Chapter 17: A Quiet Distance

The days that followed felt strange to Jian. It wasn't that anything specific had changed, but there was a feeling he couldn't shake—a quiet distance growing between him and Hana. It wasn't deliberate, at least not from her, but Jian couldn't help but feel it.

He still saw her every day, walking across campus, laughing with friends, her bright energy lighting up the spaces she entered. But more often than not, Jian watched her from afar, blending into the background as he always did.

---

That afternoon, Jian sat in the campus café, nursing a cup of tea and staring at the blank page of his sketchbook. The sounds of laughter, chatter, and clinking cups filled the air, but he was hardly aware of it.

"Mind if I join you?"

Jian's head snapped up, startled to see Hana standing there with her tray. Her usual cheerful smile was on her face, though something about her expression seemed tired.

"Of course," Jian mumbled, moving his things to make space.

Hana sat down across from him, setting her coffee down with a sigh. "Long day?" Jian asked quietly.

"Very," Hana replied, leaning back in her chair. "Dance practice has been intense lately. We have a performance next month, and our instructor isn't letting anyone rest. It's exciting, but exhausting too."

Jian nodded, unsure what to say. He wanted to ask her about the performance—what it meant to her, what her role was—but the words sat on the tip of his tongue and refused to come out.

Hana took a sip of her coffee, watching him. "You look lost in thought. What's going on in that mind of yours?"

Jian hesitated, his fingers tightening around his pencil. "Nothing," he said softly. "Just… distracted."

"Are you sure?" Hana asked, tilting her head slightly. "You seem more distant than usual lately."

The concern in her voice made Jian's heart ache. He wanted to say something—anything—but he couldn't find the right words. It was as though his thoughts were tangled, and every time he tried to express himself, they knotted tighter.

Instead, he just shook his head. "I'm okay."

Hana studied him for a moment before giving a small smile. "Well, okay… if you say so. But remember, I'm here if you need to talk. You don't have to hold everything in."

Jian's chest tightened. He wished it was as easy as she made it sound. He wished he could tell her everything—how much she mattered to him, how much he admired her energy and kindness. But he couldn't. Not yet.

---

After Hana left to go to her dance practice, Jian stayed in the café, staring at the empty chair she had occupied. He replayed their conversation over and over in his mind, frustrated with himself for saying so little. Why was it so hard for him to speak? Why couldn't he be like other people—like Minho, or Tae-hyun, who always seemed to know what to say and when to say it?

The thought of Tae-hyun brought an uneasy feeling to Jian's stomach. He had seen Hana talking to him more often lately. Tae-hyun was everything Jian wasn't—charming, outgoing, confident. Watching them interact made Jian feel even smaller, like he didn't belong in her world.

Shaking off the thought, Jian stood up and left the café. The sky had begun to darken, clouds rolling in as though mirroring his mood.

---

That evening, Jian worked on his sketch late into the night. It was another drawing of Hana—this time, he had captured her mid-dance, her figure graceful and full of life. He poured all his feelings into the lines and shadows, trying to express what he couldn't say out loud.

When he finally put the pencil down, his room was silent except for the soft ticking of the clock. Jian stared at the drawing, feeling both proud and empty.

He wanted to show it to her, to let her see how he saw her—how beautiful and vibrant she was—but the thought of her reaction filled him with doubt. What if she didn't like it? What if she didn't understand?

With a sigh, Jian carefully tucked the drawing away in his sketchbook, closing it tightly.

---

The next day, Jian found himself walking past the dance studio. He hadn't meant to go there, but something about the place pulled him in. He stopped outside the large windows, peering inside.

Hana was there, dancing with her troupe. She moved like the music was part of her, every step fluid and purposeful. Jian couldn't take his eyes off her. She looked completely in her element—focused, confident, and alive.

He watched as Tae-hyun entered the room, holding a water bottle for Hana. She stopped dancing, laughing as she took it from him. They exchanged a few words, and Tae-hyun said something that made her laugh even harder.

Jian felt a pang in his chest, something sharp and heavy. He turned away quickly, not wanting to see more.

---

That evening, Minho found Jian sitting alone in the art room, staring blankly at an unfinished canvas.

"You've been in here all day?" Minho asked, sitting down beside him.

Jian nodded wordlessly.

Minho glanced at him, his expression thoughtful. "You know, you can't just hide in here forever. Whatever's on your mind… you'll have to face it eventually."

Jian didn't reply.

"Is it about Hana?" Minho asked gently.

Jian stiffened but didn't look up.

Minho sighed. "Jian, you're my friend, so I'll say this. If you care about her, you need to tell her. Keeping everything inside isn't going to make it better. You don't want to look back and regret staying silent."

Jian's throat tightened. "It's not that easy," he murmured.

"I know it's not," Minho said. "But sometimes you have to take a chance, even if it's scary."

Jian stared at the canvas in front of him, Minho's words echoing in his head. Take a chance.

---

That night, Jian lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He thought about Hana's smile, her voice, the way she always seemed to light up the world around her. He thought about Tae-hyun and the easy way he made her laugh.

Jian felt small, like a shadow in her life. But deep down, he knew Minho was right. If he wanted to be closer to her—if he wanted to be seen—he would have to speak up, no matter how terrifying it felt.

As he closed his eyes, he made a quiet promise to himself. He would find a way to tell her. Maybe not tomorrow, or even the next day, but soon.

Because if he didn't, he knew the distance between them would only keep growing, until it was too far to cross.