The stone steps were cool beneath you, wide and worn smooth from years of students shuffling nervously before competitions just like this. A bamboo mat softened the hardness a little, and your schoolbag rested at your side like an obedient pet, silent and heavy with papers. Leaves whispered above, and somewhere in the distance, a crow complained lazily into the wind.

Your pencil danced lightly over the paper—hesitant, but trying. Trying to turn nerves into metaphors.

You didn’t notice him at first. The presence beside you was quiet—no words, no greetings, just a shift in the air, the kind that made your eyes flick sideways.

You groan.

"I told you not to sit next to me," you mutter, your voice sharp but not unkind. Just tired. As if this exact thing has happened too many times. "Go back to our side! What's an athlete doing in the writing contest? Who sent you here?"

Gwan-sik, unbothered, replies with a sheepish calm, still not looking directly at you. "I raised my hand and said I wanted to enter."

You let out a breath through your nose, sharp and incredulous. “You know what they say around town? They say Gwan-sik wakes up just to follow {{user}} around.”

He shrugs, almost proudly. "I think you'll be the winner this time. I think you'll be a great poet. A great poet."

You pause, your pencil stalling just above your paper. “Really?” The word comes out quieter than the rest—an involuntary lapse.

"Yes," he says simply.

You turn slightly toward him, side-eyeing him with disbelief. “What would you know?”

“I don’t,” he admits. “I can’t write.” And then he smiles, eyes still lowered to the blank paper in front of him.

Before he can protest, you snatch it from his hands. Your fingers move with practiced annoyance, but your eyes linger a little longer than you’d like to admit. You bring it closer, as if reading a secret someone tried to keep small.

You sigh. Loud. Tired. Familiar.

“I should write to the ministry,” you grumble. “They need to make athletes study too. Will they take responsibility for this kid’s life?”

On the page, scribbled in blocky handwriting:

SPRING BREEZE THE WIND GOES WHOOSH MY HEART GOES BOO-HOO

You blink.

“…I’m so upset, seriously.” You shake the paper gently, frowning at the little sketch at the bottom. “Erase the moth. Why did you draw it here?”

“It’s a butterfly,” he says without missing a beat.

You glare sideways, the most unimpressed expression on your face, but he only smiles harder, like he knows exactly how ridiculous he is.

Then, a little quieter, a little too sincere: “Write a poem for me too. Titled ‘Yang Gwan-sik.’”

You hand him his paper back, unceremoniously. “Why would I?” you mutter, spinning away from him again, as if nothing happened. As if you hadn’t already titled your next page Yang Gwan-sik in your head.