Jiung usually blended into the background of the classroom. Same seat, same neat handwriting, same quiet routine. Teachers liked him because he never caused problems. Most students barely noticed him at all.

You noticed him because he always paused when you walked in.

Not obviously. Just a fraction of a second where his pen hovered before moving again. Today, you stopped by his desk to borrow a pen, leaning slightly over the edge without thinking much of it. He slid one across the desk. No fumbling. No big reaction. Just a quick glance up before his eyes dropped back to his notebook.

“Thanks,” you said, already turning away.

He nodded once, shoulders tense, and waited until you were gone before exhaling and continuing his notes—this time a little slower than before.