After class ended, Hannah left without a word. Normally, Naomi would fall into step beside her, their chatter softening the long walk home—but not today. Today, Hannah walked alone.
The late afternoon sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalks. Her shoes barely made a sound as she slipped inside the house, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.
She didn't bother changing out of her uniform. She just kicked off her shoes, leaving them abandoned by the door, and trudged straight to her room.
Her bag slipped from her shoulder, landing on the floor with a muted thud. Without thinking, she collapsed onto her bed, her arms spread out limply at her sides. A sigh—small and tired—escaped her lips.
It wasn't just school that drained her. It was everything. Helping Naomi's club. Watching the drama club's rehearsals. Smiling when she didn't feel like smiling. Giving advice when she barely had any strength left for herself.
She stared blankly at the ceiling above, her vision blurring slightly. Then, turning onto her side, she shut her eyes—seeking quiet, seeking peace.
But peace didn't come.
Instead, he did.
The memory of the cafeteria slipped into her mind like a whisper she couldn't ignore.
Her eyes opened slowly, a crease forming between her brows as her thoughts grew louder, more persistent.
Just curiosity, she told herself. Confusion. That's all it is.
But the image of Harin wouldn't fade.
The way he had looked at her—earnest, unguarded. The way his fingers had brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, so gently it didn't seem real.
"Wait—" Hannah sat up abruptly, her mouth parting slightly in disbelief.
"Right..." she whispered to the empty room. "He did that."
Maybe she hadn't let herself fully feel it in the moment. She had been too busy scolding him, too guarded to notice what was happening beneath her defenses.
"Boys don't do things like that casually," she said aloud, flopping back onto the bed with a heavy thud.
The ceiling stared back at her, unmoved, while her thoughts ran in endless circles.
Then—like a leaf caught in a sudden gust—a thought fluttered into her mind, unwanted and impossible to catch:
Does he... like me?
Hannah's cheeks burned. She shook her head fiercely, as if she could physically dislodge the idea.
"No way," she muttered.
But then she remembered his voice—the softness when he said he didn't want her to get hurt. The warmth in his gaze when he tucked her hair away.
Her chest tightened.
She pulled the blanket over her face with a frustrated groan.
Since when? she thought.
When had she caught his attention? She hadn't tried to. She hadn't dressed up. Hadn't softened her words. Hadn't worn a mask. She had just existed—stubborn, blunt, and a little rough around the edges.
Even Harin had been on the receiving end of that once.
She twisted under the blanket, restless, her mind refusing to let her go.
It bothered her. How much he bothered her.
And more importantly... She liked girls.
Or at least—that's what she believed.
---
The heaviness of her mind eventually dulled into exhaustion. Her eyelids drooped. And without realizing, she drifted into sleep.
Outside, the night deepened, folding the world in velvet darkness. Inside, the steady ticking of the wall clock marked the slow passage of time.
And then—
Gasp—!
Hannah jolted awake, sitting upright in bed. Sweat clung to her skin, her breathing sharp and shallow. She pressed a trembling hand against her chest, feeling her heartbeat pounding beneath her palm.
Her expression twisted bitterly as she ran her fingers through her tangled hair, trying to shake off the heaviness clawing at her.
"Again..."
She swallowed, feeling how dry and sore her throat was.
"That dream again," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
She then glanced toward the window. The sky outside was ink-black.
She had slept too long.
Slowly, she swung her legs off the bed and stood up, dragging herself to the cabinet to change. Even as she moved, the heaviness didn't leave her.
It had been a week—maybe even longer—of feeling like this. Like she was drifting.
Like she was living inside her body but not truly in it.
No matter how much she slept, exhaustion clung to her like a second skin. Even eating felt like a chore. She had lost weight, and she hadn't even noticed until Naomi pointed it out.
Every day felt less like living—and more like surviving.
But Hannah shoved the thought away like she always did. Instead, she tightened her grip around the only thing that made her feel stable: her faith.
"I'll be fine," she whispered to herself.
"God sees me. I'll be fine."
After changing clothes, she went outside her room and found her grandfather in the kitchen, preparing dinner.
Quietly, she approached him as he served rice. "Pops, I'll do it," she offered.
Her grandfather, a little surprised by her sudden approach, simply handed her the serving spoon and watched her take over.
"Why were you in your room all day?" he asked.
"I was asleep," she replied. focusing on the bowls.
"Really? You slept that much?" he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Didn't even clean up. I ended up doing everything while you were out cold."
Hannah simply lowered her gaze, setting down the serving spoon. "I'm sorry," she said softly, turning to him with the bowls in her hands. "I'll clean up first next time."
Her grandfather nodded, though disappointment lingered in his expression.
They sat down to eat. The table was filled with the clatter of chopsticks and bowls—but no words.
