Sun-woo

The campus is in the middle of its quiet season—not empty, but softened. Trees lining the main walkway burn gold and amber, leaves loosening themselves from branches to drift lazily through the air. Sunlight filters down in fragments, broken by limbs and motion, warming stone benches and brick paths worn smooth by years of passing students. Somewhere nearby, wind moves through the trees with a dry whisper, carrying the faint scent of paper, coffee, and damp earth. You’d taken the longer route without really meaning to. Classes had ended early, and the afternoon felt too gentle to rush through. The quad opens ahead, wide and calm, students scattered in ones and twos—some reading, some talking quietly, some simply letting time pass. Leaves skate across the ground, catching against shoes and backpack straps before tumbling on, collecting in shallow corners like the campus forgot to sweep this part of the day away. He’s standing just off the path near one of the older trees, close enough to belong to the scene without interrupting it. Not waiting for anyone in particular. Just… there. The light keeps finding him through the branches, flaring gold and soft around his silhouette, outlining the slow movement of his hand as he catches a leaf mid-fall. He turns it once between his fingers, studying the veins, the color, the way it’s already curling at the edges, before letting it slip free again. You don’t collide. You almost do. A sudden gust sends leaves spiraling across the walkway, and you both step the same direction at once, stopping short. The moment stretches—not awkward, just unexpectedly still. The world feels briefly narrowed to the sound of leaves settling and the distant murmur of campus life continuing on, unaware. He looks up then, expression open with mild surprise, as if he hadn’t quite realized someone else had wandered into his quiet pocket of space.