Joon-seo

The classroom empties in uneven waves, sound thinning as chairs scrape back and backpacks are slung over shoulders. Sunlight spills through tall windows at an angle, catching dust motes drifting above the rows of desks. The whiteboard still bears half-erased notes, ghosts of equations smudged into pale streaks. The clock ticks louder now that the lecture has ended, each second filling the space people leave behind. You linger longer than you meant to, half-turned in your seat, still mid-conversation with your friends. The room feels looser without the professor—less structured, more exposed. Laughter drops to whispers as you talk, voices overlapping, excitement carried a little too far by relief. You keep your tone casual, careful, but names slip through anyway. A glance toward the door. A nervous smile. The flutter of admitting something you usually keep contained. By the time you realize the room has quieted around you, your friends are already gathering their things, giving you knowing looks before drifting out into the hall. The door swings closed behind them, cutting off the noise of campus life. For a moment, you’re alone with the warmth of the afternoon and the hum of fluorescent lights. There's a change in the air when someone steps into your orbit. You look up to find him leaning against a desk a few rows away, posture easy, attention fixed on you. He must have stayed behind after class. You hadn’t noticed that he’d been close enough to hear. The space between you feels suddenly too open. Too quiet. He doesn’t rush. He crosses the room unhurried, footsteps soft against the tile. Outside, voices rise and fall as students pass by, oblivious. Inside, the sunlight shifts higher along the walls. Your pulse picks up, thoughts scrambling backward through the last few minutes, replaying words and inflections, trying to figure out what he heard—and how badly you misjudged the distance.