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Suho always arrived first.
Not because he wanted to, but because it made no sense to go back home after work. Sleeping two hours on the club’s couch or on a school desk didn’t make much difference. At least there, he was already ready.
When Sieun entered the classroom, the sky outside was still gray. The neon lights flickered faintly.
Suho was already seated at the back, headphones in his ears, his head resting against the wall.
Sieun saw him.
And immediately turned the other way.
He sat at his desk and took out his notebook. The pages were neat, as always. The sound of the door closing behind him made him tense for half a second. He didn’t turn around.
During the break, Baku approached him without warning.
“You got here early today too.”
“Normal schedule,” Sieun replied.
“That’s not why you were avoiding turning around.”
Sieun didn’t answer. There was no need to.
They left the classroom and, in a low voice, Sieun whispered, “I get this strange feeling every time I look at him, every time he talks to me. I don’t want it to happen.”
“Oh, and how do you plan to fix it?” Baku said.
“With method.”
Baku smiled faintly. “Then you’re already ready.”
“For what.”
“For the list.”
Sieun stiffened slightly. “I didn’t say—”
“No need.”
Baku leaned against the railing. “Ten points. Clear rules. You follow them and it passes.”
“Emotions don’t follow rules,” Sieun objected.
“People do,” Baku shot back. “At least at the beginning.”
Sieun thought about it. Not for long.
“Did it work for you?”
Baku hesitated, then looked at Gotak. “For a while, yes. You know, apparently it only works for 5% of people.”
Sieun understood it was a half-truth, but he didn’t care.
“Then fine,” he said. “I’ll write a list.”
Baku looked at him for a few seconds. “To not fall in love with your classmate.”
Sieun nodded. “Exactly.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate. “If I set boundaries, it won’t be a problem.”
That evening, in his room, Sieun opened the new notebook.
There was no hesitation this time.
He wrote the title in neat handwriting, without stopping.
“Ten things to do to not fall in love with your classmate.”
He reread the title twice.
It was correct. It was sufficient.
“It will work,” he thought.
Then he started with the first point.
---
Point 1: “Don’t look him in the eyes”*
Suho was sitting at the back of the classroom, as always. His back against the wall, headphones dangling from one ear, eyes closed. Time always seemed to start earlier for him than for everyone else: he arrived early, worked late, and yet he was already there. Always.
Sieun entered, the notebook clutched in his hands. He knew exactly where Suho was. And, as always, he turned the other way.
“Don’t look at him,” he thought, as if repeating the command could make it real.
He sat down, opened the notebook, and lined up his books. The first point was written small in the corner:
“1. Don’t look him in the eyes.”
Logical, clear, simple. It would be enough to stick to the rules.
Then he heard footsteps. Someone’s shadow moved in front of him.
His heart skipped a beat, and he knew it: it was Suho.
“Sieun.”
Just one syllable, spoken softly, but the tone was enough to stop the world.
Sieun lifted his eyes. Instinctively. Too quickly.
Suho’s eyes were open now, dark, tired, but intense. They fixed on him without hurry, as if they could hold all of time in that instant.
Sieun froze. The pen trembled slightly in his hand.
“Don’t look at him,” he repeated mentally. But his brain refused to listen.
“I think you took my pen,” Suho said, tilting his head to the side, a small tired smile on his lips.
Sieun lowered his gaze to the pen, to his notebook. He let it fall onto the desk, but Suho didn’t take it right away. Their hands remained close. Too close.
A heavy silence spread between them, as if the entire classroom had disappeared.
Sieun felt his heart speeding up, every beat a sharp blow in his chest.
“It’s just a pen,” he kept telling himself. But the voice inside him was weak.
“Are you okay?” Suho asked, more serious now. His eyes were fixed on his, but not in an invasive way. Just… attentive.
“I’m fine,” Sieun murmured, slowly looking away. Trying to reestablish distance. Trying to respect the rule. Trying to have control.
Suho took the pen and, with a slow gesture, handed it back to him.
“Thanks,” he said. “And… if you need anything, you know where to find me.”
Sieun nodded, trying not to turn around again. But when Suho went back to his seat, time resumed its course, and the classroom grew noisy again. Someone laughed, the door opened once more. The teacher came in.
But Sieun remained still.
Because the first point hadn’t been broken by looking at Suho.
It had been broken the moment he allowed Suho to look at him, and there was no list in the world that could control that.
