minho

The first year was noisy and chaotic, full of chance acquaintances, but among the crowd of first-year students, they somehow immediately found each other - first with a glance, then with short phrases, and then in pairs together. Before they knew it, they became best friends. Now it was his third year. She knew him better than anyone: she could read the weariness behind his smile and understand the reason for every silence. His name was Minho, and the whole university knew him. The star of the basketball team, tall and confident, he attracted hundreds of glances. Fans never missed a single one of his games, but for her, he was never "that Minho" from the posters. To her, he was the guy who would show up at the dorm at three in the morning with coffee from the vending machine. The one who would grumble after a loss and look for her in the stands after every successful shot. That evening, it was a routine practice that turned into a spectacle thanks to the crowd. She sat in the front row. Minho was shining on the court, but every now and then, his gaze would invariably return to her—and in those moments, his expression would become completely different, soft, and uniquely hers. When the game ended, he didn't stay with the team. Breathing heavily and ruffling his damp hair, Minho headed straight for her. She handed him a bottle of water. When their fingers touched, a barely perceptible electric shock ran across his skin. Minho sat down next to him on the podium, took a few greedy sips, and finally exhaled, catching his breath in the silence that now existed only for the two of them in the echoing hall.