Chapter Text
I remember the ceiling in my room more clearly than I remember the first week of school. There’s a thin crack running from the corner above my closet down toward the window, branching slightly in the middle like a crooked river. I used to trace it with my eyes at night when I couldn’t sleep.
Most nights, I couldn’t sleep.
I don’t know when that started. Maybe fourth grade. Maybe earlier. It’s hard to tell when you’ve always felt tired.
My alarm has always been my dad’s yelling or getting my uniform thrown at me.
Dad would knock once on my door. Hard. Just enough.
“Get up.”
That was it.
I’d sit up slowly, stare at my hands for a second, then move.
“Okay."
Uniform. Wash face. Brush teeth. Avoid mirror.
The first day of fifth grade was humid. My shirt stuck to my back before we even got to school. My sister complained about the heat the whole car ride. Dad told her to stop being dramatic. She rolled her eyes. He didn’t see.
I watched trees pass outside the window and wondered what it would feel like to just keep driving. Not to school. Not anywhere specific. Just… forward.
The classroom smelled like pencil shavings and something citrusy the teacher probably sprayed that morning.
I picked the back corner desk.
Corners make it easier to disappear.
People filled the room gradually. Bags dropped. Chairs scraped. Voices layered over each other until it became background noise.
I was good at turning noise into background.
That’s when he sat down.
Not next to me.
Not even near me.
Three rows up, slightly to the left.
He dropped his backpack too hard and it hit the desk with a thud. A few heads turned.
He grinned unapologetically.
He wasn’t new. I’d seen him before in passing — assemblies, the outside choir class we use to share, hallways. Tallest in the class. Too much energy for 8 a.m.
I didn’t think much of him.
Not yet.
***
Roll call.
When the teacher said “Shen, Ricky,” I raised my hand without looking up.
“Kim Gyuvin.”
“Present.” he said.
A couple kids laughed.
He didn’t seem embarrassed.
That was the first thing I noticed properly about him.
He didn’t seem embarrassed about existing.
I couldn’t relate.
***
The first time he talked to me wasn’t interesting. Well, I'm not sure if it was the first.
It wasn’t clever.
It wasn’t memorable in the way movies make things memorable.
It was math class. I was halfway through a worksheet when someone tapped my desk.
I ignored it.
The tapping came again. Slightly more insistent.
I looked up.
He was leaning sideways from his seat, arm stretched awkwardly across the aisle.
“Do you get number seven?” he asked.
I glanced at his paper. He hadn’t even attempted it.
“It’s just fractions,” I said.
“Yeah, I know that.”
“Then why are you asking?”
He smiled like I’d said something amusing instead of mildly rude.
“Because you look like you get it.”
That irritated me.
“What does that mean?”
“You just look like you do.”
I sighed and turned his worksheet slightly toward me without standing.
“It’s this. You have to convert the denominator first.”
He leaned closer than necessary.
Close enough that I could smell mint.
Not candy. Not gum. Just mint.
He nodded exaggeratedly like I’d just revealed a life-changing secret.
“Ohhhh. Okay. You’re smart.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
I went back to my own paper.
He didn’t say thank you.
But he didn’t need to.
He just kept glancing back at me every few minutes like he was checking something.
***
He started sitting next to me during lunch the second week.
Not across. Not diagonally.
Next to.
Close enough that his knee bumped mine when he shifted.
I didn’t move away.
Mostly because moving would mean acknowledging it.
“What do you do after school?” he asked, opening his lunchbox.
“Stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Classes.”
“What classes?”
“Art. Piano. English. Math. Choir. I have like… 15 classes a week or something. ”
His eyes lit up. “You hate choir don't you?”
“I don’t hate it.”
“You look like you hate it.”
I stabbed my rice with more force than necessary.
“Why do you keep looking at me?”
He blinked.
“Because you’re interesting.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying my face like he was trying to solve something.
“You don’t smile.”
“That’s not interesting.”
“It is.”
“It’s not.”
He shrugged.