He closed the notebook decisively.
“It won’t happen again,” he thought.
And, for the first time, he wasn’t so sure.
---
Point 2: “Don’t worry about him”
Sieun noticed it before he even realized he had.
Suho arrived late.
That wasn’t normal.
When he entered the classroom, his shoulders were more hunched than usual, his steps slow, as if every movement were a conscious decision. He dropped into his seat at the back without his headphones, head lowered, eyes closed.
Sieun didn’t look at him.
Or rather, not directly.
It wasn’t worry.
It was observation.
“He worked late,” Gotak said quietly, sitting down in front of them.
It wasn’t an explanation. It was a fact.
“How do you know?” Juntae asked.
Gotak shrugged. “He always does when he takes extra shifts.”
Sieun tightened his fingers slightly around the pen.
*(Extra shifts.)*
Mental note.
Baku, leaning against the desk beside him, tilted his head slightly toward Sieun.
“It’s not your concern.”
Sieun didn’t reply.
Because it was true.
The lesson began. The teacher’s voice slid over their heads like white noise.
Halfway through the class, Suho moved. Just a little. A hand to the back of his neck, his shoulders tensing.
Sieun lost track of the explanation.
He didn’t turn around.
But he counted the seconds between one movement and the next.
Calculated how long Suho stayed still.
*If someone sleeps less than four hours for three consecutive days, their attention threshold drops drastically.*
It wasn’t worry.
It was biology.
When the bell rang, Suho didn’t stand up right away.
Gotak called out to him.
“Hey.”
No answer.
Sieun stood up before he realized he had.
He stopped.
Inhaled.
Sat back down.
Baku looked at him, this time without smiling.
“You’re breaking the rule.”
“Which one?” Sieun asked stiffly.
“The second.”
Suho opened his eyes at that moment. Slowly. Tired.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Did I miss something?”
“Only half the lesson,” Juntae said. “Nothing vital.”
Suho nodded, but the movement was too slow to be reassuring.
Sieun spoke without thinking.
“Did you eat?”
Silence fell sharply.
Suho looked at him. Not surprised. Just… struck.
“Uh. No. Later.”
Sieun clenched his jaw.
He had spoken.
He had asked.
He had crossed the line.
“You should,” he said, sharper than necessary. “Otherwise—”
He stopped.
*Otherwise what?*
Suho smiled faintly. A tired smile, but real.
“I’ll make a note of it.”
When they left the classroom, Gotak gave Sieun a light pat on the shoulder.
“It’s not a bad thing.”
“That wasn’t my intention,” Sieun replied.
Baku stayed behind with him.
“I know.”
That evening, in his room, Sieun opened the notebook.
He reread Point 2.
**2. Don’t worry about him.**
Under it, in the same neat handwriting, he added a note:
*Worry is not a conscious choice.*
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he closed the notebook.
Knowing the rule wasn’t completely broken.
But it was giving way.
---
Point 3: “Don’t talk about personal matters”*
Sieun decided the problem with Point 2 had been the context.
Fatigue, silence, a question that slipped out unfiltered.
It wouldn’t happen again.
Talking about personal matters meant:
– no sleep
– no family
– no *how are you*
Data, not people.
That afternoon they were assigned to the same table.
The teacher’s decision. Inevitable. Neutral.
Gotak sat down first, setting his backpack on the floor.
Juntae arrived right after, loud as always.
Suho was last. He sat down without saying anything.
Sieun took the seat across from him.
Eyes down. Notebook open.
“Okay,” Juntae said, clapping his hands, “let’s do this fast so we can leave.”
“Let’s split the tasks,” Gotak suggested.
Sieun spoke only when necessary.
Numbers. Sequences. Solutions.
It worked.
Halfway through, Juntae huffed.
“I don’t get how you can focus like that.”
“No noise,” Sieun replied.
“Not that.” Juntae nodded his chin toward Suho. “He looks dead.”
Suho didn’t react.
Gotak shot Juntae a warning look.
“Drop it.”
“What?” he shot back. “I’m just saying.”
Sieun tightened his grip on the pen.
*This isn’t personal. It’s an assessment.*
He lifted his gaze for a second.
Suho was staring at the table. The dark circles under his eyes were more noticeable in the afternoon light.
“Your turn,” Sieun said.
Flat voice. Professional.
Suho blinked, as if coming back a few seconds late.
“Right. Sorry.”
