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Freshman Year
The first time Jeongin meets Hyunjin, it’s over something stupid—his dorm key gets stuck in the door. It’s raining. His hoodie is soaked through, his bag is slipping from his shoulder, and the metal key is jammed halfway into the lock.
He curses softly under his breath and tries again, but it won’t budge.
Then a voice from behind says, “You’re gonna snap it like that.”
Jeongin turns.
Hyunjin stands barefoot in the hallway in gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and a baggy black tee, hair tousled like he just woke up. There’s a pink smudge on his cheek—probably paint or make-up. His expression is somewhere between amused and curious.
Without asking, Hyunjin pads over and takes the key from Jeongin’s fingers. With a gentle twist and a nudge, the door unlocks with a soft click.
“There,” he says, stepping back with a slight grin. “Dorm door: one. Jeongin: none.”
Jeongin blinks. “How’d you know my name?”
“I didn’t,” Hyunjin says. “Just assumed by the nametag on your door.”
“Oh” Jeongin clears his throat. “Thanks”
Hyunjin’s smile widens. “No problem. I’m Hyunjin. I live across the hall.”
Jeongin watches him retreat to the other side of the hallway, where his door is propped open and music filters out like fog. Jeongin doesn’t realize he hasn’t said anything else until Hyunjin’s halfway to his door and turns to call out, “See you around, neighbor.”
And Jeongin, still dripping from the rain at his doorway, already wants to.
At first, it’s casual.
They bump into each other in the hallway, joke about terrible dining hall food, walk to class when they happen to be heading the same way. But somewhere along the way, Hyunjin starts showing up at Jeongin’s door with spare takeout or asking, “Wanna just come over and sit for a bit?” without a real reason. Somewhere along the way, Jeongin starts saying yes before the questions are even finished.
They study together, though Hyunjin is a nightmare of distraction—doodling in Jeongin’s margins, draping his legs over Jeongin’s lap, humming softly when the silence stretches too long. Jeongin pretends not to like it. Hyunjin pretends not to notice.
One night, a storm knocks the power out. Most people leave the dorms to find somewhere with electricity. Jeongin doesn’t. He likes the quiet of it, the world softened by candlelight and silence.
He hears a knock on his door.
It’s Hyunjin, holding a flashlight in his mouth and two instant ramen cups in his hands.
“I figured you’d be here,” he says around the flashlight.
Jeongin lets him in.
They sit on the floor, eating lukewarm noodles, legs stretched out and shoulders almost touching.
“I used to be scared of the dark,” Hyunjin says suddenly.
Jeongin glances at him. “Not anymore?”
Hyunjin shrugs. “Still am sometimes. But this kind of dark feels . . . quieter, I guess. Less lonely.”
Jeongin doesn’t know what to say to that. But he thinks maybe he’s been scared of other kinds of loneliness too.
Their knees brush. Neither of them moves away.
Jeongin starts noticing things.
Hyunjin talks with his hands, even when he’s tired. He paints when he’s restless. He always has music playing. His hair is always a little messy, but never the same kind of messy. He says “I’m fine” a lot, even when he’s clearly not.
One night, Jeongin finds Hyunjin curled up in the stairwell—arms around his knees, forehead pressed to the wall, shaking.
He doesn’t say anything. Just lowers himself onto the step beside him, quiet and steady, their shoulders barely touching.
The silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. Eventually, Hyunjin speaks, voice hoarse.
“Sometimes I think . . . people only like the version of me that’s easy to like.”
Jeongin doesn’t respond. Just listens.
Hyunjin exhales. “I don’t know who I am when I’m not trying so hard to be someone.”
A pause.
Then Hyunjin turns his head, resting it lightly against Jeongin’s.
“I don’t think I like that version very much.”
Jeongin’s heart aches. He leans just slightly into him.
“I think he’s still worth knowing,” he says quietly.
Hyunjin doesn’t answer. But he stays there, pressed close, like maybe that was what he needed to hear.
They don’t move for a long time.
Somewhere between autumn and winter, the line between friendship and something else starts to blur.
They fall asleep during movie nights—accidentally, at first. But Jeongin wakes up with Hyunjin curled into him, his hand tangled in Jeongin’s hoodie, and doesn’t move. Hyunjin breathes quietly against his collarbone, and Jeongin lies there until morning.
There’s a night when Hyunjin dares him to paint something on the wall of his dorm, says they’ll cover it with a poster later. Jeongin draws a tiny fox. Hyunjin adds sunglasses. They laugh too hard. Jeongin catches Hyunjin staring and doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t need to.
And sometimes, when Hyunjin is tired, his affection slips through the cracks. He holds Jeongin’s hand a little too long when they cross the street. He rests his chin on Jeongin’s shoulder while reading, like it’s natural. He says things like, “I like how quiet feels different when you’re around.”
Jeongin’s heart aches with everything unsaid.
People start asking if they’re together. Jeongin always laughs, awkward and high-pitched. “No, no, we’re just friends.”
Hyunjin never answers. He just looks away.
There’s a moment in late winter, in the glow of the common room, when Jeongin almost leans in. Hyunjin’s face is close, too close. His breath smells like coffee, his lips lightly chapped from the cold, and his eyes are full of something Jeongin doesn’t have words for.
But just as Jeongin opens his mouth—
Hyunjin laughs, too soft, and looks away.
He doesn’t say it, but it’s there in the silence: Don’t ruin this.
And Jeongin—terrified of losing what they have—doesn’t push.
They walk back to their dorms that night with hands brushing but never holding.
When they reach Jeongin’s door, their eyes meet in the hallway’s dim light. Hyunjin hesitates like he might say something else. His mouth opens. Then closes.
“Goodnight, Jeongin,” he says finally, quietly.
Jeongin says it back, even softer.
The door clicks shut between them.
And that’s the end of something that never really began.