May 3 “Our Hands Almost Touched”

Dear Diary,

Some nights are loud even in their quiet.

Tonight was like that.

No confessions. No fights. No kisses.

Just a quiet movie, a couch, and the kind of silence that presses against your skin and whispers, Something's changing.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It started this afternoon with a message.

Jung-Kyo: "Want to do something mindless tonight?"

I stared at my phone for a second too long before replying.

Me: "Define mindless."

Him: "Movies. Popcorn. No thinking allowed."

Me: "Deal. But I pick the film."

Him: "Please don't say anything with subtitles. I can't do emotional reading right now."

I laughed.

Out loud.

Alone in my kitchen.

That should've been my first clue that something was different today.

6:44 PM He showed up right on time, holding a paper bag filled with snacks and an energy drink I once jokingly told him tasted like sadness. He grinned when I saw it.

"Thought you might want to relive your midterm breakdown era," he said.

I rolled my eyes and let him in.

We didn't talk much while setting things up. I was too aware of how close he was standing, how the sleeve of his hoodie brushed against mine every time we reached for something at the same time.

Too aware of how every movement felt like the slow unraveling of something I couldn't name.

7:05 PM I picked a film I've seen a dozen times — a quiet indie about two strangers who meet on a train and spend the next 24 hours falling into something soft and inevitable. No explosions. No villains. Just glances, half-finished sentences, and long silences that said too much.

I told myself I picked it because I didn't want to focus too hard.

But that was a lie.

I picked it because I wanted to see how Jung-Kyo reacted to it.

7:27 PM We sat on the couch, shoulders almost touching.

There was a space between us — not wide, but deliberate. Like we were both pretending not to notice the current passing through it.

He leaned back, one ankle resting over the other knee, fingers lightly tapping his thigh.

I watched the movie.

But mostly, I watched him.

He's different when he's relaxed.

Less guarded. More human.

He laughs softly. Smiles at things other people miss. His eyebrows arch just slightly when he's emotionally invested.

And when a line in the film hit too close — "Some people feel like home before you even learn their name" — I didn't dare look at him.

Because I was afraid I'd see my own thoughts reflected back.

8:02 PM Halfway through the movie, our hands shifted.

Not much.

Not intentionally.

Mine moved slightly toward the popcorn bowl. His reached down to adjust the blanket we'd thrown over both our legs.

And suddenly—

They were almost touching.

Just a breath apart.

I froze.

So did he.

Neither of us moved.

We sat like that — fingertips hovering, nearly grazing — for what felt like a full minute.

I couldn't breathe.

Not because I was scared.

But because I didn't want the moment to end.

It wasn't about touching.

It was about almost touching.

About the weight of what that not-touch could mean.

8:08 PM He spoke first.

Barely above a whisper.

"This is a good movie."

I nodded. "One of my favorites."

"Figured."

I looked at him then.

He was already looking at me.

And Diary, I swear…

There was something in his eyes.

Not desire. Not lust.

Reverence.

Like I was something he didn't want to break by moving too fast.

8:16 PM We went back to watching.

But we didn't move our hands.

Still close.

Still not touching.

Like the air between us was a question neither of us had the courage to answer.

The ending of the film came and went.

But neither of us reached for the remote.

The credits rolled. The music played.

Still, we sat.

Still, we waited.

9:04 PM Finally, I broke the silence.

"I think I'm scared of what happens if this stops feeling safe."

He turned to me slowly.

"It already doesn't."

That should've scared me.

It didn't.

It made me want to cry.

Because he was right.

This thing between us?

It's no longer safe.

It's alive.

9:11 PM We didn't kiss.

We didn't even hold hands.

But something passed between us — a shift, a breath, a promise wrapped in silence.

He reached for his bag eventually, stood, and said:

"Next time, you're picking a comedy. My heart can't handle this much yearning."

I laughed. "Deal."

But we both knew we weren't talking about the movie anymore.

9:26 PMHe left with a quiet goodbye.

No hug.

No parting words.

But the moment he closed the door, I let myself feel it.

The ache.

The sweetness.

The wanting.

10:03 PM I keep replaying that moment.

Our hands. The breath between them. The silence we didn't fill.

And his eyes.

The way he looked at me.

Like I was something worth waiting for.

Like the sky again.

But this time… closer.

I don't know what we are yet.

But I know what we're not.

We're not pretend.

We're not temporary.

We're not avoiding it anymore.

And maybe that's the scariest part.

Because the next time our hands reach out…

We might not stop.

– Mi-Chan