-ho why he struggled so hard to keep his distance.
"Focus on the calculations," Ji-ho muttered quietly at one point, his voice low, calm, but carrying a weight that made Eun-ji swallow hard.
She looked up, meeting his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. It was enough to see the faint tension in his expression. His hand twitched as though wanting to reach for her but stopping himself.
Her voice softened. "Ji-ho… you're staring again."
"I'm… paying attention," he replied, almost too quickly. His eyes flicked away.
Jealousy lingered like smoke. The boy from lunch laughed again from across the room, completely unaware. Ji-ho's jaw clenched. His distance softened slightly, but only barely. He leaned back, allowing the smallest gap between them, yet it wasn't enough to hide the turmoil in his mind.
Eun-ji's own heart softened. She no longer needed to hide her emotions completely; she could feel his struggle even without words. But she was still wary. Yesterday had left scars, and his restraint was thin.
At the end of class, as they packed up, she stepped a bit closer to him while reaching for her bag. Their hands brushed again. A small spark, unnoticed by the rest of the room, but magnified a thousandfold for them.
He almost leaned toward her, the faintest exhale of relief escaping him. But just as quickly, he pulled back. Not coldly, not angrily—just painfully aware of the line he could not cross.
His final thought as she walked out beside him, silent but steady: If I get any closer, I might not stop myself.
And Eun-ji's: He's hurting… and I can't fix it. Not yet.