He wrote two lines. His handwriting was less steady than usual.
Silence settled between them again.
A different kind of silence. More fragile.
Suho was the one who broke it.
“Do you ever sleep?”
The question wasn’t directed at the group.
It was for Sieun.
Sieun snapped his head up.
Mistake.
“That’s not relevant,” he replied.
“It is to me,” Suho said, without raising his voice.
Gotak looked at them both, then went back to the paper.
For once, Juntae stayed quiet.
Sieun inhaled slowly.
“Five hours,” he said.
He stopped.
“When it’s bad.”
The silence thickened.
Suho studied him carefully. Not curiosity. Recognition.
“That’s not much.”
“It’s enough.”
“It isn’t.”
Sieun closed the notebook with a sharp motion.
“We’re talking about the project.”
Suho nodded.
But his gaze didn’t move right away.
“Okay,” he said at last. “Sorry.”
The word lingered.
It wasn’t necessary.
And precisely because of that, it weighed heavily.
When the assignment was turned in, Juntae stretched.
“Finally. I’m starving.”
“Go ahead,” Gotak said. “I’ll catch up.”
They were left alone for a few seconds.
Suho stood up slowly.
“You didn’t have to answer,” he said, almost smiling.
“I didn’t,” Sieun replied.
Then, more quietly: “Not completely.”
Suho looked at him one more time.
“Thank you.”
Sieun didn’t answer.
That evening, in his room, he opened the notebook.
He reread Point 3.
**3. Don’t talk about personal matters.**
Under it, he added:
*Some questions don’t seem personal until you answer them.*
He closed the notebook.
Three points.
Three cracks.
And Suho wasn’t even trying.
---
Point 4: “Don’t see him outside of school”
Sieun had calculated the schedules.
He always left five minutes earlier.
Took a different route.
Avoiding him didn’t require effort, only consistency.
That day it was raining.
Not heavy rain. Steady. Dense. Enough to slow everyone down.
Juntae was the first to complain.
“Great. I forgot my umbrella.”
“Me too,” Gotak said.
Baku looked up at the sky. “We can wait.”
Sieun was already about to leave.
“Hey,” Gotak called after him. “Come with us. There’s a minimarket.”
Sieun hesitated.
There was nothing in the rule that forbade a minimarket.
They went in one by one. The air was warm, the lights too bright.
The smell of coffee and plastic.
Suho was already there.
Leaning against the drinks refrigerator, his jacket damp, his dark hair darker than usual. He was staring into nothing, a can in his hand.
Sieun stopped short.
*Unplanned. Not voluntary. It doesn’t count.*
“Suho,” Gotak said. “You’re not heading home?”
“In a bit,” he replied. “Waiting for it to stop.”
“It won’t stop,” Juntae commented.
Suho gave a half-smile.
Sieun moved toward a shelf, his gaze fixed on the labels.
Names, prices, expiration dates.
“Get something,” Baku said quietly beside him.
“I don’t need—”
Suho spoke from behind them.
“I’ll drink.”
Sieun stiffened.
Suho set a drink on the counter. Then another.
A third one.
The third was for Sieun.
“Don’t—”
“It’s not a favor,” Suho said. “I need the calories.”
Juntae laughed. “See? Doctor’s orders.”
Sieun stayed still for a second too long.
Then he took the can.
Not because it had been offered.
But because refusing it would have required an explanation.
They went back out into the rain.
The sound of the water drowned out almost everything.
Gotak and Juntae walked away first.
Baku followed them, but slowed down slightly.
Sieun and Suho remained under the awning.
“You don’t like being outside,” Suho said.
It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t mind it,” Sieun replied.
Suho glanced at him. “Lie.”
Sieun tightened his grip around the can. The cold cut through his palm.
“It’s irrelevant.”
Suho nodded.
“I know. You say that a lot.”
The rain kept falling.
“Are you working again tonight?” Sieun asked.
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
He stiffened immediately.
Suho looked at him, surprised.
Then smiled faintly.
“Yeah.”
“Late?”
“Probably.”
Sieun lowered his gaze.
“I see.”
Silence.
“You can go,” Suho said. “You don’t have to wait.”
Sieun hesitated.
Two seconds.
Three.
“I’m not waiting,” he said at last.
“It’s raining.”
Suho laughed softly. Not at him. With him.
When the rain eased slightly, they parted ways.
Sieun went home with damp clothes and a crowded mind.