“I’ll make you smile.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You won’t.”
He smiled like that was a challenge.
***
I didn’t understand why he chose me.
He had options.
He talked easily. Laughed loudly. Answered questions confidently. Teachers liked him.
During choir he'd always say that we were just loners together, though I really didn’t understand. He had a bunch of other friends. But he always stuck with me. Talked. Teased.
Minjae gravitated toward him too.
Minjae liked attaching himself to people who seemed competent. It made him look better by association.
Gunwook joined us gradually. He laughed at things slightly too late. He made weird comparisons that didn’t quite land. But he was harmless.
We became a group because proximity makes groups.
But even inside the group, there was something slightly different about the way Gyuvin treated me.
He nudged me more.
He asked me questions no one else asked.
“What do you draw?” he said one afternoon when he noticed sketches on my worksheet.
“Nothing,” I replied, covering the sketches and closing my notebook.
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
He grabbed my wrist gently before I could pull it away and examined the drawings.
“You draw quite well y’know.”
“No.”
“You should show me.”
“I don’t want to.”
He let go slowly.
“Okay.”
He didn’t push further.
But the next day, he brought his own sketchbook.
“Look,” he said, flipping it open.
It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t amazing either. Just careful lines. Faces. Hands.
“You’re better than me,” he said casually.
“You haven’t seen mine.”
“I don’t need to.”
That shouldn’t have mattered.
But it did.
***
The clinging didn’t start until October.
Before that, it was just leaning too close, shoulder brushes, casual contact that could be dismissed as accidental.
Then one day, during recess, while I was standing near the fence watching other kids run around, he came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.
Not tight.
Just enough.
I froze instantly.
“What are you doing?” I muttered.
“Hugging you.”
“Why?”
“You look cold.”
“It’s not cold.”
“It is for you.”
I tried to pry his hands off, but I didn’t turn around. I didn’t shove hard.
He rested his chin lightly against my shoulder.
“You’re really skinny,” he said quietly. “You don’t eat enough.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It kind of is if I care.”
I didn’t know what to do with that sentence.
So I ignored it.
A few seconds passed.
He let go on his own.
“See? Not that bad,” he said.
I hated that he was right.
***
At home, I didn’t think about him intentionally.
He just showed up.
In the space between thoughts.
When I was brushing my teeth and staring at the sink.
When I was lying in bed staring at the crack in the ceiling.
When I was walking past the fridge and noticing the magnet he’d given me earlier that week.
He’d handed it to me after school like it was a serious gift.
“It reminded me of you,” he’d said.
It was a small round magnet with a calico cat on it, unimpressed expression and all.
“I don’t need this,” I’d said.
“Take it anyway.”
I took it.
I told myself it was easier than arguing.
But that wasn’t the real reason.
The real reason was that no one gave me things just because they thought of me.
He did.
I kept it in my backpack for now.
That night, when I got out my homework, I saw it again.
The cat looked like it didn’t trust anyone.
I understood that.
***
By November, people had started joking.
“Are you two dating?” someone asked during lunch after Gyuvin draped himself over my shoulders dramatically.
I stiffened.
“No. Who dates in fifth grade?”
Gyuvin laughed. “He’d never date me. He hates me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
He grinned.
“See? He cares.”
My ears burned.
I focused very hard on my food.
The jokes didn’t bother him, but they bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
Not because they were true.
Because they weren’t supposed to be possible.
Boys weren’t supposed to—
I stopped the thought there.
I didn’t finish it.
I didn’t want to.
***
Winter made everything heavier.
It got darker earlier. I got more tired.
My math grade dropped.
Teachers called on me more, though half the time I didn't hear them.
At home, voices rose more often.
I started sleeping in class sometimes. Just for a few minutes. Head down. Arms folded.
Once, I woke up to someone poking my shoulder.
“Ricky,” Gyuvin whispered.
I blinked.
“Class ended.”
I looked around. The room was half empty.
“You drool when you sleep,” he added casually.
