Han Jisung was always the one who made you feel seen.

Not in a dramatic, sweeping way—but in the little things. Saving you a seat in class. Waiting after school when it rained, just in case you forgot an umbrella. Remembering the way you liked your notes organized or that you hated math with a passion. He was never loud about it. He just knew.

You were close—so close it almost hurt. Friends, of course. Best friends, if anyone asked. But in the quiet moments, when his hand lingered a second too long or he looked at you like the world slowed down, you wondered if there was more. You never asked. Neither did he.

One afternoon, during your final year, you sat together on the school rooftop, watching the sun dip below the buildings. Everyone else was inside prepping for graduation, but the two of you stayed there, quiet.

“If things were different…” he started, then trailed off.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Maybe you didn’t want to hear it out loud. Maybe it was easier to pretend you didn’t feel the same way.

After that, everything moved fast. Exams. Farewells. New cities, new lives.

Now, years later, you walk into the reunion not knowing what you’re hoping for—until you see him.

Jisung, standing by the photo display, with a few other old classmates holding a picture of your old class. When he sees you, he smiles, slow and familiar.

“You came,” he says.