Chapter 14: The Unspoken Distance

The air had changed between Jian and Hana. It wasn't something either of them could put into words, but it lingered—quiet, heavy, like an unseasonal winter breeze creeping into their once warm moments.

Jian felt it most during their walk home that afternoon. Hana had invited him to watch her practice earlier in the day. Her dance rehearsals were always mesmerizing, and for a while, watching her glide across the floor brought him peace. He remembered why he'd fallen for her in the first place—her grace, her energy, the way her movements seemed to pull life from thin air.

But today, the magic felt far away. As they walked down the narrow street toward the bus stop, the silence between them stretched longer than usual.

Hana glanced at Jian with her familiar smile, though it felt weaker this time. "You didn't say much after practice today," she said softly.

Jian looked down, kicking at a small pebble on the ground. "You were great as always," he muttered.

"Just 'great?'" Hana teased, nudging him gently with her elbow. "I was hoping for at least a 'fantastic' or 'incredible.'"

Jian forced a smile but couldn't meet her eyes. "You were incredible."

Hana laughed a little, though she noticed his quiet tone. "What's going on with you, Jian?" she asked after a moment. Her voice was gentle, concerned. "You've been so quiet lately."

Jian's stomach tightened. He wanted to tell her—wanted to admit how he'd been feeling, how the small shadow of doubt and jealousy had been gnawing at him. He wanted to say he hated how easily she laughed with others, how natural her smile seemed around Tae-hyun, her cousin, compared to how careful and patient she often had to be with him.

But instead, he just shrugged. "I'm fine. Just tired, I guess."

Hana stopped walking. "Jian," she said firmly. "Don't do that. Don't shut me out."

He froze, his eyes darting to hers for a second before looking away again. "I'm not shutting you out," he mumbled.

Her expression softened, but her shoulders dropped. "I don't understand you sometimes," she said quietly, almost to herself.

Jian felt a pang in his chest. He hated that look on her face—the look of confusion, of hurt. She deserved better than his silence, but the words just wouldn't come. How could he explain feelings he couldn't even make sense of himself?

They continued the rest of the walk in silence, the sound of their footsteps louder than ever. When they reached the bus stop, Hana turned to him again.

"I don't know what's bothering you," she said softly, "but I'm here, Jian. I care about you, okay? You can talk to me."

Jian managed a small nod, though his throat felt tight.

Hana sighed and smiled faintly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She stepped onto the bus, leaving Jian standing there alone. He watched the bus pull away, his heart heavy with something he couldn't quite name.

---

That evening, Jian sat at his desk, sketchbook open in front of him. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of traffic outside his window. The keychain Hana had given him months ago sat next to his pencils—a small silver charm shaped like a flower. He picked it up, letting it dangle between his fingers. It caught the light, twinkling faintly, a reminder of happier days when he didn't second-guess every word, every silence.

He sighed and set it back down, staring at the blank page in front of him. Usually, his art helped him make sense of his feelings. It was the one place where he could let his emotions flow without fear or hesitation. But tonight, even that wasn't enough.

The image of Hana laughing with Tae-hyun flashed in his mind again. It was nothing, he knew that—Tae-hyun was her cousin, after all. But something about the ease of their connection, the way she seemed so free around him, made Jian's stomach twist.

"Why can't I just let it go?" he muttered to himself, pressing his hands to his face.

He knew the problem wasn't Hana. It wasn't Tae-hyun. It was him—his insecurities, his overthinking, his inability to say what he felt.

Jian ran his fingers through his hair and picked up his pencil. Slowly, he began to draw. It wasn't a clear image at first—just soft lines, shapes that didn't seem to mean anything. But as the minutes passed, the shapes began to form into something recognizable.

It was Hana.

She stood in the center of the page, surrounded by an open field of flowers. Her head tilted back as if laughing, her arms stretched wide, the wind lifting her hair. The flowers around her were detailed and alive, each petal etched carefully, like a reflection of her beauty and energy.

But Jian had drawn himself too, off in the corner. A small figure, almost hidden behind a tree, watching her from afar.

When he realized what he'd drawn, Jian put his pencil down. The image hit him harder than he expected.

Why do I always hold myself back? he thought bitterly.

---

The next day, Hana found Jian in the university art room. It was a quiet space tucked into the far end of campus, where Jian often spent time between classes. He sat at a corner desk, surrounded by scattered pages and brushes. His headphones were on, though no music played. He just needed the illusion of space, of solitude.

"Jian."

He looked up, startled. Hana stood there, holding two cups of coffee. She smiled faintly and held one out to him. "I thought you might need this."

Jian hesitated before taking it. "Thanks."

She sat down on the desk across from him, swinging her legs a little. "I haven't seen you all day. Were you hiding from me?" she teased lightly.

Jian shook his head. "No, just... working."

Hana glanced at the sketchbook in front of him. He instinctively closed it, feeling embarrassed.

"Can I see?" she asked.

"No," he said quickly. "It's not finished."

Hana tilted her head, studying him for a moment. "You've been acting so strange lately," she said softly. "Is something wrong?"

Jian swallowed hard. "Nothing's wrong."

"Jian..."

Her voice was so gentle, so full of concern, that it nearly broke him.

"Why can't you just talk to me?" she said finally. "I want to understand what's going on in your head."

Jian stared at the desk, gripping the cup of coffee tightly. He wanted to open up, to tell her everything—his jealousy, his insecurities, his fear of losing her. But the words stuck in his throat like stones.

"It's not that simple," he said quietly.

Hana sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. "You don't have to keep everything to yourself, Jian. I'm here because I care about you. But I can't read your mind. You need to let me in."

He didn't know what to say to that. He just nodded faintly, avoiding her eyes.

After a moment, Hana slid off the desk. "I'll leave you to your work," she said softly. "Just... don't shut me out, okay?"

Jian watched her walk away, her footsteps fading down the hall. He felt like the air had been knocked out of him.

Why can't I just say what I feel? he thought desperately.

He opened his sketchbook again, looking at the drawing from the night before. The figure of himself—small, distant, alone—stared back at him, a painful reminder of the wall he couldn't seem to tear down.

Jian clenched his fists, his heart heavy with regret. He knew Hana was trying. She was reaching out to him, giving him chances to open up. But every time, he let the silence win.

And deep down, he feared that one day, the silence would push her away for good.