Love is accidental

She transfers in November, which feels unfair somehow.

November is not a month for beginnings. It’s a month for things winding down, for trees letting go, for skies turning pale and undecided. The classroom light that morning is thin and gray, washing everything in softness.

You’re late.

Not dramatically late. Just enough that you slip into the room quietly, hoping no one notices. You slide into your usual seat by the window

And stop.

Because someone else is sitting there.

She looks up at the exact same time you do.

For half a second, neither of you speaks.

Her eyes are bright, curious. A little startled.

“Oh,” she says, immediately shifting her bag. “I’m so sorry, is this your seat?”

Her voice is warm, not embarrassed, just concerned. Like she genuinely doesn’t want to inconvenience you.

You blink, caught off guard by how earnest she sounds.

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “You can— I mean, I don’t own it.”

She studies your face like she’s trying to determine if you’re being polite or honest.

Then she smiles.

It’s unfairly soft.

“I picked it because of the window,” she explains, glancing at the trees swaying outside. “I like seeing the sky. It makes everything feel less… crowded.”

You glance at the same sky. At the branches moving gently in the wind.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s the best seat.”

She shifts her bag again, half-standing. “We can share it.”

You almost laugh.

“It’s one chair.”

She considers this very seriously.

“Then you can have the inside half. I’ll take the window half.”

You look at the desk. At the very real, very singular chair.

“You’re really committed to this.”

“I just got here,” she says, lowering her voice slightly. “Let me win one thing today.”

Something about that, the quiet vulnerability wrapped in a joke, makes your chest soften.

“Okay,” you say. “We’ll share.”

She grins like you’ve just handed her something precious.

That’s when the teacher clears her throat.

“We have a new student joining us.”

She straightens slightly.

“An Yujin.”

“Oh,” you murmur quietly. “You’re new.”

She glances at you sideways.

“Was it not obvious?”

“Very subtle.”

She nudges your arm lightly with her elbow.

The teacher scans the room.

“You,” she says, pointing at you. “You’re responsible. Pair up with her for the semester project.”

Yujin’s eyes widen slightly.

“Responsible?” she whispers.

“I have a reputation.”

“Is it earned?”

“Debatable.”

She smiles again.

And suddenly, being paired with her doesn’t feel like an assignment.

It feels like something orchestrated.

The class begins, but neither of you is paying much attention.