Little Things That Stay

The next morning, the apartment felt colder — not from the rain, but from something quieter. Heavier.

Seo Yoon was gone by the time I woke. The usual sounds — soft footsteps, the distant hum of the kettle — were missing. In their place: silence.

I shuffled into the kitchen and found a note stuck neatly to the fridge.

Breakfast’s in the pan. Don’t forget to reheat.

Her handwriting was delicate. Almost too polite. I stared at the note longer than I should have. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even emotional. But it said more than anything we’d managed the night before.

We were retreating again.

—

The day passed in fragments.

We crossed paths once — her coming out of the bathroom, me heading to the sink. We nodded, smiled, said nothing of weight. The ease between us had folded in on itself. Everything felt a little too careful.

That evening, I picked up some things from the convenience store. Snacks, tissues, a random yogurt drink I remembered her mentioning weeks ago. She’d said it helped with headaches. I didn’t ask if she still liked it.

When I got home, I left it on the dining table with a sticky note:Rainy day medicine.

I didn’t wait for her to see it.

The next morning, I found an extra towel folded on top of the laundry basket. Clean. Lightly scented. Unspoken, but clear.

Something small was being restored.

—

Later that week, after dinner, she joined me on the couch again.

No announcement. No questions. She just sat down, a safe distance away, and let the flickering TV fill the space between us. I didn’t mind. Her presence didn’t ask anything of me — and yet, it steadied something.

We watched a late-night drama. Neither of us had seen it before, but it didn’t matter. Somewhere in the middle of episode two, I heard her breathing slow.

I glanced over.

Her head had tilted to the side, chin resting slightly on her shoulder. Eyes closed. Hair falling loosely across her cheek.

Seo Yoon had fallen asleep.

The first instinct was to shift. Move away. Pretend I hadn’t noticed. But I didn’t.

I stood, quietly, and stepped into my room. Came back with the softest blanket I owned — the one I kept folded near my bed for colder nights.

Carefully, I draped it over her shoulders, trying not to wake her. She didn’t stir. Her face relaxed even more under the weight of it.

For a moment, I just stood there, watching. There was something delicate about sleep — like witnessing someone without their armor. She looked… peaceful. Not tired, but calm. And that did something to me I didn’t quite understand.

My hand hovered, brushing away a loose strand of hair near her forehead. I caught myself before the gesture lingered.

Instead, I sat down again — a little farther this time.

I didn’t watch the drama anymore. Just listened to her breathing over the sound of the TV.

When she finally stirred, blinking slowly and realizing she’d dozed off, I didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

She stood, gathered the blanket carefully, folded it — as if to erase the softness — and whispered, “Goodnight.”

“Sleep well,” I said.

The moment closed behind her as she walked to her room.

And I was left there, staring at the screen, knowing that what we had was still changing — not louder, not clearer, but deeper.

And harder to ignore.

That night, after she’d gone to bed, I lay awake again.

It’s strange, how someone can feel far and close at the same time. Like two hands reaching beneath the surface of water — close enough to touch, but always blurred.

What we were building didn’t follow any rule I could define. It wasn’t a relationship, not really. It wasn’t friendship anymore either. It just was. And that made it dangerous.

Maybe the scariest part wasn’t that I was falling.

Maybe it was the quiet realization that I didn’t want to stop.