Spring does not arrive all at once.
It sneaks in.
One morning the air is softer against your skin. The trees outside school are tipped with green like someone brushed them lightly with paint. The sunlight lingers longer in the afternoons, stretching shadows thin and golden.
Everything feels survivable.
You and Yujin start building rituals the way children build forts. Quietly. Carefully. Like if you do not announce them, no one can take them away.
The first good morning text comes at 6:42 a.m.
good luck on your math test today
don’t panic
you’re cute when you panic but still, don’t
You stare at your phone for a full minute before replying.
i do not look cute when i panicagree to disagree
also, remember to eat breakfast.
The next morning, she beats her own record.
6:31 a.m.
rise and shine
i had a dream you forgot me at a gas station
rude
you owe me a kiss for every second that dream you left me alone at the station
why were we at the gas station
duh, road trip
You smile into your pillow.
By the end of the week, your phone becomes the first thing you reach for. Before brushing your teeth. Before sitting up. Before you are even fully awake.
Sometimes she sends selfies with her hair still messy, eyes half closed.
Sometimes you send her pictures of the sky outside your window.
the sky is pink today
it’s because i’m thinking of you
You groan at how cheesy that is.
You save the message anyway.
After school, walking home together becomes automatic.
You do not ask anymore. You just wait by the gate until she appears beside you, swinging her bag dramatically like she has just survived something heroic.
“Long day?” you ask.
She nods gravely. “Tragic. Devastating. I had to run for the bus.”
“You run for the bus every day.”
“Yes, but today I did it emotionally.”
You laugh. She beams like she won something.
There is a convenience store halfway between school and her house. You start stopping there without discussing it.
She always grabs strawberry milk.
You always pretend you are not getting your snack based on what she likes.
“You got the chocolate puffs again,” she says suspiciously.
“They were on sale.”
“They were not.”
“They felt on sale.”
She narrows her eyes at you, then steals one anyway. You let her.
Outside, she bumps her shoulder into yours. Then again.
“Are you trying to fight me?” you ask.
“Maybe.”
“For what?”
She thinks about it seriously. “For custody of the dog.”
“We do not even have the dog.”
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