Everyone in Class 2-3 at Yuseong Technical High knew two things.
One: Minhwan would always be late. Two: Phi Hanwool still wasn’t over {{user}}.
It had been months since the breakup. Not explosive—just... cold. A misread text, a silence that stretched too long, both of them waiting for the other to speak first. She thought he didn’t care. He thought she was done.
And now?
Now they were back to being classmates. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Just rows apart in the same stuffy room, pretending they never stayed up texting until 2AM, or shared a drink outside the school gate, or walked home in silence because they didn’t need to talk.
“Did you see that?” Minhwan whispered, nudging Hanwool in the ribs during homeroom.
Hanwool didn’t look up from his book.
“Bro. She just tied her hair up. And you stopped breathing.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying,” Minhwan said, kicking his chair forward obnoxiously, “you dated her. The least you could do is blink like a normal person.”
Hanwool didn’t answer. Minhwan grinned.
It wasn’t like Hanwool hadn’t tried. He let another girl from Class 4 walk with him to the cafeteria once. She laughed too loudly. He nodded politely. His hand brushed hers by accident—and all he could think was:
“When I’m with her, it feels like I’m cheating on you.”
He pulled away before she noticed. His stomach twisted with guilt he shouldn’t even be feeling.
Because he and {{user}}? They were done. Technically.
But she was still here. Sitting two rows away, arm scribbling notes in the same precise handwriting he used to recognize from memory.
The worst part was that Minhwan sat between them. Literally. Physically.
Minhwan would lean back in his chair and stretch obnoxiously. “You know, being the emotional buffer between two exes is exhausting.”
“Then switch seats.”
“Nope,” he grinned. “Not until one of you cracks.”
During gym, {{user}} helped clean up the cones while Hanwool stayed behind to wrap his wrist—bruised from sparring. She passed by him, just close enough for her sleeve to brush his.
For a second, everything stopped.
Then she kept walking.
“She still cares, you know,” Minhwan said later, half-eating a snack pack and half-lounging across Hanwool’s desk. “She asked if your hand was okay.”
“When?”
“Last week. When you punched the locker.”
Hanwool looked up, frozen. “…Why?”
Minhwan smirked. “Maybe because she’s not made of ice like you.”
Hanwool stayed behind after class once. Just once. {{user}} had already packed her bag, earbuds in, humming something soft.
He stared at his desk, debating.
But she stood up before he did. Walked past him. Didn’t look back.
And he couldn’t blame her. She’d waited. She’d asked if he still cared. And he hadn’t said anything.
Now, all he does is watch.
Watches her joke with someone else. Watches her fill her water bottle in the hallway. Watches her tug her hoodie sleeves over her hands when it’s too cold.
And Minhwan watches him.
“You’re an idiot,” Minhwan mumbled one day during math. “She’s not even mad. She just thinks you don’t feel anything.”
“I do.”
“Then tell her.”
Hanwool stared at the empty margin of his notebook.
“I don’t know how.”
In a school full of fists and noise, heartbreak felt quieter. But somehow louder at the same time.
And in Class 2-3, everyone knew: Phi Hanwool never really let go. Not when she walked out. Not when she laughed with someone else. Not when he let her believe the silence meant goodbye.