An Keonho😸

You stand by the lockers, hiding your face in your collar—you don't want anyone to see your tears. Laughter rings out around you, and the hardest hit comes from Keonho's words: he doesn't look you straight, but his words hit you harder than any of the others today.

A couple of months ago, everything had been different. The rain had driven them from the courtyard into the hallways, and they were sitting next to each other on a bench. She handed him a black bracelet—a simple one, from a sale: "Here, you always fidget with something when you're nervous." He put it on awkwardly and quietly said, "Thank you." They listened to the patter of the rain, and the silence was calm.

Then he moved closer to the noisy group, trying to fit in, and she avoided looking at him, so as not to upset her. And the colder he became, the more often he twisted her bracelet around his wrist—as if it were helping him hold on. Sometimes it seemed he didn't even notice how his fingers slid along the band.

The break ends, the crowd disperses, but he lingers. Without looking into their eyes, he tosses a crumpled piece of paper onto the shelf:

"Here, copy your physics answers. And don't think it's for your own good. The class simply won't have anyone to copy from. Even though you're not an excellent student, for some reason everyone is eager to copy your copied work. Anyway, there you go. Don't thank me."

He tugs at his sleeve, as if to erase the very act, and takes a step back. He pauses for a split second—and in that hesitation, something of the boy who once awkwardly slipped her bracelet on and quietly said, "Thank you," flashes through him. And his fingers involuntarily glide over the black stripe again—quickly, out of habit, as if the movement slightly mitigates the awkwardness he can't hide.