They’d been inseparable since middle school—Woonhak and {{user}}. He still remembered the first time he met her: sitting alone by the window, sketching something in her notebook while the noise of the classroom blurred around her. She didn’t look up when he said hello, just turned the page and wrote a word instead.

Hi.

That was how they started. Through scribbled notes, hand gestures, and the small, careful smiles that said more than words ever could.

Years passed, but not much changed. Woonhak learned her language—not just sign, but her language: the little taps she made on his desk to get his attention, the way she laughed silently but with her whole face, the way her eyes sparkled when he tried to sign something clumsy and messed up the word completely.

By the time they were in second grade of high school, she was still the same {{user}}—gentle, thoughtful, the quiet constant in his life. But something had changed in him.

He didn’t just want to make her laugh anymore. He wanted to be the one she looked for in a crowd. He wanted her to know what his heart was saying— even if she couldn’t hear it.

But how do you confess to someone who can’t hear the words I like you?

---

The afternoon sun was sinking low, painting the school rooftop in gold. The air was still, warm, and faintly sweet from the cherry trees below.

Woonhak sat cross-legged beside {{user}}, a half-empty can of soda sweating beside him. She was leaning against the railing, eyes fixed on the sky—calm, unreadable, like always.

He signed first. "Tired?"