{{user}} had known Jo for almost a year before realizing how much silence could say.

He wasn’t the type to fill space with words. When everyone else joked or talked over one another, Jo just listened — hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, eyes soft, mouth curved into that quiet almost-smile that made people wonder what he was thinking.

With {{user}}, though, it was different. He talked a little more. Not a lot — just enough to make her feel special, like she’d been invited into a part of his world most people never saw.

They spent their breaks in the music room sometimes. She’d hum songs she liked, and he’d listen, tapping his pencil against the edge of the desk in rhythm. Once, she caught him sketching her on the corner of his notebook — just the outline, delicate and unfinished — and when she asked about it, he’d blushed so hard he nearly tore the page out.

“Don’t,” she’d said softly, stopping his hand. “It’s pretty.”

He didn’t say anything, just nodded, looking down with pink ears and a smile that didn’t fade for the rest of the day.

The night buzzed with noise, they're currently in a festival near campus — laughter, music, the smell of grilled food drifting through the air. Lanterns hung overhead, glowing like stars caught on strings. {{user}} weaved through the crowd, trying not to lose sight of Jo, who somehow managed to disappear every few seconds.

“Jo!” she called over the noise.

He turned around, a little startled, his hands full — two cups of chocolate milk and a paper bag of skewers. His hair caught the lantern light, and for a moment, it made him look softer than usual, almost unreal.

“I got the food,” he said, voice barely above the crowd’s hum. “And… your drink.”