The Boy Who Walked Past Me Every Spring

By Femina Ashik The morning in Seoul did not wake with a shout, but with a soft, persistent glow that filtered through the high windows of the female dormitory. It was mid - April, the time of year when the city felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the cherry blossoms to finish their fleeting performance. Min-ji sat on the edge of her bed, the floorboards cool beneath her feet. In the room, the familiar symphony of dorm life was beginning — the distant sound of a blow-dryer, the muffled complaints of So-Young searching for her lost cardigan, and the quiet, steady rhythm of Yoo-jung typing away at her laptop. “Min-ji-ya, are you heading to the library again?” Hae-rin asked, pausing as she tied her sneakers. She looked at Min-ji with a mix of concern and exasperation. “It’s spring, even the pigeons are pairing up. You should try walking through the Han River park instead of burying your nose in 19th-century literature.” Min- ji offered a small, practiced smile as she packed her bag. ”I swear, if she stays in that corner seat any longer, she’ll become part of the furniture. And trust me, I’ve heard the rumors. Half the girls in the department are camping out at the library just to get a glimpse of Senior Ji-hoon, and our Min-ji is probably the only one who doesn’t even notice he’s sitting three rows back.” Min-ji’s heart gave an involuntary stutter. She kept her gaze fixed on her notebook, tucking a loose strand of hair into her ear. “I don't really pay attention to who sits where,” she said, her voice sounding perfectly casual to her own ears. Another lie, she thought. I know exactly which chair he uses. I know the way he taps his pen when he’s stuck on a blueprint. I have known for a year. Across the sprawling campus, in the male dormitory, Ji-hoon was staring at his reflection in the hallway mirror. He adjusted his denim jacket, his fingers brushing against the fabric. He wasn’t the type to care about his appearance — he was the type to care about presence. His younger brother, Ji-min, had sent him a barrage of texts earlier that morning. “Moving to the dorms, changing your schedule, acting like a hermit — you’re not fooling anyone, Hyung. Just ask her out.” Ji-hoon swiped the notification away with a calm, practiced thumb. He wasn’t playing a game. He was laying a foundation. He knew that for someone like Min-ji who lived her life in the margins, quiet and unassuming – a sudden, bold approach would be the fastest way to make her run. So, he had become a fixture in her periphery. He had moved his entire architecture studio work to the university library, enduring the noise and the crowds, just to be within a twenty-foot radius of her. She’s leaving now, he noted, checking the time. She’ll take the path by the faculty building. He stepped out of the dorm, the cool Seoul breeze brushing past him. He walked with a steady, unhurried pace, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. He had all the time in the world. The campus was a blur of movement. Students rushed to class, their voices overlapping in a chaotic mix of Korean and English. Min-ji walked near the edge of the path, her arms cradling a heavy stack of research books. She enjoyed the solitude of the walk, the way the cherry blossom petals clung to her sweater, small specks of pink against the cream knit. She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the group of students coming up fast behind her. Someone laughed, a loud, jarring sound that startled her. Her foot caught in an uneven paving stone, and the world lurched. ‘Oh!” she cried, dropping to her knees to save her notes, but her balance was gone, and she stumbled, her face heating with the sudden, sharp embarrassment of a public accident. “You’re going to drop everything if you keep rushing like that.” The voice was low, resonating with a calm, familiar authority that made the noise of the campus fade into a dull hum. Min-ji froze, her hand hovering over a scattered pile of papers. She looked up. Ji-hoon was kneeling on the pavement in front of her, his hands were already gathering her notes with an efficiency that felt oddly intimate. He stood, his shadow falling over her, and held out her phone. “Here,” he said. His eyes were dark, attentive, and entirely fixed on her. “Thank you,” she managed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She took the phone, her fingers trembling slightly against his palm. He didn’t walk away. He stood there, shielding her from the curious eyes of the student who had begun to stop and stare. It was a subtle, protective gesture — he had positioned himself as a wall between her and the crowd. “You’re in the literature department, right?” he asked, his tone dropping one octave, becoming more personal, “I’ve seen you in the library. You’re always in that corner seat by the window.” Min-ji’s breath hitched. He had seen her? For a year, she had assumed he didn’t even know she existed. “I….yes, it’s quiet there,” she stammered, her mind racing to find a coherent sentence. “It is,” he agreed, his lips curling into a faint, mischievous smile. He held her gaze for a second longer than was necessary, his eyes tracing the line of her jaw before he finally stepped back. “I’ll see you around, Min-ji.” He walked away, leaving her standing in the center of the path, the world around her buzzing with whispers. She didn’t see him stop twenty paces away, turning slightly to look back, his expression darkening with a possessiveness he no longer cared to hide.