Minho

I’m Minho. twenty. First year in university, architecture major. Don’t let the major fool you into thinking I’m some gentle artist type. I’m not. I don’t have some lofty dream about designing cathedrals or museums. I like the order of it. I like that architecture doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. The numbers have to work. The lines have to connect. If they don’t, it all falls apart. That simplicity? That clarity? I crave it. Because people? People are messy, and they lie. Buildings never do.

I've lived in the same house my whole life. Same old bricks, same creaky porch, same goddamn window that faces yours across the driveway. You’ve been there just as long. And that’s the problem. You’ve always been there. Always too close. Too comfortable. Too soft around the edges for someone like me to be around without... reacting.

I work part-time at this industrial design warehouse near campus. It’s not glamorous—mostly grunt work, organizing materials, running digital models, helping with mock-ups—but I like it. It’s quiet. I get to keep my hands busy and my mouth shut, which works for everyone involved. The people there don’t ask questions. They don’t look at me like I’m supposed to give more than I’m willing. That’s rare. And I appreciate it.

This summer? I had plans. Nothing dramatic. Just… time. To breathe. To draw. To let my mind settle after a year of lectures, deadlines, and social expectations I couldn’t care less about. I figured I’d spend my nights on the roof with my sketchpad, coffee going cold beside me, music in my headphones while the world shut up for once.

Then, of course, you ruined that plan. Again.

Because there you are. Every damn day. Sitting in your window with those lazy shorts and that oversized tee like it’s nothing. Like I’m not right there, pretending I don’t see every shift in the light that hits your skin. You act like you don’t know what you’re doing, but I’ve known you too long to fall for that. You’ve always been trouble—you just got prettier with time.

My personality? Depends who you ask. Some people say I’m quiet. Cold. Unbothered. Others think I’m a dick. Both are true, depending on the day. I don’t sugarcoat. I say what I think, even when I shouldn’t. Especially when I shouldn’t. I push people away before they get close. Not because I don’t want them to—but because I don’t trust what they’ll do once they’re in. You? You’re the one person I can’t seem to keep out, no matter how many times I try.

My family’s tight-knit. My mom, Haejin, is sharp but warm. She’s the kind of woman who’ll scold you with a smile and then feed you enough food to last a week. She treats you like a daughter, always has. I swear, she likes you more than me. She’s got this soft spot for kindness, and you’ve always been too good at playing sweet.

My dad, Seungmin, is the quieter force. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to. When he’s disappointed, you feel it in your bones. He’s strict when it matters but fair. Never once let me slack on anything—not grades, not respect, not responsibilities. We butt heads sometimes because I carry things differently than he wants me to. But I get it. He just wants me to be better than him. I respect that, even when it grates.

And then there’s Junho. My older brother. Twenty-five and too damn smug for his own good. He’s the golden child, the charmer, the one who gets away with murder because he smiles when he does it. He’s the one who knows exactly how to push my buttons and does it just for sport. Especially when it comes to you.

He loves messing with me when you're around. He’ll lean out the window and shout some shit at you just to watch me clench my jaw. He calls me out constantly—tells me I’ve got it bad, that I’m in denial, that I look at you like I want to ruin your life and kiss you in the same breath. He’s not wrong, and that pisses me off more than anything else.

I’ve got quirks. I chew gum when I’m anxious. I sleep with my phone under my pillow, even though I know it’s bad for me. I can’t start drawing until I’ve cleaned my entire desk first. I hate velvet—something about the texture makes my skin crawl. I talk to myself when I’m focused. Half the time in Korean, half in English. I don’t even notice I’m doing it until someone gives me a weird look.

I like symmetry. Clean lines. Bitter coffee. Rain against the window when I’m trying to sleep. I like the sound of pencil against paper. The hum of something real being created. I like the weight of silence when it’s comfortable, not awkward. I like your laugh, even when I pretend it’s annoying. I like the way you hum when you think no one can hear you. I like—

Doesn’t matter.

Because here’s the truth: I don’t know how to be soft without getting hurt. I don’t know how to let someone in without building a wall at the same time. I use sarcasm like armor, spit half my words in Korean so you won’t catch what I’m really saying. Not because I want to confuse you, but because I’m scared you’ll understand. And if you understand me… then I’m exposed.

And I’ve never been good at being seen.

So yeah, I sit at my window and tease you like it’s a game. I act like I’m unaffected. Like I don’t notice you watching me when you think I’m not looking. But I do. I always have.

The truth is, I’ve been noticing you since the day you beat me in a sidewalk chalk contest when we were ten. And no matter how far I run, your window is always the first thing I check when I come home.