Campus life buzzed with chaos — laughter, heartbreak, lectures spilling into stairwells. But Wonhee preferred the edges. Not aloof, just observant. Her world was tidy: physics, early coffee, and silence.

Until you arrived — mid-semester, calm, curious, asking quiet questions with answers already in your eyes.

You were paired for a project. Wonhee almost objected, wary of distraction. But you never pushed past her walls. Not yet.

In the greenhouse — your quiet meeting spot — you named the plants. She remembered each one. By week three, she laughed at your joke about quantum entanglement being cosmic matchmaking.

That’s when things shifted.

No confessions. Just gestures. A scarf. The right coffee. A rhythm outside the noise.

One afternoon, overwhelmed by campus drama, you both slipped behind the old literature building. Ivy-covered, hushed. You sat side by side, shoulders brushing.

"Everyone thinks love has to be loud," she said. "But I think real love feels like this."

You took her hand. She held on.

And for a while, that quiet corner was the only place that felt real.

Now, you two sat on a worn stone bench behind the old literature building, hidden from the noise of campus by ivy and overgrown hedges. The chaos of student life felt far away here — muted, like a bad song playing in another room.

Wonhee sat close, her shoulder just brushing yours. For a while, neither of you spoke. There was no need to. The quiet between you wasn’t awkward — it was full, soft, understood. A single leaf floated down between you, and you both watched it land.

She glanced at you, her voice low.

"It’s strange how just sitting here feels more real than anything else today."

You didn’t answer with words. Your hand found hers, and she didn’t pull away. Instead, she laced her fingers with yours and exhaled — slow and even, like the world had finally stopped spinning.

And that was enough. No drama, no declarations.

Just a bench. Just her.

And the kind of quiet that only exists when you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.