That evening, he opened the notebook.
He reread Point 4.
**4. Don’t see him outside of school.**
Under it, he wrote:
*Chance encounters aren’t avoidable.*
Then, after a pause, he added another line below:
*But time spent under an awning isn’t chance.*
He closed the notebook.
The rain kept falling.
And he had stopped counting the minutes.
---
Point 5: "Not knowing anyone in his family"
Suho’s house was quieter than Sieun had expected.
Not the empty silence of uninhabited rooms, but one full of habits: the ticking of the clock, a slightly open window, the distant noise of traffic. Everything seemed to have its proper place.
Grandmother was sitting near the low table, bent over a kitchen cloth she was folding with methodical slowness. She looked up when the door closed behind them.
“You’re late,” she said.
“School,” Suho replied.
She looked at him. One second too long.
“Lie.”
Suho didn’t answer back.
Sieun stayed frozen at the entrance, his backpack still on his shoulders.
He didn’t know whether to take it off.
“And you?” the grandmother asked, shifting her gaze to him.
“He’s with me,” Suho interjected immediately.
“A classmate. He has to give me tutoring, so I invited him.”
Grandmother smiled softly.
“Then come in. Don’t talk from the door.”
Sieun quickly took off his shoes—too quickly. He lined them up next to the others.
He noticed that one pair was worn much more than the rest.
Grandmother watched him. She said nothing.
“What’s your name?” she asked after a moment.
“Yeon Sieun.”
She nodded, as if the name were already familiar.
“Suho talks little. It’s rare that he brings someone.”
They sat down. Suho remained standing, leaning against the doorframe.
“Don’t stay there,” said grandmother.
“You’re not in trouble.”
Suho hesitated, then sat next to Sieun, leaving a measured distance.
Too measured to be natural.
Grandmother poured some tea. Her hands trembled slightly.
Sieun noticed.
And without thinking, he moved the cup closer to her.
Grandmother looked at him. This time, really.
“You’re attentive,” she said.
“It’s… normal,” Sieun replied.
“Not for everyone.”
The silence that followed was not awkward. It was full.
Grandmother turned to Suho.
“Have you eaten?”
Suho shook his head.
“Later.”
“Later when?”
Suho didn’t answer.
Grandmother sighed, then turned to Sieun.
“He always says ‘later.’ Do you know what that means?”
Sieun hesitated.
“That he doesn’t want to worry her.”
Suho looked at him sharply.
Grandmother smiled.
“Exactly.”
She got up with effort and went toward the kitchen. Suho moved to follow her.
“Stay,” she said.
“I’ll handle it.”
Sieun stood immediately.
“I can help.”
It wasn’t a question.
Grandmother studied him for a moment, then nodded.
“All right.”
In the kitchen, time seemed to slow.
Sieun washed his hands, dried them, did what he was told.
“He works too much,” grandmother said suddenly.
“I know,” Sieun replied.
Then he froze.
“I mean…”
“No need to explain,” she interrupted.
“It shows.”
Sieun looked down at the sink.
“It’s not sustainable.”
Grandmother laughed softly.
“Neither was raising a grandson alone. Yet.”
The sound of water filled the space.
“Do you like it?” she asked suddenly.
Sieun froze.
“What?”
“Taking care of people.”
Sieun thought.
“It’s simpler than the people themselves.”
Grandmother nodded slowly.
“He doesn’t know how to be helped.”
“I know,” said Sieun.
And only afterward did he realize he had said it out loud.
When they returned to the living room, Suho was staring at the table.
He looked up when he saw them.
“Don’t talk to her too much,” he whispered to Sieun.
“She’s tired.”
“No more than you,” she replied.
Suho clenched his jaw.
Sieun felt the urge to say something. He didn’t.
They ate in silence.
At one point, grandmother set down her chopsticks.
“Yeon Sieun.”
Sieun looked up.
“You are someone who stays,” she said.
“It’s not a common quality.”
Sieun didn’t know what to answer.
“I don’t want you to feel responsible,” she added.
“Suho makes his choices.”
Suho looked at her.
“Grandmother.”
She raised a hand.
“But I don’t want you to leave when it becomes difficult either.”
Silence fell heavily.
“I wouldn’t,” said Sieun.
The answer came without calculation. Without defenses.
Suho looked at him.
This time, really.
When Sieun stood to leave, grandmother accompanied him to the door.
“Come back whenever you want,” she said.
