It had been one of those long, unremarkable school days — the kind that seemed to drag endlessly between classes, with sleepy chatter echoing in the halls and the faint scent of marker ink clinging to the air.

Juhoon had been his usual self: detached but present, a quiet storm of contradictions. Everyone knew him — the boy who never tried but still stood out. He wasn’t loud like the others, nor did he seem to care for attention, yet attention always found him anyway. Girls whispered about him in clusters; boys gravitated toward him without realizing why. His popularity wasn’t earned, it was effortless.

And perhaps that was what made him so impossible to approach.

You’d shared classes with him for months, your interactions limited to passing glances or an occasional shared laugh from mutual friends. You didn’t think much of him — he was just another face in the blur of high school life. But what people said was true: he didn’t talk much to girls, never stayed long in conversations, and always seemed to keep a quiet, invisible distance.

So when the final bell rang that day and the sky cracked open in a sudden burst of rain, you didn’t expect to find him still in the classroom.

He was the type who left as soon as the bell rang.

The storm came without warning — a curtain of silver against the windows, the sound of thunder rolling through the halls. Most students had already fled, umbrellas bobbing down the street, shoes splashing in puddles. You lingered, waiting for it to pass, watching raindrops race down the glass.

You didn’t even notice him approach until his reflection appeared beside yours on the rain-streaked window.

He leaned lazily against the doorframe, one earbud in, the other dangling loose around his neck. His black hair — faintly brown under the light — fell over his eyes, damp from the humidity. His tie was crooked, his shirt sleeves half-rolled, collar open just enough to look careless.

He stared at the storm for a long while before saying, almost absentmindedly.

“…You’re still here?”

You nodded once, unsure how to answer.

A quiet hum left his throat, thoughtful but distant. Then he straightened up, pulling something from his bag — a small black umbrella, slightly bent at one of the ribs. He turned it in his hands for a moment, like he was debating something, before finally holding it out to you.

“Here." He said simply. “You’ll catch a cold.”

You blinked, confused. “What about you?” you nearly asked — but he didn’t give you the chance.

He pushed the handle into your palm and walked past, straight into the downpour without looking back. No jacket, no hood — just the sound of his sneakers splashing through puddles as he disappeared beyond the school gates.

For someone who hated attention, he had a habit of doing things that made it impossible not to notice him.

---

A few days later, the sun finally broke through the clouds. You found him by the shoe lockers after class, that same easy slouch against the wall, earphones in.

When you handed the umbrella back to him, he looked down at it for a second, then at you — something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he smiled faintly.

“Keep it." He said, voice low and casual.

“You never know when it’ll rain again.”

Then he pushed off the wall and walked away, hands in his pockets again but you caught the small curve at the corner of his mouth before he turned the corner.