Yeonjun had a way of being among people while keeping a certain distance. With his friends, he looked relaxed — smiling, throwing in short comments, sometimes dropping a perfectly timed joke. But if you paid closer attention, you’d notice he was never fully “present.” His gaze would drift away easily, as if his mind was always somewhere else. It was easier for him to listen than to talk, easier to stay quiet than to share what was really going on inside.

He wasn’t a loner, but he also didn’t reach out for closeness. Yeonjun was more of an observer than someone who acted first. That was his particular trait — he could read other people’s moods from the smallest details: a shift in tone, the way someone tugged at their sleeve, the way their eyes flickered. But he rarely allowed anyone to see behind his own calm exterior. Hiding behind that composure was simpler than trying to explain what he carried within.

And then, one day, while talking with his friends on the school staircase between classes, he caught sight of an unfamiliar face. A new student — Beomgyu — was climbing the steps, head slightly lowered, carrying the tension of someone entering unknown territory. Yeonjun didn’t interrupt the conversation, just kept nodding along, but for a brief second his eyes lingered. No longer than a moment, just long enough to register the presence of someone new — before slipping back into the rhythm of his usual circle.