“No reason needed.”
Sieun nodded.
“Thank you.”
Outside, the air was cold.
“You didn’t have to stay so long,” said Suho.
“I know.”
“Then why…”
“Because I wanted to,” Sieun replied.
Suho said nothing.
That evening, Sieun opened his notebook.
He reread Point 5.
**5. Not knowing anyone in his family.**
Below he wrote:
*Knowing someone is not getting information.*
*It is being seen.*
He closed the notebook slowly.
The rule wasn’t just broken.
It had become useless.
---
Point 6: "Do not talk to him about love"
Sieun thought love was a topic to avoid.
It was enough not to name it.
Like an irrelevant variable.
Like something that belonged to others.
That afternoon, they were all on the school rooftop.
Not for any particular reason. Just because the air was more bearable there.
Juntae was lying on the ground, hands behind his head.
“Tell me,” he said suddenly, “is it worse to fall in love or to get beaten up?”
Gotak looked at him.
“What kind of question is that?”
“Serious,” he insisted. “At least with punches, you know when it ends.”
Baku was sitting on the edge, legs dangling.
“Depends on who,” he said.
Sieun didn’t speak.
Suho was leaning against the fence, his gaze lost in the city.
“And you?” Juntae asked Suho.
“Have you ever been in love?”
The question fell without apparent weight.
But something inside Sieun stiffened.
Suho thought. Really thought.
“No.”
Simple answer. Too simple.
“Never?” Juntae insisted.
“Never,” Suho repeated.
“And you don’t care?” Gotak asked, more out of curiosity than provocation.
Suho shrugged.
“It’s not a priority.”
Sieun felt his chest tighten.
Not pain. Not jealousy.
‘It’s not a priority.’
It was a phrase he could have said himself.
“How sad,” Juntae commented. “I couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t stay quiet,” Baku retorted.
They laughed. The moment seemed to dissolve.
Sieun told himself it was over.
That he had passed the critical point.
Then Suho spoke again.
“And you, Sieun?”
His name, so direct, so bare, made the air lose its balance.
“What?” Sieun asked.
“Love,” Suho said.
“Is it a priority for you?”
Sieun should have answered correctly.
Deny. Divert. Make the question useless.
But Suho’s grandmother came to mind.
*You are someone who stays.*
“It’s… inefficient,” he said.
It wasn’t a lie.
But it wasn’t the whole truth.
“Inefficient?” Juntae repeated.
“It requires resources,” Sieun continued, staring at the floor.
“Time. Energy. Attention. And it introduces uncontrollable variables.”
Suho listened. He didn’t interrupt.
“But?” he asked softly.
Sieun lifted his gaze.
Mistake.
“But some people,” he said slowly,
“make inefficiency… manageable.”
Silence fell over the rooftop.
Gotak was the first to move.
“I’m going to get something to drink.”
Juntae followed without questions.
Baku stayed. Always.
Suho didn’t look away.
“And how do you understand it?”
Sieun swallowed.
“You don’t understand it. You discover it.”
“And if it hurts?”
“It still does,” Sieun replied.
Baku closed his eyes for a moment.
When he reopened them, he looked at the sky.
“Okay,” he said. “I’d say this falls under the category of *conversations you don’t forget*.”
Suho smiled slightly.
A different smile. Slower. More attentive.
“Thank you,” he said to Sieun.
“For what?”
“For not lying.”
Sieun didn’t answer.
That evening, in his room, he opened his notebook.
He reread Point 6.
**6. Do not talk to him about love.**
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he wrote below:
*Talking about love doesn’t mean naming it.*
*Sometimes it means describing someone without saying their name.*
He closed the notebook.
Six points.
And by now, Sieun knew:
the list wasn’t failing because it was wrong.
It was failing because it had been written too late.
---
Point 7: "Do not linger looking at his body"
Sieun told himself he wasn’t looking.
He was “assessing.”
The gym corridor was almost empty. The air smelled of disinfectant and old sweat. Suho was sitting on a bench, his back against the wall, his jacket open.
Gotak was talking with the teacher a little further away.
Juntae paced back and forth, nervous.
Baku watched everyone, as always.
Suho had a fresh bandage on his forearm. Not tight enough. A red spot was already seeping through.
Sieun noticed immediately.
“It’s nothing,” Suho said, without looking up.
“No one said it was,” Gotak replied from a distance.
Sieun took a step forward. Only one.