“I don’t.”
“You do sometimes. Just like a cat.”
“Shut up.”
He smiled softly.
“You should sleep at night.”
I didn’t answer that.
Because I couldn’t explain that night wasn’t quiet.
Not really.
“I would if I could,” I said under my breath like a reply, though I didn't intend for him to hear it.
***
The bullying incident happened in January.
It wasn’t dramatic.
Just a shove and a muttered insult during lunch.
I didn’t react.
I rarely reacted.
Gyuvin did.
“Say it again,” he demanded.
The other kid smirked.
Gyuvin didn’t hesitate.
It escalated faster than I expected. Teachers intervened. Voices raised.
Later, when we were sitting outside the office waiting, he nudged my shoulder lightly.
“He’s not going to bother you again.”
“He wasn’t bothering me.”
“He was.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
I stared at the floor tiles.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said finally.
He was quiet for a second.
Then: “Yeah, I did.”
“Why?”
He looked at me like the answer was obvious.
“Because you matter.”
I didn’t know what to do with that.
No one had said that to me directly before.
Not like that.
I felt something warm and terrifying rise in my chest.
So I said, “You’re dramatic.”
He laughed.
But he didn’t take it back.
***
By spring, the blur started thickening.
My grades weren’t terrible. Just disappointing.
I stopped trying to fix my sleep schedule.
I stopped expecting anything to improve.
But I still showed up.
Still went to classes.
Still sat in the back corner.
And still, every day, he found his way next to me.
Like it was automatic.
Like it was decided.
I didn’t ask him to.
He just did.
And somewhere in the middle of that year—
Without realizing—
I started waiting for it.
***
I didn’t realize I was smiling until my cheeks hurt.
It was math class. Fractions. The whiteboard was covered in uneven circles shaded in blue marker, and Mrs. Seok kept saying “simplify” like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I was staring at the edge of my desk instead.
There’s a scratch near the corner. I’ve traced it so many times it’s smooth now.
And I was thinking about this morning.
Gyuvin had tripped over nothing.
Not even exaggerating, there was no backpack, no chair leg. Just air. He stumbled, windmilled his arms, and somehow grabbed onto my sleeve instead of falling.
He didn’t apologize.
He just looked at me and said, “I fell for you.”
What a stupid… pick-up line.
Like that explained anything.
Like that was normal.
And I—
My mouth twitched.
I pressed my lips together.
Too late.
“Ricky.”
I blinked. Mrs. Han was looking at me.
“Yes?”
“Are you finding fractions funny?”
A few kids snickered.
Heat crawled up my neck.
“No.”
But the smile wouldn’t fully leave. It sat there, faint and stubborn, like it didn’t need permission.
I looked down at my notebook and tried to flatten my expression.
Why was I smiling?
It wasn’t even that funny.
He trips all the time.
He talks too much.
He’s loud.
He’s—
I traced the scratch in the desk again.
The corner of my mouth lifted.
***
At recess, I sat under the tree like always.
Same spot. Same part of the cold, concrete floor.
Gyuvin found me in less than thirty seconds.
“How do you teleport?” I asked without looking up.
“I have a Ricky radar.”
“You're unbelievablely annoying, like a small pup.”
“Yeah, but I’m your annoying puppy. ”
I didn’t respond.
He plopped down beside me, too close as usual. Our shoulders bumped. He didn’t move away.
I focused on a pebble near my shoe.
He leaned sideways to look at my face.
“What.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what.”
“That thing.”
“What thing.”
“That.” He pointed at my mouth. “That almost-smile.”
I straightened immediately. “I’m not smiling.”
“You were.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You totally were.”
He scooted closer, squinting at me like I was a science experiment.
“Stop looking at me.”
“I just caught you.”
“Caught me doing what.”
“Smiling.”
“I don’t smile.”
He gasped dramatically. “You admit it! You don’t smile. Which means you were smiling because of something.”
I felt defensive for no reason.
“So?”
