Chapter 4 — Shared Time
The literature club room was supposed to be quiet.
It was on the third floor of an older campus building that nobody visited unless they had to. The lights buzzed faintly when turned on, the windows were too narrow to let in anything resembling warmth, and the chairs were mismatched like they had been collected from different eras and given up on individually. Most days, the room sat empty, a forgotten annex to a club that technically existed only because dissolving it would require paperwork.
Han Jae-in liked it because of that.
Silence, he had learned, was never peace—but it was at least predictable when it belonged to a place instead of a person.
He arrived early, as usual, and took the chair nearest the window. From here, he could see the campus courtyard below, students crossing between buildings with the lazy confidence of people whose inner lives did not intrude on others. He envied them in the abstract, the way one envied weather.
He set his bag down. Sat. Waited.
The door opened without knocking.
“Jae-in!”
Min Chaerin burst in like she’d been holding her breath outside. Her steps were light, her smile bright, her voice pitched just high enough to sound cheerful instead of desperate. She crossed the room in seconds and dropped into the chair beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
Too close.
The moment she leaned in, the noise hit him.
‘He came early. Of course he did. He always does for me. Did he sit here because of the window or because this is where I’d sit? It’s fine. Don’t think about it. Thinking ruins things. Just be normal. We’re normal. This is normal shared time. Couples have shared time.’
Jae-in kept his face neutral.
“Hey,” he said, because that was what people said. “You’re early.”
Chaerin laughed. “I didn’t want to miss you.”
Her arm slid across the table, elbow propped near his notebook. Her fingers hovered just shy of touching his sleeve, as if proximity alone was reassurance enough.
‘Don’t pull away. Don’t pull away. If he pulls away, it means I did something wrong. Did I do something wrong? No. He smiled. He smiled. He always smiles like that when he’s happy. See? We’re fine.’
He did not pull away.
That was the first mistake of the evening.
More chairs scraped as other students filtered in—background figures, interchangeable faces. They took seats, chatted softly, paid little attention to him. That should have helped. It didn’t.
Because the door opened again.
Seo Yuri entered without hurry, carrying a thin folder and wearing the same composed expression she always did. Her uniform was neat, her posture flawless, her eyes calm as they scanned the room and landed on Jae-in.
She smiled.
“Good evening,” she said.
‘Seated by the window. Early. Consistent. Good. Chaerin arrived first. Not ideal, but manageable. Her proximity is excessive. Address gently.’
The noise from her was smoother than Chaerin’s—less frantic, more structured. It slid into his mind like a schedule being laid out.
Yuri took the chair across from him.
Not beside.
Across.
The placement was deliberate. It created a triangle, not a line, and it put her directly in his line of sight. Every time he looked up, he would see her.
‘Eye contact improves focus. Maintain calm presence. Don’t escalate.’
Chaerin stiffened.
Her smile did not change, but her thoughts spiked sharply.
‘She’s here. Of course she is. She’s always here. It’s fine. I’m closer. I’m sitting closer. That means something. It has to mean something.’
The club president cleared his throat at the front of the room and began talking about the agenda—something about upcoming submissions, maybe a reading event. Jae-in barely heard it.
The thoughts overlapped.
Yuri’s mind was a steady stream of quiet adjustments.
‘If he’s distracted, reduce variables. Encourage focus. Offer notes later. He responds well to support.’
Chaerin’s thoughts looped, fast and uneven.
‘Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her. If he looks at her, it means he likes her. If he likes her, I’ll lose him. I won’t lose him. I can’t. We’ve always been like this.’
Jae-in stared at his notebook and pretended to write.
The noise pressed in from both sides, not loud enough to hurt but constant enough to erode his concentration. He nodded when appropriate, laughed when others laughed, contributed a comment about metaphor that sounded thoughtful and meant nothing.
Shared time, he thought distantly. This was what they both called it.
The meeting ended without incident.
Chairs moved. Bags were packed. Students filtered out, talking about dinner plans or deadlines.
Yuri closed her folder and stood. “Jae-in,” she said gently. “Are you heading back now?”
Chaerin answered before he could.
“We’re walking together,” she said brightly, already halfway out of her chair. Her hand brushed his wrist, fingers curling just slightly.
‘Of course we are. We always do. Walking together is ours.’
Yuri paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
‘Assess. Walking together at night. Safety consideration. Opportunity.’
“I was thinking,” Yuri said, voice even, “it’s getting late. The streets around campus aren’t very well lit. I could walk you home.”
Her eyes met his, calm and expectant.
‘He values practicality. Frame it as concern.’
Chaerin’s thoughts fractured instantly.
‘Late? It’s not late. It’s never late when we walk together. Why is she saying that? She’s trying to take him. Don’t let her. Smile. Smile. If you smile, he’ll stay.’
Jae-in hesitated.
It was a small thing. Barely noticeable.