Then he stopped.
The rule was clear.
**7. Do not linger looking at his body.**
The problem was that Suho’s body wasn’t abstract.
It was there. Present. Vulnerable.
“The bandage is done wrong,” Sieun said.
Suho looked up.
“How do you know?”
Sieun hesitated.
“It’s… obvious.”
Baku tilted his head.
“You mean you’re looking at it.”
Sieun didn’t answer.
Gotak turned toward them.
“Then fix it.”
It wasn’t a request. It was logic.
Sieun knelt in front of Suho before he could stop himself.
His hands moved with precision, as if they had already decided.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he said.
“It doesn’t,” Suho replied immediately.
Sieun slowly loosened the bandage.
The skin underneath was tense, bruised. Too marked for someone who said *it’s nothing* so often.
He wasn’t looking.
Recent contusion.
Superficial cut.
Muscle stiffness.
Suho’s breathing changed slightly when Sieun brushed his wrist.
“Sorry,” Sieun murmured.
“For what?” Suho asked.
“For this.”
Suho watched him from above. In silence.
Sieun avoided his gaze, focused on his hands, on the skin, on everything except the fact that it was *him*.
“You don’t have to do this,” Suho said softly.
“I know.”
“And then…”
“Stay still.”
The tone was dry. Automatic.
Suho obeyed.
Baku stepped back a few paces, giving them space without saying anything.
Juntae stopped pacing.
Sieun rebandaged the arm with excessive care. Too much attention.
Every gesture measured, slow, as if slowing down could make everything less real.
When he finished, he didn’t stand up immediately.
He realized he had been staring at the line of Suho’s collarbones.
The way the shirt fell on him.
The tension held beneath the skin.
He looked away abruptly.
“Done,” he said, standing up.
Suho didn’t move.
“You were looking at me.”
“No.”
“You were thinking,” Suho corrected.
“About me.”
Sieun clenched his jaw.
“It’s irrelevant.”
Suho smiled slightly. Not ironic. Not light.
“It’s not.”
There was a suspended moment.
Then Gotak returned.
“Let’s go.”
They left together.
That evening, in his room, Sieun opened his notebook.
He reread Point 7.
**7. Do not linger looking at his body.**
Below he wrote:
*The body isn’t the problem.*
*It’s what it reveals when you stop ignoring it.*
He closed the notebook.
For the first time, **he didn’t add “partial failure.”**
Because he knew he had looked.
And he hadn’t wanted to stop.
---
Point 8: "DO NOT KISS HIM"
Sieun wrote this point in capital letters because capitals are needed when everything else isn’t enough.
It wasn’t a remote possibility.
It was a forecast.
It happened the evening Suho didn’t come home.
Gotak noticed first.
“He’s not answering.”
Juntae looked at the clock.
“It’s late.”
Baku said nothing. He looked at Sieun.
Sieun was already putting on his jacket.
Not because he was worried.
But because absence was an unacceptable variable.
They found him in the old building behind the gym.
Sitting on the steps, back against the wall, face turned to the side.
Breathing. Slowly. Badly.
“Hey,” Gotak said, approaching. “What are you doing here?”
Suho didn’t answer immediately.
“I needed… silence.”
Sieun saw him tremble.
Not strongly.
Just enough to be ignored by someone who didn’t want to see.
“Are you hurt?” Juntae asked.
“No.”
“Tired?” Gotak insisted.
Suho laughed softly.
“You think so?”
Baku stopped a few steps away.
“Let’s take him home.”
Suho shook his head.
“I don’t want to…”
“It’s not a request,” Sieun said.
His voice cut through the air. Everyone turned toward him.
Suho looked up.
Dark eyes, glossy, emptier than usual.
“Don’t command me,” he said.
Sieun inhaled slowly.
“I’m not.”
He stepped forward. Then another step.
He stopped in front of him.
“I’m asking you to trust me.”
Silence.
Gotak intervened:
“Suho, that’s enough for today.”
Suho closed his eyes.
When he reopened them, he looked at Sieun.
“Just a minute.”
The others understood.
Juntae hesitated, then followed Gotak.
Baku was the last to leave.
“Not too much,” he said.
To both of them.
They were alone.
The wind passed through the steps. Carrying the smell of wet concrete.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Suho said.
“I know.”
“Then why…”
“Because you didn’t come back,” Sieun replied.
Simple. Bare.
Suho lowered his gaze.
