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Kim Dokja knew he should be listening. Yoo Sangah was speaking directly to him, looking calm and focused, the same way she always looked when she was explaining something she had rehearsed. They were sitting at a small round table in a quiet cafe tucked behind the university library, one of those places that brewed everything slow and served coffee in mismatched mugs. She had a blueberry muffin in front of her, half-eaten and was gesturing with her coffee stirrer as she talked.
“ — and so I told him, if the citation wasn’t fixed by Thursday, the TA would definitely deduct points,” she said, tapping the side of her cup. “And I mean, it’s basic formatting, right? You’d think someone in third year would know how to italicize a book title.”
Kim Dokja nodded vaguely, eyes on her lips.
They were pink. Not the fake kind of pink from lipstick or gloss (though she wore some light tint) but the kind that looked warm, like she’d just taken a sip of something too hot. Her voice was steady, words precise, but her lips moved just a little slower than the rest of her. He watched them curve around syllables and thought: this was not the first time that she was completely, unfairly distracting.
He’d never say it out loud. That would be suicide. Not because Yoo Sangah was scary or anything but because he had no idea what he’d do if she ever found out he thought about her like this . Which he did. Constantly. Especially when she talked.
“You’re not listening, are you?” she asked suddenly.
He blinked. “What?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re staring.”
“I’m not.”
“You were.”
Kim Dokja coughed and looked down at his untouched drink. “I was listening.”
“What did I just say?”
“You were talking about… citations?”
Her eyes narrowed and her lips twitched. “That was five sentences ago.”
He looked up. She was smiling now, the kind of smile that told him she knew exactly what was going on and was deciding to be nice about it.
“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe I got distracted.”
“By what?”
“Nothing.”
She tilted her head. “Well, you do that a lot.”
“Do what?”
“Zone out when I talk.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” she said, stirring her drink again. “You always look like you’re listening, but then I ask a question and you blink like I’ve hit you with a textbook.”
“Sounds dramatic...”
“Only because it keeps happening.” She broke off a piece of muffin and popped it into her mouth. “Should I be offended?”
“No,” Kim Dokja said. “I just… sometimes I think about other things.”
She swallowed and gave him a look. “Like what?”
He hesitated. He could lie. He could make something up about class, or deadlines, or something safe like taxes, but she was watching him, with eyes that made people want to be honest.
He sighed. “You’re going to laugh.”
She rested her chin in her hand. “Now I have to know.”
He stared into his coffee. “I was thinking you looked really beautiful.”
There was a beat of silence.
He expected a laugh, or a cough, or maybe her looking away and pretending she hadn’t heard it, but she didn’t do any of that.
Instead, she said in a very calm voice, “That’s the third time you’ve said that this semester.”
He looked up. “What?”
“I keep track,” she said, unfazed. “You said it once during the study group in March, when I tied my hair up with a pen. And once when we were walking to the subway after the I won the debate.”
Kim Dokja’s ears turned red. “That… doesn’t sound like me.”
She shrugged. “Maybe not the exact words, but the meaning was clear.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t know. Just feels like I should.”
“Well, don’t. It’s not like I hate hearing it.”
He stared at her. “You don’t?”
She met his eyes. “No.”
Another silence settled, but it was different this time. He was suddenly very aware of how close they were sitting, how quiet the cafe had gotten, how her fingers tapped against the ceramic mug like she was waiting for him to say something useful. He was not particularly good at useful.
“I like hearing you talk,” he said. See? Not useful.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.”
“Even when you’re not listening to the content?”
He cracked a small smile. “Especially then.”
She sighed, exaggerated. “Should I be flattered or worried?”
“Both? But I swear, I’m not a pervert.”
She shook her head and took another sip of her drink. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve been told.”
They went quiet again, but it wasn’t awkward. Yoo Sangah pulled out her phone when a message came in. Maybe it was from her parents asking where she was. Kim Dokja picked at the edge of his sleeve and tried not to smile like a lunatic.
After a few minutes, she said, “Do you want to hear the story again?”
He blinked. “What?”
“The one you missed because you were busy admiring my face.”
He blinked harder. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she said, still not looking up. “So, do you want to hear it?”
He thought for a second. “Are you going to quiz me at the end?”
“Absolutely.”
He groaned, but leaned back in his seat. “Alright. Go on.”
She started talking again. Outlining the entire issue with the classmate and the citation format and how she had to explain APA rules for the third time this month. He tried to focus this time, really, but then she laughed and he was gone again.
She really was unfair. Who looked that pretty when laughing?
Halfway through the story, she paused and looked straight at him.
“Still not listening,” she said.
“Eh, I am,” he said, quickly.
“Then, what did I say just now?”
He opened his mouth then closed it when he didn’t find the answer. Sighed…
She smiled. “That’s what I thought.”
Kim Dokja groaned again and dropped his head into his hands. “I’m a lost cause.”
“You are.”
“But at least I’m honest about it, though.”
She considered that. “Right. Points for effort.”
He looked up. “How many points?”
She held up two fingers.
“That’s generous.”
“I’m feeling kind today.”
There was another pause, and then she said, offhandedly, “You’re actually a bit cute when you’re embarrassed.”
He froze.
She didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink, just kept scrolling on her phone like she hadn’t just said the most heart-stopping sentence of the week.
He cleared his throat. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He stared. “You’re messing with me.”
“Maybe.”
He leaned forward. “Was that a return compliment?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Too late. I’m gonna take it as a compliment.”
She finally looked up, eyes amused. “Finish your coffee, Kim Dokja.”