But both streams of thought tightened around it.
Yuri’s sharpened.
‘Decision point. Encourage without pressure.’
Chaerin’s spiraled.
‘Say no. Say no. Say no. If he says yes, it means he’s choosing her. He wouldn’t choose her. He can’t. He knows me.’
“I—” Jae-in started.
He told himself he was choosing practicality. That Yuri lived closer to his apartment. That Chaerin was emotional tonight.
That it would be simpler.
“I’ll go with Yuri,” he said finally. “It’s fine.”
Chaerin’s smile froze.
“Oh,” she said. “Okay! That’s fine.”
‘It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. If I say it enough, it will be.’
Yuri inclined her head slightly, satisfied.
‘Acknowledged. Proceed.’
They left together.
Behind them, Chaerin remained seated for a moment longer than necessary. She gathered her bag slowly, hands shaking just enough to notice.
‘Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Crying makes people leave.’
She stood, smiling at no one, and watched them disappear down the hallway.
‘He didn’t choose against me. He just didn’t choose me yet.’
The walk was quiet.
Campus lights cast long shadows across the path, and the air was cool enough to be bracing. Yuri matched Jae-in’s pace effortlessly, hands folded in front of her.
“You did well today,” she said after a moment. “Your comment about narrative distance was insightful.”
‘Positive reinforcement.’
“Thanks,” he replied.
He was aware of her presence in a way that was oddly grounding. Her thoughts, while intrusive, were at least orderly. Predictable.
‘He responds well to affirmation. Continue at measured intervals.’
They walked past the convenience store near the edge of campus.
That was when Jae-in felt it.
A shift.
Not a sound, not a sight—just a pressure at the edge of his awareness, like someone standing just outside his peripheral vision.
He glanced toward the store.
Kuroe Hana stood near the entrance, hands in her jacket pockets, eyes fixed on them.
She did not smile. She did not wave.
She simply watched.
The moment his gaze met hers, a new stream cut through the others.
‘Two targets. One primary. Assess distance. No immediate threat.’
It was sharp. Fragmented. Stripped of anything resembling emotion.
Jae-in stumbled slightly.
Yuri noticed instantly. “Are you alright?”
‘Adjust. Potential hazard?’
“I’m fine,” he said quickly.
Hana’s eyes flicked to Yuri.
‘Unfamiliar. Proximity to primary. Monitor.’
A drunk student staggered out of the store, laughing loudly.
He veered too close, shoulder brushing Jae-in’s arm.
Before Jae-in could react, Hana moved.
She stepped between them in one smooth motion, her body angled protectively, her hand gripping the drunk student’s sleeve just long enough to redirect him.
“Watch it,” she said quietly.
The student blinked, muttered an apology, and stumbled away.
Hana turned back to Jae-in.
Their eyes met again.
“Sorry,” she said.
That was it.
No smile. No explanation.
‘Threat neutralized. Primary unharmed.’
“Thank you,” Jae-in said automatically.
Something shifted.
Not in the world—in her.
‘Acknowledgment received. Lock.’
Yuri watched the exchange, expression unreadable.
‘New variable. Observe.’
Hana nodded once and walked away, disappearing down the side street without another glance.
The noise she left behind lingered, like an afterimage burned into his thoughts.
‘I will watch.’
The rest of the walk passed in uneasy quiet.
When they reached Jae-in’s apartment building, Yuri stopped at the entrance.
“Make sure you eat something,” she said. “You seemed distracted today.”
‘Reminder issued.’
“I will.”
She smiled. “Good night, Jae-in.”
‘Safe arrival achieved.’
He watched her leave, her footsteps steady and unhurried.
When he finally closed the door to his apartment behind him, the silence rushed in.
It was immediate. Absolute.
No overlapping thoughts. No emotional static.
Just his own breathing.
The relief was instant—and fleeting.
His chest tightened.
The quiet pressed against him, heavy and expectant.
Silence, he thought, was never peace.
It was waiting.
He sat on his bed and stared at the wall, replaying the evening in fragments: Chaerin’s smile, Yuri’s calm gaze, Hana’s sudden presence.
Three different kinds of attention.
Three different kinds of danger.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Chaerin.
Did you get home safe? 😊
He stared at the screen.
For a moment, he almost wished the noise would come back—anything to fill the space.
Instead, he typed a reply.
Yeah. Thanks.
Across the campus, Chaerin read the message and hugged her phone to her chest, smiling brightly in an empty room.
‘See? He still checks in. We’re fine. We’re always fine.’
In the student council room, Seo Yuri updated a mental list, satisfied.
‘Routine established. Monitor interference.’
On a dark street corner, Kuroe Hana leaned against a wall, eyes closed, listening to the city.
‘Primary safe. Continue observation.’
And in his apartment, Han Jae-in lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering when shared time had stopped being something he chose—and started being something that happened to him.
