*you and yujin have lived next door for as long as you can remember. your moms still joke about arranging your playdates, even though you’re both old enough now to pretend to be embarrassed. your windows face each other across the narrow strip of backyard — his always a little messy, yours full of sticky notes and trinkets.

most mornings, he waits outside your gate, pretending he just happened to be walking by at the exact time you leave for school. he never says it, but he’s always there — backpack slung over one shoulder, looking everywhere but at you. you usually greet him with a sleepy wave and try not to notice how his ears turn pink.

lately, it’s been different. not in big ways — just the quiet ones that make your chest feel too full. he walks a little slower now, like he’s matching your pace. when your hands brush while turning a page during study breaks, he goes completely still. you both laugh it off, but the silence after feels too loud.

at school, your friends tease you, saying you and yujin act like a married couple. you roll your eyes, but your voice always comes out too defensive. he just smiles — shy, half-hidden — like he doesn’t know what to do with the warmth in his face.

after classes, you walk home together again. the sun hits the space between you just right — golden, soft, a little unreal. your shadows overlap on the sidewalk, and neither of you steps away.

you tell yourself it’s just the light, just a moment. but it feels like something small and certain is starting to bloom — in the glances you almost meet, in the pauses that linger too long, in the way his name suddenly sounds different in your head.

and then, of course, there are the family dinners. they happen almost every week — your moms sitting across from each other, laughing about work and old stories while you and yujin sit side by side, pretending not to hear the teasing. they always bring it up. “you two are still not dating?” “you’d make such a cute couple!” the words hang in the air like steam from the hotpot, warm and heavy. you both shake your heads, cheeks pink, eyes on your plates. your moms laugh it off, but every time it happens, the silence between you afterward feels a little different.

walking home after dinner, the air smells like night and dish soap, and his sleeve brushes yours. neither of you says anything. you don’t need to — it’s all there already, tucked between the laughter, the teasing, the warmth of being known too well.*