And neither of them dared to break the heavy silence.
Especially not Hannah.
She picked at her food, taking small bites. She didn't feel like eating at all. Her grandfather noticed immediately.
"What's wrong?" he asked, setting his chopsticks down.
"I'm just... not that hungry," Hannah said, placing her chopsticks down too.
"Why?" he sighed. "Well, don't force yourself. But remember—you need to eat at the proper time, okay?"
"Okay," she replied quietly.
She stood up, carrying her bowl to the sink.
"I'll go ahead, Pops," she said, her voice thinner than before.
But before she could leave, her grandfather's voice stopped her cold.
"Wait."
She turned.
"Come with me on Sunday," he said firmly.
"You know I always attend," Hannah replied, her heart beating a little faster.
"I know," her grandfather said. "But I want you to stay longer this time. Talk to people.
Make friends. You always rush home right after service."
Hannah stayed silent for a moment, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the edge of her sweater.
But she lowered her head and nodded obediently.
"Okay," she said quietly. "I'll stay longer next time."
And without another word, she retreated back to the safety of her room—where the silence was heavier, but somehow easier to bear.
---
She closed her bedroom door behind her with a soft click, kicking off her slippers without much thought.
Her room felt heavier than usual, but at least here—she could breathe a little easier.
Hannah dropped onto her bed, the mattress squeaking under her weight. She lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, until something on her desk caught her eye.
Her sketchpad.
She hadn't touched it in days—not since she helped Levi's club.
Slowly, she sat up and shuffled over.
As she reached for it, a loose piece of paper slipped out and drifted lazily onto the floor.
Hannah blinked, then bent down to pick it up.
It wasn't her paper. And it definitely wasn't her handwriting.
She frowned slightly, reading the messy scrawl:
"If your eyes can be this kind... Turning a bad performance into something this good—why can't your mouth be a little nicer too? (Just kidding. Kinda.)"
For a second, she just stared.
Then—without meaning to—she snorted. A very tiny, very undignified snort.
She immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, glancing around her empty room like someone might've heard.
Seriously?
She let out a small huff, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
Of course it was Harin.
Only he would leave something like that: half-sincere, half-sass, and somehow... still oddly comforting.
She remembered when Harin asked her about the sketchpad. Her face brightened a little when she finally understood why he asked.
Hannah shook her head, a tiny, reluctant smile tugging at her lips.
Still holding the note, she plopped down onto her chair and grabbed a pen from her drawer.
Without overthinking, she scribbled a reply on the back of the paper:
"Maybe if people stopped being stupid and obstinate, my mouth would be nicer." (Just kidding. Kinda.)
She stared at her own words, then huffed another soft, breathy laugh.
It was petty. It was immature.
But somehow, the tightness in her chest loosened—just a little.
Setting the note down carefully, she pulled her sketchpad onto her lap.
She didn't know what she wanted to draw yet. But for the first time in days, her hand itched to create something.
Even if it will be messy. Even if it will not be perfect. She just felt like drawing again.
Hannah let out a slow, steady breath—
—and began to draw.
---
Several minutes passed.
The silence in her room made the scratching of her pen seem louder, sharper.
She didn't really think as she drew—her hand just moved on its own. It had been so long since she truly felt like this. For weeks, she wasn't even in the mood to pick up a pen. But now, it was like the dam had quietly broken. Like her heart remembered before her mind could catch up.
When she was finally done, she let out a small sigh, setting her pen down and gazing at her sketchpad.
Wavy hair. Two tiny beauty marks.
A boy who sometimes acted mischievous—but somehow, at the most unexpected moments, could be surprisingly gentle.
Harin.
Hannah stared at her drawing.
She hadn't meant to draw him. She hadn't even thought about him. But somehow, her hand had found him anyway.
Maybe his strange behaviors bothered her more than she realized.
After a moment, she carefully tore the page from the pad.
She thought about giving it to him. Just because... she felt like it.
When she placed the sketchpad back onto her desk, it flipped a few pages on its own—settling on one of her older drawings.
Her eyes drifted to it.
It was her sketch of their performance.
Not the stage. Not the whole scene.
It was still Harin, playing Junia.
Her pencil had captured the small, almost invisible details—the faint tilt of his smile, the careful way he stood.
A thought stirred quietly in her mind:
"What went through his head when he saw this?"
She sat there for a while, the quiet ticking of the clock filling the silence. Hannah didn't know if she'd ever ask him. Maybe she didn't really need to. But somehow, knowing that he had seen it—and left that note behind—made the world outside her room feel a little less heavy.
Maybe he saw more than just the drawing.
Maybe he had seen... her.
Her grip tightened slightly. She didn't know if she could ever say it out loud, but maybe... some things didn't need to be spoken to be real.