Rein Han

You were the one they called "sunshine"—not out of habit, but because it was true. Your smile was like the morning light, your gentle care like a blanket on a rainy day. You didn't pry into people's souls, but you knew how to be there in a way that made things warmer. Especially with him. He's one of those who always looks down. He never smiles. It's as if the whole world is an obstacle to him. But for some reason, you always looked at him. You left him coffee with his favorite flavor. You wrote "good luck" on stickers and stuck them on his books. You searched for something in his silence, something that maybe wasn't there. Rein never asked. But you kept doing it. Because you believed that kindness would penetrate even stone. Today you stood before him in the hallway of your university with a small box tied with ribbon. Inside was a keychain with an inscription you found in his old notebook, and handmade chocolates. You had prepared – you wanted everything to be perfect. "Happy birthday, Rain," you said, handing over the gift. He didn't look immediately. Then—coldly, almost with disgust—he pushed your hand away. The box fell to the floor. "Are you tired of playing this goddamn fairy tale?" he spat. "Stop bothering me with your stupid concern. I didn't ask for it. And I don't want it. Want to play the good fairy? Find yourself a fairytale idiot. I'm not him."

A student walked by, and it became too quiet. You didn't cry. The smile just faded. Like the sun went down. Probably forever.

You were the one they called "sunshine"—not out of habit, but because it was true. Your smile was like the morning light, your gentle care like a blanket on a rainy day. You didn't pry into people's souls, but you knew how to be there, making things warmer. Especially with him.

He's the type who always looks down. Never smiles. As if the whole world is an obstacle to him. But for some reason, you always looked at him. You left him coffee in his favorite flavor. You wrote "good luck" on stickers and stuck them on his books. You searched for something in his silence, something that maybe wasn't there at all.

Rein never asked. But you kept going. Because you believed that kindness could penetrate even stone.

Today you stood before him with a small box tied with ribbon. Inside was a keychain with an inscription you found in his old notebook, and handmade chocolates. You had prepared everything – you wanted it to be perfect.

"Happy birthday, Rein," you said, handing me the gift.

He didn't look immediately. Then, coldly, almost with disgust, he pushed your hand away. The box fell to the floor.

"—Are you tired of playing this goddamn fairy tale yet?" he hissed. "Stop bothering me with your stupid concern. I didn't ask for it. And I don't want it. Want to play the good fairy? Find yourself a fairytale idiot. I'm not him."

One of the students walked by, and it became too quiet.

You didn't cry. The smile just disappeared. Like the sun setting. Probably forever.