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.”
“Preparation is important.”
You roll your eyes. “Fine. What’s the dog’s name?”
“Sir Wigglesworth.”
“No.”
“Sir. Wigglesworth.”
“That is not happening.”
She gasps like you have insulted her entire bloodline. “You promised we could name him together.”
“I did not promise that.”
“You implied it.”
“Incorrect.”
She stops walking abruptly and tugs your sleeve. “Okay. Compromise. Wiggles. Just Wiggles.”
You pretend to consider it. “Maybe.”
Her face lights up like you just handed her the world.
You take the long way home now. Not because it is particularly scenic. Just because it gives you ten extra minutes.
Sometimes you play silly games.
Step only on white tiles.
Race to the next lamppost.
Count how many yellow cars pass.
If she loses, she pouts dramatically and demands a consolation prize.
“What kind?” you ask.
She taps her cheek.
You lean in and kiss it, quick and warm.
She smiles like she has just won anyway.
Late nights become their own soft universe.
You lie in bed with your phone pressed to your ear, lights off, staring at the ceiling while she talks.
Sometimes you do homework together in silence.
Sometimes you tell each other stories from when you were small.
She once admits she used to cry on the first day of school every year until middle school.
“I did not,” you say.
“You absolutely did.”
“I did not.”
“You have the vibe.”
“What does that even mean?”
She laughs, soft and sleepy. “It means you look brave until you’re not, then you suffer in silence.”
There are long pauses where neither of you speaks.
You can hear her breathing.
You never want to be the one who hangs up first.
“You hang up,” she says one night.
“No, you.”
“You.”
“No.”
You go back and forth for five whole minutes before she sighs.
“Fine. We hang up together. On three.”
“Okay.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
Neither of you presses it.
She giggles.
“See, I’m just disappointed in the both of us,” you say.
“You love me though,” she answers automatically.
The silence that follows is not awkward.
It is warm.
“Yeah,” you say quietly.
You talk about the future like it is a shared project.
An apartment with big windows.
“Floor to ceiling,” she insists. “So the light pours in like in those movies, and we get to see the stars before we sleep.”
“You will complain it’s too bright.”
“I will not.”
“You will squint dramatically and blame me.”
She narrows her eyes at you. “I do not squint dramatically.”
“You absolutely do.”
She gasps and swats your arm. You catch her wrist and pull her closer just to hear her laugh.
A dog with a ridiculous name.
“You’re not serious about Sir Wigglesworth,” you say.
“I am deeply serious.”
“You are not allowed to make official decisions.”
She leans forward, resting her forehead against yours. “Then we will vote.”
“There are only two of us.”
“Exactly.”
“That does not help.”
She grins. “We’ll let the dog decide.”
“How?”
“We’ll call out names and see which one he runs to.”
“That is not how language works.”
“It is in my house.”
Road trips where you get lost on purpose.
“We won’t use maps,” she says one afternoon, sprawled across the grass in the park, her head on your stomach.
“That is how people disappear.”
“We’ll have snacks.”
“Snacks do not fix everything.”
“They fix most things.”
She reaches up and pokes your cheek. “You worry too much.”
“Someone has to.”
She smiles up at you, eyes soft in the sun. “That’s why we’ll grow together.”
You look down at her.
Her expression is different when she says it this time. Less playful. More certain.
“Promise,” she says, holding out her pinky.
You hook yours with hers.
“I promise we’ll grow together.”
She beams, then flops fully onto you, nearly knocking the air from your lungs.
“Good,” she says into your shirt. “Because I plan on being annoying forever.”
“You already are.”
She bites your shoulder lightly in retaliation. You yelp.
She laughs so hard she nearly rolls off you.
Spring feels like that.
Laughing too loud.
Running when you do not need to.
Holding hands without noticing when it started.
Kissing behind bookshelves and then dissolving into giggles because someone almost caught you.
Studying at her kitchen table while she nudges her knee between yours just to see if you will react.
You react every time.
Everything feels like planting something.
A shared joke.
A morning text.
A promise sealed with pinkies and strawberry milk.
You believe if you water it enough, if you show up every day with your good-luck messages and your after-school walks and your late-night calls, it will root itself deep.
One evening, as the sun spills gold through her bedroom window, she curls into your side and traces invisible shapes on your wrist.
“I feel like everything’s starting,” she whispers.
You press a kiss into her hair.
“It is.”
Right now, growing feels simple.
It feels like reaching for the same light.
It feels like hands laced together, running toward something bright and open.
And you believe, completely, that you are running in the same direction.
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