It starts with a pencil.

Not love at first sight. Not butterflies or slow-motion hallway glances. Just a dumb, half-chewed pencil that rolls off your desk during English and lands right at Han Jisung’s feet.

He picks it up and grins as he hands it back. “Trying to attack me with your writing utensils already?”

You laugh under your breath. “Just wanted your attention.”

You don’t even know why you said that. You weren’t even thinking. But Jisung raises his eyebrows like you just challenged him to a game he’s been waiting to play.

From that moment on, you’re on his radar.

He starts showing up early to English class, choosing the seat beside you even if it’s not assigned. He doodles in the margins of your shared worksheet—tiny cartoon versions of the teacher, a dog wearing sunglasses, and once, both of you holding hands on a rocket ship. You roll your eyes, but you don’t tear the page out.

He starts teasing you, in the soft kind of way. Like when he catches you spacing out and whispers “Earth to Y/N,” with that smile that makes you forget your own name.

And it gets harder not to notice how cute he is. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. The way he taps his fingers on the desk like he’s always making music, even when he’s just thinking.

One day, during a fire drill, he ends up next to you in the parking lot crowd. It’s freezing, and you’re hugging your arms for warmth.

Without a word, he shrugs off his hoodie and drops it over your shoulders.

You look at him, surprised. “Won’t you be cold?”

He shrugs. “You look colder.”

It smells like mint gum and laundry detergent. Like comfort.

Later that night, he texts you for the first time.

Jisung: did u survive You: barely. hypothermia. tragic Jisung: i’ll bring an extra hoodie next time You: bold of you to assume there’ll be a next time Jisung: there better be :)

From then on, he’s everywhere. Hallways, cafeteria, after-school walks to the bus stop. He starts opening up—talking about how he writes music at 2 a.m., how he’s scared he won’t be good enough, how he wants to be someone people don’t forget.

“You’re already someone I won’t forget,” you say once, barely thinking.

He goes quiet. Looks at you like you’ve just handed him the entire sky.

Then, one Friday afternoon, he pulls you aside after class, wanting to show you his favorite spot, the rooftop

he organized a picnic up there, a blanket spread out on the ground and a small basked with snacks waiting to be eaten. He looked at you hopefully, praying internally that you liked it