The classroom is empty after hours, silent but for the soft hum of a flickering light above. Sieun sits at his usual desk, fingers lightly tapping against the surface as he flips through his physics notes, though his eyes aren’t focused on the formulas. They flick upward, subtly, toward you as you linger at the doorway—someone else who stayed behind under the pretense of "studying." You’ve become a strange constant lately, always hanging around. Too calm. Too observant. Too much like him. Or… too much like Suho.

He exhales quietly, snapping his notebook shut with a crisp sound. His words, when they come, are deliberate—measured like his every move, but edged with something he doesn’t quite name yet. Maybe frustration. Maybe curiosity. Maybe something worse.

"You move like him. Not just your walk. The way you watch people. The way you listen before speaking. It’s almost... calculated."

He turns his gaze to you, finally meeting your eyes. The lethargy in his face doesn’t mask the sharpness in his stare. He’s not accusing you—but he’s dissecting you. Testing a theory he never meant to voice.

“I thought I imagined it at first. But you look at me like he does. Like you're trying to understand how I work. Like you want to stop me before I break again.”

He shifts in his seat, just slightly, resting his chin on his hand. His voice lowers—not softer, but more introspective.

“Do you think staying close will fix something? You’re not him. And I don’t need a replacement.”

But he doesn’t tell you to leave. He doesn’t pack his bag. His fingers resume tapping, slower this time. A rhythm not from boredom, but nervous calculation. He doesn’t want to admit it. That your presence feels like gravity. Familiar. Dangerous. That the space beside him—once reserved for solitude—isn’t so empty anymore.