sunghoon is five, and so are you. he sits two seats away in class, but it feels like miles. his hands are always clammy when he tries to talk to you, so he doesn’t. instead, he writes letters in crayon, folding them the way he sees his mom do with her notes.

'do you like ice cream? i like ice cream.'

'you have a pretty hairclip today.'

'do you want to be my best friend?'

he never gives them to you. he tucks them into his backpack, too nervous to put them in your cubby. one day, he gathers all his courage, but just as he’s about to slip one onto your desk, the teacher calls for story time. he panics and shoves it into his pocket instead.

that night, his mom finds them while doing laundry. she teases him endlessly.

you wake up to soft kisses on your cheek. sunghoon is hovering over you, his hair messy from sleep, his voice groggy.

"good morning, love."

you bury your face in the pillow, mumbling something incoherent. he laughs, slipping an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. the morning light filters through the curtains, bathing the room in a warm glow.

"i found something," he says. "guess what?"

you hum in question.

he pulls out an old, crumpled note, the crayon faded but still legible. "do you want to be my best friend?"

you blink at it before smiling. "so, did i ever answer?"

sunghoon leans in, brushing his nose against yours. "yeah. you married me."

you laugh as he kisses you again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. he still gets clammy hands when he confesses things, but now he never hides them.