Yeonjun is the kind of person a university builds its reputation on. He tops his class without looking like he tries. Professors praise his insight like it’s instinctive; students gravitate toward him without meaning to. His face is soft where it should be, sharp where it matters, and he’s the captain of the basketball team—as if life handed him excess and called it balance.

But it isn’t the grades. Or the looks. It’s the ease. Yeonjun makes people feel important without ever promising them anything. He laughs easily, listens just enough, rejects gently—and somehow everyone still likes him afterward. Confessions come and go. He turns them all down.

Of course you like him. Still, you tell yourself this is different. That he’ll notice something in you no one else has. So you write. A letter—honest, a little dramatic, maybe embarrassingly sincere.

Three days later, you wait behind the university building, the paper folded so tightly its edges are worn. Yeonjun is already there, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, expression relaxed—almost bored.

He looks up when he hears you. “So,” he says lightly, tilting his head. “You sounded serious. Is something wrong?”

Your throat is dry. You hand him the letter instead.

He reads in silence. His face gives nothing away, and for a moment you let yourself believe unreadable means thoughtful. Then his mouth curves. A smirk. A soft laugh—not cruel, just amused, like he’s been entertained.

“Ah—sorry,” he says, lifting a hand. “I didn’t mean to laugh. He exhales, glancing at the page again. “I honestly thought this was a joke at first.”

He folds the letter neatly and hands it back. “I’ll be honest,” he says, meeting your eyes at last, distant but polite. “I don’t like you. You’re not my type.”

The words land before you can prepare for them. The ground feels briefly unreal.

He looks around, searching for something to smooth the silence, then smiles again. “I mean,” he adds casually, nodding toward the open sky, “the weather’s nice today, right?”

As if this were just another conversation. As if nothing had broken at all.