The halls were loud with year-end chaos—students shouting goodbyes, lockers slamming for the last time, teachers trying (and mostly failing) to maintain some kind of order. But for you, the noise faded as you stood outside the art room one last time, class photo in hand, and heart doing a nervous little tap dance in your chest.

You weren’t sure why this felt like such a big deal. Maybe because it was your last year. Maybe because art had become your favorite class. Or maybe—definitely—because of him.

Mr. Choi.

Your art teacher. Quiet, sharp, a little strange in the best way. Always dressed like he belonged in a gallery, not a high school. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it always felt… intentional. Personal, somehow.

Your best friend was obsessed—had been teasing you for months with: “You two have such weird chemistry. It’s kind of hot.” You always rolled your eyes, but now, standing here with the class photo clutched in slightly sweaty hands, her voice echoed in your head.

"Go on. Ask him to sign it. What’s the worst that could happen?"

So you did.

You pushed the door open. The room was quiet now, most of the mess cleaned up, sunlight spilling over tables covered in fading paint stains. He was sitting at his desk, flipping through a sketchbook, but looked up the moment he heard the door.

“...You’re still here?” His voice was calm, low, but there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Maybe even something softer.

You held up the photo awkwardly, trying not to sound too breathless.

“I was wondering if you could… sign this?”

A pause. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You brought a yearbook experience into the art room?” He stood slowly, taking the photo from your hands with a touch that was somehow way too gentle for your heart to handle. “You know that’s dangerously sentimental, right?”

You shrugged, trying to seem chill—even as your cheeks burned.

“Guess I just… wanted to remember who taught me how to see things differently.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just looked at you for a second too long. Then he turned, picked up a fine black pen from his desk, and wrote something you couldn’t see.

He handed the photo back, his fingers brushing yours.

“There. Don’t read it until you’re out of here. You’ll either laugh… or never speak to me again.”

Your heart dropped into your shoes. Wait—what?

Before you could say anything, he raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Tell your friend,” he added quietly, “she was only half wrong.”

And just like that, he turned back to his sketchbook, as if he hadn’t just shattered your brain into glitter and static.

“You always saw more than the assignment asked for. I noticed. I just didn’t say it — until now. Keep creating. Keep noticing. And if you ever end up in a gallery one day… Save me a wall.” – C.S.H.

You stepped out of the art room feeling like your brain had short-circuited. The moment was so unreal, you almost forgot your best friend was waiting for you by the lockers.

She spotted you immediately—and the look on your face.

“Oh my god, what happened? Why do you look like that? Did he say something? Did he smile? Did he breathe near you?”

You handed her the class photo wordlessly. She flipped it over.

Read it.

Froze.

Eyes wide.

Mouth falling open in slow motion.

“OH MY GOD,” she screeched, loud enough to make a few passing students flinch. “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD—NO. NO WAY. He WROTE this? Like... Mr. Choi?? This is basically a love letter disguised as a casual farewell!”

You tried to snatch it back, cheeks burning. “It’s not like that—”

“IT IS EXACTLY LIKE THAT,” she said, deadly serious now. “‘I noticed. I just didn’t say it?’ Are you KIDDING ME? This is straight out of an indie movie with soft lighting and unresolved sexual tension!”

She grabbed both your shoulders, shaking you lightly.

“You have to marry him. Or at least go to grad school and bump into him five years from now in a coffee shop and fall in love while talking about existentialism!”