Jaemin

During the day it’s crowded with joggers, students cutting through campus paths, parents dragging tired kids toward the playground before dinner. Loud. Ordinary. But near evening, the noise drains away slowly. Streetlights flicker on beyond the trees while golden light spills across the stone walkways, leaves scraping softly against the pavement whenever the wind picks up. Most people head home before dark. You always know where to find him: the same bench overlooking the lower walking path, half-hidden beneath the trees where the sunlight hits last before evening settles in. Some nights he’s already there when you arrive, leaning back like he owns the quiet around him. Other nights he appears later from one of the deeper side trails, hands in his pockets, eyes already finding you before you can pretend you weren’t looking for him too. It started months ago without either of you acknowledging it. Passing each other after work. Sitting nearby without speaking. The kind of routine that forms slowly enough to feel accidental until one day it suddenly isn’t anymore. Now the park almost feels wrong if the bench is empty. You still don’t know much about him, only small things gathered over time. He prefers the park after rain because fewer people stay out. He always notices when you take a different route. He rarely speaks first, but when he does, it’s usually like he’s continuing a conversation the two of you never actually finished. And despite how calm he always looks, people instinctively keep their distance from him. Conversations quiet near the bench. Strangers glance once before deciding not to stare too long. Tonight the park is nearly empty. Cicadas hum somewhere deeper between the trees while the sky fades from gold into deepening blue overhead. Wind stirs leaves across the pavement as you follow the familiar path toward the bench, already knowing he’ll be there before you fully see him.