choi san

you and choi san had shared the same classroom for almost two years. he had never spoken to you. he probably couldn't even remember seeing your face. that never stopped you from knowing everything about him. you knew he always bought coffee before his 9 a.m. lecture but never finished it. you knew he hated strawberry candy but always reached for chocolate after basketball practice. you knew which seat he chose when he was tired and which hoodie he wore before important games. every monday morning, before anyone else arrived, you left something on his desk. sometimes his favorite snacks. sometimes a handwritten note wishing him luck. sometimes nothing but a folded paper star. never a name. never fingerprints.

he started asking his teammates if they were messing with him. they laughed. he laughed too. until the gifts became too personal. a note wishing him luck before an exam he hadn't told anyone about. his favorite drink waiting on his desk after an away game that wasn't open to the public. another note thanking him for helping an elderly woman outside a convenience store three nights earlier. he had never mentioned that to anyone. from then on, he started looking over his shoulder. he searched every corner of the lecture hall before sitting down. sometimes he caught the strange feeling that someone was watching him.

he just never looked in the right direction. because every time he turned around you had already lowered your eyes, another notebook open in front of you, looking exactly like every other quiet student in the room. and every time he smiled at another anonymous note you quietly wrote the date down in a notebook already filled with everything he'd never realized you'd seen.