“I didn’t want to be seen like this.”
“Like what?”
Suho clenched his fingers against the concrete.
“Weak.”
Sieun knelt in front of him.
“This is a wrong assessment,” he said.
Suho laughed without irony.
“Of course.”
“No,” Sieun insisted.
“Weakness implies incapacity. You are… overloaded.”
Suho looked at him.
“You’re analyzing me?”
“Yes.”
“And does this make you feel better?”
Sieun hesitated.
“No.”
They looked at each other.
The silence between them was no longer defensive.
It was charged. Unstable.
Suho spoke softly.
“When you look at me like that… it feels like you’re about to leave or stay.”
Sieun felt his pulse in his neck.
Too strong.
“I shouldn’t do either,” he said.
“And instead?”
Sieun swallowed.
“Instead, I’m already here.”
Suho raised a hand.
Stopped halfway.
Waited.
This was the moment.
The exact point where the rule could still hold.
**DO NOT KISS HIM.**
Sieun thought of the list.
Of the neat handwriting.
Of control.
Then he looked at Suho.
And realized he wasn’t about to lose control.
He was giving it up.
He moved closer.
Slowly.
Giving Suho all the time to stop him.
Suho didn’t move.
When their lips met, it wasn’t sudden.
It was precise. Deliberate.
A brief kiss. Firm.
Like a decision made after too many simulations.
Suho held his breath.
Then let it go.
When they parted, they stayed close.
Too close.
They remained that way for a moment.
Then Sieun stood and held out his hand.
“Let’s go home.”
Suho took it.
That night, Sieun opened his notebook.
He reread Point 8.
**DO NOT KISS HIM**
He drew a sharp line above the words.
He didn’t tremble.
Below he wrote:
*Some rules don’t fail.*
*They get surpassed.*
He closed the notebook.
Two points remained.
And by now, Sieun knew:
he was no longer trying not to fall in love.
He was only trying **not to lose Suho.**
---
Point 9: "Do not admit to anyone that you might like him"
Sieun didn’t say anything.
That was the point.
He didn’t need to speak, because there was nothing to clarify.
The situation, if ignored enough, would come back under control.
It was a valid strategy.
In most cases.
Baku had been watching him for two days.
Not obviously. Not insistently.
Like you watch something that hasn’t yet decided to exist.
Suho always arrived with Sieun now.
They didn’t talk much.
But the distance between them had changed.
Baku noticed immediately.
“Did you fight?” Juntae asked at the table.
“No,” Suho replied.
“Are you avoiding each other?” he insisted.
“No,” he repeated.
Sieun didn’t intervene.
“Then what’s going on?” Juntae concluded.
“Nothing,” Sieun said.
Baku raised an eyebrow.
*Lie.*
That afternoon, Baku sat next to Sieun while the others were outside.
“You don’t have to say it,” he said.
Sieun kept writing.
“Say what?”
“What you’re thinking.”
Silence.
“It’s not relevant,” Sieun replied.
“Of course it is,” Baku shot back.
“It’s just scary.”
Sieun closed the notebook.
“I don’t like Suho.”
Baku nodded.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Sieun clenched his jaw.
“You don’t have to name things,” Baku continued.
“But stop pretending they don’t exist.”
Sieun finally looked up.
“I haven’t told anyone.”
“No,” Baku agreed.
“But you don’t deny it anymore.”
Silence.
“And this,” he added, “is already a confession for you.”
Sieun leaned back in his chair.
“I don’t want anything to change.”
Baku smiled softly.
“Too late.”
“You won’t say anything,” Sieun said.
“No need,” Baku replied.
“He already sees it.”
Sieun stared at him.
“Who?”
Baku tilted his head toward the door, where Suho was talking to Gotak.
“Him.”
Sieun looked away.
“Be careful,” Baku said more quietly.
“Suho doesn’t ask for much. But when he realizes he’s important to someone… he holds on.”
“I won’t hurt him,” Sieun said immediately.
“I know,” Baku replied.
“That’s why you’re dangerous.”
That evening, in his room, Sieun opened his notebook.
He reread Point 9.
**9. Do not admit to anyone that you might like him.**
Below he wrote:
*You don’t need to admit something to make it true.*
*Sometimes it’s enough to stop denying it.*
He closed the notebook.
Only one remained.
And for the first time, Sieun wasn’t afraid to break it.
---
Point 10: "Do not let him take care of you"
Sieun didn’t get sick.