“So.” He leaned in closer, eyes bright. “Was it me?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You were thinking about something. And then you smiled. And you never smile unless I’m around.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. I’ve been observing.”
“You sound creepy.”
“Only a little.”
He grinned.
And that’s when I felt it again.
That stupid, traitorous pull at the corner of my mouth.
I tried to fight it.
I really did.
But he was looking at me like he’d just discovered buried treasure.
Like my almost-smile was something rare and important.
And it slipped out.
Small. Real. Barely there.
But there.
His entire face lit up.
“I KNEW IT!”
“Shut up!”
“You’re smiling! You’re actually smiling!”
“It’s not that big.”
“It is that big!”
He stood up suddenly, pointing at me like I’d performed a magic trick.
“Everyone! Ricky smiled!”
“Stop!” I hissed, mortified.
Nobody cared. The other kids were too busy with tag.
But Gyuvin looked ridiculously proud.
Like he’d won something.
He dropped back down beside me and bumped his shoulder against mine.
“I made you smile.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You’re loud.”
“And you’re smiling again.”
I froze.
I was.
Because he was so unbearably pleased with himself.
He noticed immediately.
“Twice,” he whispered dramatically. “I got two.”
I turned my face away, but I could feel it still there — that warmth spreading across my cheeks.
“Don’t get used to it,” I muttered.
“Oh, I will.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you like it.”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know how to.
***
Later that week, it happened again.
Choir practice.
We were standing in rows, practicing scales. The piano sounded slightly out of tune. Someone behind me kept coughing.
Gyuvin was one row behind.
He sang too loudly.
Not off-key. Just… enthusiastic.
Ms. Stella stopped the class.
“Gyuvin, blend. You are not a soloist.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He nodded obediently.
Five seconds later, he was loud again.
I don’t know why it got to me.
Maybe it was the way he scrunched his eyebrows when he concentrated.
Maybe it was the way he tried so hard and still stood out.
Maybe it was the fact that when we reached the higher note, he glanced at me like he needed to check if I’d made it too.
Like we were connected somehow.
The note ended.
He turned fully this time.
Just for a second.
And I didn’t look away fast enough.
He caught me watching.
I expected him to tease me.
Instead, he smiled — softer than usual.
Not loud.
Not exaggerated.
Just small.
Just for me.
My stomach flipped.
And then—
My mouth did it again.
It curved before I could stop it.
His eyes widened.
There it is.
That look.
That victorious, delighted look like he’d just solved a puzzle.
He mouthed something.
I think it was:
“Three.”
I snapped my face forward immediately.
My ears were burning.
Why does he keep counting?
Why is he paying attention to something like that?
Why do I feel—
No.
It’s nothing.
He’s just my friend.
He’s just loud.
He’s just—
When rehearsal ended, he fell into step beside me.
“You’re improving.”
“At what.”
“Smiling.”
“I don’t need improvement.”
“You do. It’s a very rare event.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
He walked backward in front of me, hands behind his back.
“You know what? I think I’m going to keep track.”
“Keep track of what.”
“How many times I make you smile.”
“That’s weird.”
“Is it? I think it’s impressive.”
“Why.”
“Because you don’t let anyone else.”
I faltered.
“What.”
“You don’t,” he said simply. “You look different when you smile. It’s like… like you forgot you were supposed to be serious.”
I didn’t know what to do with that.
So I did what I always do.
I shrugged.
He studied me for a second longer.
Then he grinned again — back to full volume.
“Four.”
“I didn’t even—”
“You did.”
I hate that he’s right.
***
It started happening more after that.
Not big smiles.
Not laughing-out-loud smiles.
Just small ones.
Quiet ones.
Ones that only appeared when he was around.
And the worst part?
I started catching them myself.
In reflections.
In the dark screen of my tablet.
In the window on the bus when he was talking animatedly about something that made no sense.
I would see it —
That soft curve.
And panic.
Because that’s not who I am.
I don’t smile like that.
I’m not the kind of person who—
One afternoon, I caught myself smiling while walking home alone.
