Between Days

The rain began in early April.

Not the loud kind that floods streets, but the quiet kind that lingers like hesitation—light mist that clung to clothing, soaked without warning, and left barely a trace on pavement. No thunder, no lightning. Just a softened world beneath dull gray skies, where umbrellas bloomed like weary flowers and breath hung faintly in the air.

Campus moved slower beneath it. Or maybe it was just Minjae, watching from the second floor of the library.

He wasn't reading. Not really. A book lay open on the table in front of him, but his eyes kept drifting to the window.

To the glass streaked with moisture.

To students crossing the courtyard below, heads ducked and bags clenched.

To the soft, persistent rhythm of rain and footsteps—one indistinguishable from the other.

He sat like that for an hour.

Not thinking.

Just... listening.

---

"Do you believe people are born with purpose?" Hana asked. The question came without preamble, halfway through a late lunch shared under a narrow awning near the convenience store. Their umbrella was propped against the wall behind them, dripping quietly. Steam rose from their instant noodles in muted curls.

Minjae looked up from his half-eaten sandwich, expression neutral. Not surprised, not guarded. Just open.

"No," he said.

She tilted her head, mildly surprised. "No?"

"I think we're born with instincts. The rest is choice."

"Instincts," she repeated, more to herself than to him. Her gaze followed a droplet sliding down the umbrella shaft. "So what if your instincts are to take care of other people? Does that count as purpose, or just a habit?"

He didn't answer right away. He didn't look away, either. There was no judgment in his silence, just consideration.

Finally, he said, "Maybe it's both. But only you would know which."

She leaned back, the faintest sigh escaping her. "I used to think mine was to take care of people," she said. "My mom. My little brother. My friends in high school who kept burning out. I just… did what they needed. It felt right."

"And now?" he asked.

"Now I'm wondering if it's just what I know how to do. Like muscle memory." She gave a small, wry smile. "Maybe it's not purpose at all. Just routine."

He reached into the plastic bag next to him and pulled out another can of warm coffee. Without saying anything, he held it out to her.

She blinked and then took it with both hands.

"Thanks," she said, voice softer.

He nodded, already peeling open his own can. The moment didn't need more than that.

---

Back in class, the days slipped by like watercolor—edges bleeding into each other without definition.

Midterms loomed. Deadlines multiplied. Group projects crept in with too many moving parts and too little coordination. Sleep was inconsistent. Energy drinks and late-night emails took their usual place.

Minjae moved through it all with the same quiet steadiness he always had. Never hurried, never idle. Present, but not loud.

In between lectures and library hours, he made space for things that wouldn't show up on any transcript.

He walked Hana to the studio when she worked late and the roads were empty.

He helped Taesung polish his resume, cutting out redundant phrasing and rephrasing bullet points without fanfare.

He explained a particularly tangled macroeconomic model to a third-year who'd been panicking in the study room—not with superiority, but with calm, clear patience.

No one labeled it kindness.

But it was.

And it stayed with the people he touched, even if they didn't always understand why.

---

One Saturday evening, he returned home.

It wasn't something he planned. It just happened suddenly—a small feeling in his chest that made him get on the train before he really thought about it. The ride was quiet and nothing much happened. He looked out at the gray sky through the windows. People talked softly nearby. The air smelled like damp clothes.

At home, his mom was folding laundry while a drama played quietly on the TV. It was probably an old rerun, with sad violin music and lots of sighs.

His dad was asleep in the recliner. A blanket was just thrown over his legs like he didn't care. The light from the TV flickered on his face.

Everything was just like before.

It felt familiar. Like home. Quiet and calm.

But still...

"Are you happy at school?" his mom asked as she gave him a towel from the laundry basket.

"Yeah," he said without thinking much.

Then after a moment, he said, "But I don't know if I'm really there."

She raised her eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I'm doing well. I'm... functioning. But sometimes it feels like I'm watching someone else go through the motions."

She studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. "You were always like that, even as a baby. Quiet. Watching everyone. Like you already knew too much and didn't want to say."

He smiled, too—faint, ironic.

"Maybe I did."

She gave him a look, half amusement and half maternal scolding. "Don't be strange."

"Sorry."

He took the towel anyway and folded it slowly, hands moving without thought.

---

Later that night, he went out to the small balcony.

The air smelled like rain was coming. There was also a little smell of food cooking from a grill down the street. He leaned on the railing and looked at the yard he knew.

He leaned on the railing and looked out at the yard he knew so well.

The swing his father had hung years ago was still there. One of the chains had rusted slightly, creaking in the wind.

He watched it move for a while.

And then his thoughts turned.

Not to this life.

But to another.

Caverns of amethyst and stone. The high, thin air over snow-dusted peaks. Wind tearing past scaled wings. Fire, distant and sacred, pulsing in his chest like memory.

And yet…

He thought of warm canned coffee. Of the silence shared beneath a convenience store awning. Of Hana's voice, low and uncertain. Of her note.

Was this life lesser?

Or simply quieter?

Something about that question refused to leave him.

---

The next day at school, he saw a folded note under his book in his locker. It was just a plain piece of paper. No envelope.

He opened it.

| I think you're more present than you realize.

| Even when you're quiet, you're always listening.

| I notice.

| That's all.

He read it twice.

Then folded it again, slower this time, and slid it into the back of his notebook—between pages already thick with scribbled thoughts and single lines that never quite became full entries.

He didn't write anything new that day.

Not yet.

---

Outside, the rain had stopped.

But the world still felt wet. Not with stormwater.

With something unspoken.

Something soft.

And new.