Jian's days started to feel heavier, as if a weight was pressing down on him. Everywhere he went, he saw reminders of Hana—her smile when they'd sat at the café, her laughter in the dance studio, the kindness she had always shown him. It made him happy, but at the same time, it made his chest ache.
His promise to himself—to tell her how he felt—sat quietly in his mind like an unopened letter. He wanted to say something, anything, but when he pictured the moment, the words tangled up inside him like knots.
---
One chilly afternoon, Jian was sitting alone on the bench outside the art building. His sketchbook lay open on his lap, half-filled with drawings of Hana—her dancing, her laughing, her sitting by the window. He'd been sketching her for months now, pouring everything he felt into the pages, but none of it had ever left his hands.
"Hey, Jian!"
The familiar voice made him look up. Hana was jogging toward him, bundled up in her favorite gray coat and a pink scarf wrapped around her neck. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, but her smile was as warm as always.
"Are you busy?" she asked as she stopped in front of him.
Jian shook his head quickly. "No, not at all."
"Great! Come with me," she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him up before he could protest. "You're always hiding out here. Let's go for a walk."
Jian followed her without argument, his heart beating faster than usual. She led him through the campus, her energy making up for his silence. They ended up at the park just beyond the university grounds, where the trees were mostly bare, their leaves scattered across the paths like a golden-brown carpet.
"It's so peaceful here," Hana said, stretching her arms out and twirling slowly. "Don't you think?"
Jian nodded, shoving his hands deep into his pockets to hide how much they were shaking. He watched as Hana spun around, her scarf trailing behind her, a faint smile on her face. She seemed so carefree, so alive—it was one of the things he admired most about her.
"Have you been sketching?" she asked suddenly, turning to face him.
Jian blinked, caught off guard. "Yeah," he mumbled.
"Can I see?"
His first instinct was to say no. Showing her his sketches felt like opening his heart, and that terrified him. But when he saw the curiosity and trust in her eyes, he found himself hesitating. Slowly, he pulled out his sketchbook and held it out to her.
Hana sat on the edge of a bench and began flipping through the pages. Jian stood awkwardly beside her, his heart pounding harder with every turn.
"These are… beautiful," she said softly. Her voice sounded almost reverent as she studied the details—the delicate lines, the careful shading. "Is this… me?"
Jian's breath caught in his throat. He didn't answer, but the look on his face must have said enough.
"It is me," she murmured, her fingers brushing over one of the sketches. "You've drawn me dancing… and smiling…"
Jian stared at the ground, feeling exposed. He wanted to say something, to explain why he'd been sketching her for so long, but the words refused to come.
Hana looked up at him, her expression gentle. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Jian swallowed hard. "I… I didn't know how," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
There was a long pause. For a moment, Jian was certain he'd ruined everything. But then Hana smiled softly and closed the sketchbook, holding it carefully like it was something precious.
"These are amazing, Jian," she said. "Really. You're so talented."
Jian felt a flicker of relief, but it was quickly replaced by the familiar knot of words he couldn't say. He wanted to tell her that she was his inspiration, that he drew her because she made him feel things he'd never felt before. But instead, he just nodded, his mouth unable to form the words.
---
On their walk back to campus, Hana talked about her upcoming dance performance. "The pressure's been intense, but I think it'll turn out well. You're coming to watch, right?"
"Of course," Jian said softly.
"Good," she said with a smile. "It's important to me that you see it."
Jian glanced at her, surprised by her words. "Why?"
Hana slowed her steps and looked at him. "Because… you see me, Jian. Really see me. Not everyone does. When I dance, when I move… it's the truest version of myself. And you understand that, don't you?"
Jian didn't know how to answer. He felt like she was reaching into his chest and pulling out the words he couldn't say.
"I do," he whispered.
Hana smiled again, her eyes soft. "Then you'll be there, front row, right?"
Jian nodded, feeling something warm settle inside him.
---
That night, Jian lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. The day's events played over and over in his mind—Hana flipping through his sketches, the way she'd smiled at him, and the way she'd said he understood her.
It meant something, didn't it?
But still, the doubt lingered in the back of his mind. He thought about Tae-hyun, about how easy it was for him to make Hana laugh, to be confident and natural around her.
She deserves someone like him, Jian thought bitterly. Not someone like me.
The thought weighed on him, pressing against his chest like a stone.
But then he remembered Hana's words: You see me.
Did that mean something more? Or was he just overthinking it again, like he always did?
Jian turned onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't know how much longer he could hold everything inside. He wanted to be brave. He wanted to be honest with her. But how could he, when his own fears kept holding him back?
As he drifted to sleep, he promised himself once again: I'll tell her soon. I have to.
But in his heart, he wondered if "soon" would ever come.