No Gyuvin beside me.
No noise.
Just the memory of him dramatically reenacting a fight scene with invisible swords at lunch.
And I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
Why am I smiling when he’s not even here?
I pressed my fingers against my lips like I could physically push it down.
It faded slowly.
But the warmth stayed.
And that scared me more.
***
A week later, he did something worse.
We were in the library. Quiet hour.
He was pretending to read.
I was actually reading.
Or trying to.
He leaned across the table suddenly.
“Ricky.”
“What.”
“You’re thinking about me again.”
“I’m reading.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You get this look.”
“What look.”
“That look.”
I didn’t look up.
He leaned even closer.
“You smile a little when you think about me.”
My chest tightened.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You just did.”
I looked up then.
And he was staring at me like he’d caught me stealing.
Except he didn’t look upset.
He looked proud.
“You like me,” he said, matter-of-fact.
“Everyone likes you,” I shot back.
“That’s not what I meant.”
The air shifted.
Something unfamiliar and sharp edged into the space between us.
He wasn’t teasing now.
He was watching.
Waiting.
I looked away first.
“Don’t be weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He leaned back slowly.
But he didn’t look convinced.
And I hated that I couldn’t meet his eyes.
Because I didn’t know what I’d see there.
And I didn’t know what that would mean.
***
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
I replayed it.
“You like me.”
It wasn’t said as a joke.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t exaggerated.
It was calm.
Certain.
And something about that made my stomach twist.
I don’t like him like that.
Like what?
I don’t know.
We’re just kids.
It doesn’t mean anything.
But when I thought about him smiling at someone else—
When I imagined him counting someone else’s smiles—
My chest tightened in a way I didn’t understand.
I turned onto my side.
Pulled the blanket over my head.
It’s nothing.
It’s just because he’s my only friend.
It’s just because he’s loud.
It’s just because—
I pressed my face into the pillow.
And even in the dark,
I could feel myself smiling.
***
And the next day,
He noticed again.
He always does.
If you asked me what fifth grade was like, I wouldn’t remember the math units or the science projects or what Ms. Seok made us write in our journals every Friday.
I would remember the sound of Gyuvin’s laugh.
It carried.
It always found me.
Even when I pretended not to be looking for it.
He sat next to me almost every day by default, like it had never been a decision. At some point it just became fact, if there was an empty seat beside me, it was his. If there wasn’t, he made one.
Ms. Seok once moved him across the room for talking.
He lasted half a day.
By lunch, he had dragged his desk back beside mine with a scraping noise loud enough to make everyone stare.
“You’re going to get in trouble,” I muttered.
“I’ll survive,” he said. “You look lonely over here.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
He grinned at me like he’d already won.
I felt the corner of my mouth twitch.
He gasped.
“There! That’s six.”
“Stop counting.”
“Never.”
He kept track like it mattered. Like it was something measurable. Like my face was a scoreboard and he was determined to raise the numbers.
At first, I told myself it was annoying.
Then I started noticing it too.
The almost-smile when he tripped and blamed gravity for being “biased.”
The almost-smile when he answered Ms. Seok’s question wrong but defended it like he was in court.
The almost-smile when he whispered off-key harmonies in choir and Ms. Stella told him, gently but firmly, to blend.
He always looked back at me after.
Every time.
Like he needed confirmation.
Like we were in on something.
I don’t know when that started feeling important.
***
The jealousy was stupid.
I knew that.
It was the kind of thing little kids felt when someone else borrowed their favorite pencil.
Except he wasn’t a pencil.
He was a person.
And he talked to everyone.
He high-fived Minjae in the hallway.
He shared snacks with Jihoon.
He let two girls braid a tiny piece of his hair during art class because “it’s cultural appreciation.”
He talked with others during choir and left me alone.
He laughed the same with them as he did with me.
That’s what I told myself.
It’s the same.
But it wasn’t.
Because when he laughed with them, it was loud.
When he laughed with me, it softened at the end.
