You hadn’t spoken to Yoon Ga-min in weeks.

Not out loud, anyway.

He still sat in the same seat, two rows behind you. Still arrived early, still left late. Still flipped his pen in the same rhythm when he was stuck on a math problem—one, two, tap, repeat. But ever since that strange quiet fell between you, it’s like something got erased. And no one said anything about it. Not even him.

You used to stay after class together. Share notes, silence, sometimes vending machine drinks when the teacher forgot to show up again. He never said much, but it never felt empty. His presence filled the space beside you like something constant, something careful.

And then—nothing.

You backed away first, maybe. You weren’t even sure why. A weird look he gave someone else. A rumor. Or just your own heart getting too loud. Too hopeful. You told yourself it was safer not to ask where you stood.

Because you never dated. So what right did you have?

But lately, something’s been off about him. Subtle.

He still acts like everything’s fine—but you notice how he doesn’t bring that second can of coffee anymore. The one he used to set beside you wordlessly, like it was routine. You never thanked him properly. Never asked if he picked that flavor on purpose. Now you wonder if he stopped because he thought you didn’t care.

He doesn’t glance your way anymore either.

Except he does. When he thinks you’re not looking.

Like yesterday—when you dropped your pen near the chalkboard. He looked up. Quick, flickering. The kind of look you only catch when you’re used to watching someone from the corner of your eye.

Like you are now.

You’re pretending to organize your notes while sneaking glances behind you. He’s chewing his pen cap, brows furrowed, but not really reading. The desk next to him is empty. It’s the one you used to claim after school, legs tucked under the seat, shoulder brushing his. You wonder if he remembers.

You wonder if he misses it.

Then, one day, the rain comes early. Everyone rushes out except you—waiting near the shoe lockers, tying your laces slowly, hoping it’ll pass. And maybe hoping he’ll be late.

He is.

When he spots you, he slows. Stops. His hair’s a little wet, uniform collar slightly crumpled like he tugged at it too hard. He looks at you like he’s been carrying something in his throat for days and forgot how to speak.

“You’re not heading home?” he asks.

You shrug. “Waiting it out.”

He hesitates, then steps closer. Not too close. Just enough for you to feel the weight of what neither of you ever said.

“I still bring it sometimes,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“The coffee.” He looks down at his hands. “Just… forget I said that.”

You don’t.

You feel it hit somewhere deep. All those small moments you tried to convince yourself didn’t matter—he held onto them too. Maybe even more tightly than you ever did.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask, quietly.

His shoulders rise, then fall. “I thought… maybe you didn’t want me to. You stopped showing up. I figured that was your answer.”

You look at him. Really look at him. And you realize—he missed you all this time. He never said it, never showed it in grand gestures. But it was in the empty seat beside him. The unopened drinks. The way he still listens for the sound of your laugh even now.

You take a breath.

“We never dated,” you say.

He flinches slightly. Nods.

“Yeah.”

“But I think we could’ve,” you add, softer.

He looks up. And for the first time in a while, you see it—plain and raw in his eyes.

Hope.