The schoolyard was quiet now.
The last students drifting off like leaves in a soft wind.
Ji-Woo's footsteps echoed faintly against the pavement as she walked beside Mr. Yoo Joon.
"Sir…" Her voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge.
A quiet insistence that carried past the empty hallways.
Mr. Yoo Joon looked down, catching her gaze.
She could see the weight in his eyes, the careful balance he always tried to maintain.
"You need to tell Ji-Ho the truth," she said, straightforward. "He's suffering. Living with Ji-Bok now… it must be uncomfortable. He hides so much, but I can see it—how depressed he is. You've known for years, and he deserves to know."
Mr. Yoo Joon exhaled slowly, a long, quiet sound that seemed to carry decades of restraint.
He rubbed the back of his neck, a small gesture that made him look human.
Vulnerable even.
"I… I'm looking for the right time," he whispered, voice low, almost a confession. "I want to do it carefully. I want him to understand, not break."
Ji-Woo stepped closer, her eyes steady. "He doesn't have time for careful. He's already breaking quietly every day. You waiting won't protect him—it only lets him suffer longer."
Mr. Yoo Joon nodded, the weight of her words sinking in.
His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag, jaw set.
"You're right," he admitted, almost to himself. "I've… I've delayed too long."
Ji-Woo's lips pressed into a thin line, a mixture of frustration and resolve. "Then don't wait any longer. ''
She paused ''He deserves honesty. Let him breathe, even if it hurts."
The wind shifted, brushing through the courtyard, and for a moment, neither moved.
The silence carried more than words—truth and responsibility, heavy, undeniable.
Mr. Yoo Joon finally nodded again, quieter this time, his voice almost a murmur. "I… will find the moment. Soon."
Ji-Woo stepped back, satisfied for now, though worry still lingered like a shadow over her heart.
She turned, walking away slowly, every step echoing the urgency she felt the truth could no longer wait.
---
The bridge was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made each footstep feel like it was echoing straight into your chest.
Ji-Woo moved slowly along the railing, the sun catching her hair in streaks of gold, the soft sway of her bangs brushing her cheeks.
Her bag bumped against her side with each step, but she barely noticed.
This walk was hers—hers to think, or to try not to think at all.
A shadow shifted at the far end of the bridge.
Her heart skipped just slightly.
Ji-Bok.
He leaned against the railing, shoulders slumped, fingers absentmindedly tracing a pattern on the ground.
For a moment, she just watched him, a small, quiet smile tugging at her lips.
"Oi," she called, flicking her hand to tap the top of his head.
Nothing.
He didn't move.
Didn't even blink.
Ji-Woo laughed softly, leaning against the railing beside him. "Seriously. Where were you today? Skipping school now?"
His shrug was casual, but his eyes—always so guarded—gave him away.
"It's nothing," he muttered, voice low.
"Nothing?" she echoed, arching a brow. "Come on. I can see it. You're upset."
He let out a breath, finally looking up at her with a faint, stubborn smile.
"It's… the camera," he admitted. "My dad. Broke. Beyond repair."
Her expression softened instantly.
"Oh… Ji-Bok…" Her voice caught just slightly, a quiet ache hiding beneath the tease.
Then she smirked, shifting the mood. "And I bet your dad's thrilled, right? Sitting there with a cup of tea while you quietly cry over it?"
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. "You think he'd even notice?"
"Not a chance," she said, smirking. "He's probably laughing at your face while you blame everyone else."
The laugh that followed was rough, low, carrying something heavier than humor.
Ji-Woo reached out, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
Warm. Solid. Unyielding.
"Don't let this be your excuse," she said softly. "Not for anything."
He froze at the touch, the words settling somewhere deep.
It wasn't comfort he was used to—not like his mother—but it reached him in a way nothing else did.
Steady. Honest. Uncomplicated.
She stepped back, brushing her hair from her face.
Then she started to walk away.
She paused.
"Ji-Bok!" Her voice called over her shoulder.
He froze again.
She turned, golden sunlight in her hair, grin bright enough to make the world tilt slightly.
She waved before disappearing down the path.
His chest tightened.
He wanted to follow.
To stop her. To ask her to stay.
But he only watched, swallowing a strange, stubborn flutter in his chest.
"…She gets me," he whispered, almost to himself. "…She really does."
-
Ji-Ho sank onto the cold metal bench at the empty bus stop, the world around him hollow and silent.
Streetlights flickered above, casting long, shaky shadows across the cracked pavement.
He pulled his jacket tighter around himself and stared down at his shoes, wishing the ground would swallow him up.
Then—footsteps. Deliberate. Heavy. Closing in.
He looked up.
Mrs. Park.
Her hair was tied in a tight bun, sharp against her pale skin. Her eyes burned like coals, and her lips were pressed so thin it looked like they might crack.
Her blouse was immaculate, every fold and seam screaming control, and yet the anger radiating from her made it seem like it could ignite at any second.
"Ji-Ho," she said, her voice low, measured, but loaded with warning.
"Where have you been?"
He didn't answer. Words felt useless.
Before he could think, she grabbed his hand.
Her grip was iron, unyielding.
She started pulling him along the empty street, and he went with her without protest.
Not because he wanted to, but because resisting felt pointless, heavy, and somehow exhausting.
Every step he took echoed off the silent walls of the street.
Mrs. Park's fury hung in the air, sharp and inescapable, and for the first time since he'd run away, Ji-Ho felt small—like a shadow under a storm.