Like it was settling somewhere.
One afternoon during choir, Ms. Stella paired him with someone else for harmony drills.
I watched without meaning to.
He leaned close to his partner to show them where to breathe. His shoulder brushed theirs.
Something tightened in my chest.
I looked down at my sheet music immediately.
This is childish.
You’re being dramatic.
He can sing with other people.
That’s the point of choir.
But when Ms. Stella said, “Good balance, you two,” I felt something sour settle in my stomach.
After rehearsal, he jogged up to me.
“You left early.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I was packing.”
“You’re jealous.”
I stopped walking.
“I’m not.”
He stepped in front of me so I had to look at him.
“You get quiet when you are.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Not like that.”
His expression shifted — less teasing, more curious.
“Why do you care?”
I didn’t know how to answer that without sounding insane.
So I shrugged.
He studied me for a second longer, then smiled — not wide, not loud. Just small.
“You know I still like singing next to you best, right?”
The jealousy evaporated instantly.
I hated that.
“Why.”
“Because you actually listen.”
“That’s not special.”
“It is to me.”
There was no joke in his voice.
No exaggeration.
Just fact.
And before I could stop it, I smiled.
Not an almost-smile.
A real one.
It surprised both of us.
His eyes widened like I’d just handed him something fragile.
“Seven,” he whispered, like it was sacred.
“Don’t,” I muttered, embarrassed.
But I didn’t look away.
And neither did he.
***
Sometimes I caught myself smiling when he wasn’t even there.
That was worse.
Walking home alone.
Lying in bed staring at the ceiling.
Thinking about how he’d said “fate” when he tripped.
Thinking about how he always looked for me first.
I would feel it, that warmth spreading across my face and I’d press my lips flat to stop it.
Why does this matter so much.
It shouldn’t.
We’re just friends.
We’re just kids.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Still.
When he said one day, casually, “I might transfer next year,” the world tilted slightly.
I laughed like it was a joke.
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“Why.”
“My mom found a different school. Closer to her work.”
“Oh.”
That was all I said.
Oh.
He kicked at a rock.
“But I’d still do choir. It’s the same program.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched between us in a way it never had before.
He bumped his shoulder against mine.
“You’d miss me.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You would.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You would.”
He was smiling.
But there was something searching in his eyes.
Like he needed to hear it.
Like he wanted proof.
I didn’t give it to him.
Because if I did, it would sound too big.
Too honest.
Instead, I said, “You’re loud. It’d be quieter.”
He laughed.
But softer.
“You’d be bored.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You’d smile less.”
That made my chest tighten.
He wasn’t joking.
He was right.
I didn’t answer.
He didn’t push.
***
The last week of school felt normal on the outside.
Ms. Seok made us clean out our desks.
We signed yearbooks.
Ms. Stella made us perform one final song for parents.
Gyuvin stood beside me during the performance.
Of course he did.
When we hit the last note, our shoulders brushed.
We held it a second longer than written.
Afterward, he grinned at me, breathless.
“Eight.”
I rolled my eyes.
But I was smiling.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
On the final day, he handed me something small before running off to catch his mom.
A magnet.
With a gray “R” and a red “G” on it.
Another round one.
“So you don’t forget me,” he said.
“As if I would.”
“So you don’t forget me,” he corrected lightly.
I didn’t say anything to that.
I just slipped it into my pocket.
“See you next year,” he called.
“Yeah.”
He waved.
Then he was gone.
It didn’t feel dramatic.
It didn’t feel final.
Just temporary.
Like summer always is.
I went home and stuck the magnet on the side of my desk lamp.
It caught the light when I turned it on that night.
I stared at it for a long time.
I told myself nothing was changing.
We’d still have choir.
He’d still be loud.
He’d still count my smiles.
I lay down and closed my eyes.
But for the first time all year, the room felt too quiet.
If fifth grade was a song, it ended on a held note;not finished, just suspended; and I didn’t know yet that I was the only one still waiting for it to resolve.