Not in the way others did.
No high fevers, no sudden collapses.
Just a silent accumulation of too-short nights and too-long thoughts.
It happened after a test.
One of those he never got wrong.
Gotak noticed first.
“Hey. You stopped.”
Sieun was sitting at his desk, pen hovering in midair.
The sheet in front of him was blank.
“I’m thinking,” he said.
“You’re shaking,” Baku observed.
Sieun looked down.
His hands weren’t fully obeying him.
“It’s irrelevant.”
Suho stood up without saying anything.
He approached. Didn’t touch him.
“Breathe,” he said.
Sieun inhaled.
Too fast.
Suho placed his hand on the desk, near his.
“With me.”
Sieun closed his eyes.
He followed the rhythm. One. Two.
The world slowly came back into focus.
“I’ll take you outside,” Suho said.
“It’s not necessary,” Sieun murmured.
“It is,” Gotak interjected.
Not as an order. As a fact.
Juntae stepped back to clear the way.
“Go.”
No one was joking.
Outside, the air was cold. Clean.
Sieun leaned against the wall. His legs gave way slightly.
Suho took his backpack off his shoulders and set it on the ground.
Then he sat beside him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sieun said.
“How?”
“As if you’re… assessing the damage.”
Suho smiled faintly.
“Learned from you.”
They stayed silent.
“You didn’t have to,” Sieun said after a while.
“What?”
“Take care of me.”
Suho tilted his head.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
Sieun looked at him.
“I know.”
That was the problem.
“When you told me that some people make inefficiency manageable,” Suho said quietly,
“I thought you meant it in general.”
Sieun didn’t respond.
“Now I don’t think so,” Suho continued.
“I think you were talking about me.”
Sieun swallowed.
“Possible.”
Suho nodded. Not surprised.
“Then listen.”
He moved a little closer. Not enough to invade.
“You don’t have to do everything alone,” he said.
“Not with me.”
Sieun felt something give.
Not a collapse. A controlled surrender.
“I’m not… easy,” he said.
Suho smiled.
“No one is.”
They stayed like that for a while.
The cold. The breathing. Time that stopped running.
When they returned inside, Gotak looked at them one by one.
“Better?”
Sieun nodded.
“Yes.”
Juntae sighed in relief.
“Good. You were scary.”
Baku said nothing.
He just watched. And that was enough.
That evening, Sieun opened the notebook for the last time.
He reread Point 10.
**10. Do not let him take care of you.**
He picked up the pen.
He didn’t erase it.
Below he wrote:
*Letting someone take care of you*
*is not a loss of control.*
*It’s a choice.*
He closed the notebook.
The list was finished.
Suho was waiting for him outside.
“Ready?” he asked.
Sieun nodded.
“Almost.”
He went out.
Closed the door behind him.
And for the first time,
he wasn’t avoiding falling in love.
He was simply moving forward.
---
The list remained in the drawer.
Not because it had been forgotten, but because it was no longer needed.
Sieun could still recite the points from memory. It was a habit hard to lose.
Suho still arrived early.
Sieun no longer pretended not to notice.
Mornings had changed imperceptibly: two chairs close together, a drink left on the desk, no explanation needed. Gotak pretended not to notice. Juntae didn’t. Baku smiled once, and it was enough.
Suho worked less.
Not little. Never little.
But enough to come home before dark.
Grandma was better. Or perhaps simply calmer.
When Sieun stopped by, she no longer asked who he was. She asked if he had eaten.
Once, while Suho was in the kitchen, she said softly:
“You do him good.”
Sieun answered without thinking:
“I try.”
It wasn’t a promise. It was a fact.
They never said *I love you*.
There was no need.
They said:
– “Did you sleep?”
– “Eat.”
– “I’m here.”
It was enough.
One evening, on the school rooftop, Suho sat next to him. The sky was clear, rare for that season.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
Sieun thought.
“It’s not a stable condition,” he said.
Then added: “But yes.”
Suho smiled.
Sieun didn’t look at him immediately.
Then he did.
And he didn’t look away.
When he returned home, he opened the drawer.
Took out the notebook.
He flipped to the first page.
“Ten things to do to avoid falling in love with your classmate.”
Below, in the same neat handwriting, he added a new line:
*Final note: method not replicable.*
He closed the notebook.
Put it back in its place.
Some things no longer need to be controlled
when you learn to hold them with both hands.