The First Real Glimpse

"When someone sees the quiet parts of you and stays, that's when you start to believe you're worth it."

The university's Creative Arts Night was never something Yuna had considered attending.

It was a small campus tradition—part gallery showcase, part open mic. Students read original poetry, performed songs, displayed paintings and photography on easels set up in the old performance hall. People came to sip cider, clap politely, and nod thoughtfully at abstract pieces they didn't quite understand.

Mina, of course, lived for it.

"Come on," she pleaded, standing in front of Yuna's closet in a long flowy skirt and a cropped jacket. "You write! You feel! You are the exact kind of person this night is made for."

"I don't perform," Yuna mumbled from where she sat on the edge of the bed, hugging a pillow. "I don't like being seen like that."

"You wouldn't be alone. I'm showing a collection. There's going to be a lot of people in the crowd not performing. You can be one of them. Preferably cute."

Yuna sighed. "I don't know."

"What if he's there?"

Yuna gave her a pointed look.

Mina smirked. "I didn't name names. But you heard him singing along to the jazz playlist last week, didn't you?"

Yuna flushed.

"Just come," Mina said gently. "Not to be anyone. Just to be present."

She ended up wearing a black sweater tucked into beige corduroy pants, with her hair in a loose braid over her shoulder. Casual. Comfortable. Safe.

The old performance hall had been transformed. Lights hung in soft rows across the ceiling. Chairs had been set up around a makeshift stage where students took turns reading poems, playing the piano, or singing soft indie covers. Around the edges, student artists stood beside their work, speaking quietly with friends and strangers.

Yuna stood near Mina's fashion illustration display, sipping warm cider and watching a girl read a poem about her father in the shape of the ocean. Every word sat in Yuna's chest like a stone, heavy and still.

"She's good," Eli's voice said beside her.

Yuna turned—and there he was, in a dark turtleneck and a charcoal coat. His hair was slightly damp from the cold drizzle outside. His hands were in his pockets, his eyes calm, as always.

"You came," she said, surprised.

"Noah dragged me. Said it would be 'good for my soul.'"

"Is it?"

He tilted his head, considering. "Too early to tell."

They stood in silence for a while, watching the performers, sipping cider.

Then Eli asked, "Did you ever used to perform?"

Yuna shook her head. "I used to write for people who performed. Back in high school, I wrote poems for competitions. But I never read them aloud."

"Why not?"

"I didn't want to watch their faces while they listened."

Eli nodded slowly, like he understood that too well. "Sometimes silence is safer."

"But," she added quietly, "silence also keeps you small."

He turned toward her then, his gaze lingering. "You're not small."

Yuna felt something catch in her throat. She looked away, unsure what to do with how seen she felt.

They wandered together, slow and quiet, looking at art. Some pieces were unfinished. Some were technically messy but emotionally loud. Some made no sense at all—but still, they stopped and stared, respecting the vulnerability of creation.

At one point, Eli paused in front of a black-and-white photograph of a street musician playing in the rain.

"That," he said softly, "feels like my head most days."

Yuna glanced at the image. "Sad?"

"No," he said. "Resilient."

She looked at him again. "You have a way of surprising me."

He chuckled. "I think you just expect me to be sad all the time."

"I expect you to hide most of what you feel."

"You're not wrong."

Later in the evening, someone began playing piano—a soft, slow version of a Korean ballad that made half the room fall silent. Eli stood straighter. Yuna noticed the shift in his posture, the sudden stillness in his expression.

"You know it?" she asked.

He nodded. "I used to play this. Years ago."

She hesitated. "Do you ever miss it?"

His eyes didn't leave the stage. "Every day. But grief messes with music. It turns it into something heavy."

She didn't speak. Didn't push.

But she reached for his hand.

And this time, she didn't pull away.

Neither did he.

When they stepped out into the night air, the drizzle had turned to mist. The campus glowed under the streetlights, everything hushed and golden.

"Thanks for coming," Yuna said, letting go of his hand slowly.

"I'm glad I did."

They walked a few steps before he spoke again.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What would happen if you let someone in again?" His voice was low, careful.

Yuna stopped walking.

Eli faced her, not pressing, but not retreating either.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

"That's okay."

"Do you think it's too soon?"

He smiled, soft. "I think we're already doing it."

Yuna looked down, then back up at him.

"You scare me sometimes," she whispered.

"I know," he replied.

But he didn't step forward.

He didn't pull her in.

He simply stood still.

Letting her know that the space was hers to cross—if, and when, she was ready.

That night, Yuna wrote a new entry.

"Sometimes healing isn't loud.It's a hand you don't have to pull away from.A moment that holds without asking.A person who doesn't move closer—because they want you to choose the closeness.And suddenly, you want to."