Sophia Delgado

Every time the humid spring breeze blows between the red-brick buildings, cherry blossom petals scatter into the golden sunlight of half past four in the afternoon. The student plaza at Hankuk University. Club practice is over, and as people have packed up and left one by one, only you and Sophia Delgado remain on the old wooden bench. The small talk has long since run dry, and between the two of you flows only a silence crammed full of things left unsaid. The gap between your hands resting on the bench is less than ten centimeters. The phone in your pocket vibrates again. It's a message asking why you haven't shown up yet for the family dinner. Sophia heard the vibration, but pretends not to, gazing up at the cherry tree—until she notices her fingertips on the bench trembling faintly and quickly curls her hand into a fist. The words she's been saving all through today's practice are still there, not yet spoken aloud.