The school bell rang, its metallic chime echoing through the tiled corridors like a ritual. The first day had barely begun, but it already felt like a slow unfolding for Y/n — layers of a new life unwrapping one silent moment at a time.
Her next class was Korean Culture & Language Immersion, a mandatory subject for international students, paired with native students for weekly conversational activities. She walked there briskly, mapping the route in her mind, eyes darting to every column, every line in the school's architecture. Hwarang High's structure fascinated her — a blend of glass corridors and wooden accents, angular yet soft, symmetrical yet expressive.
She stopped just before entering the classroom, pulled out her sketchpad, and did a quick freehand outline of the hallway — the slanted ceiling lights, the narrow windows, the way the sunlight pooled against the edges.
"Architecture is rhythm," her father had once said, watching her draw floor plans on old brown paper rolls.
"Even silence has structure."
In the culture class, they were seated in pairs. Y/n scanned the room for an empty desk, but the only available seat was already occupied — by someone familiar.
Kim Taehyung.
She hesitated only for a moment, then quietly approached.
"Is this taken?"
He looked up. His gaze held a quiet amusement, as if the universe had been conspiring again.
"No," he replied softly, tapping the seat beside him.
Y/n nodded and sat down, opening her notebook with careful precision. The air around them felt... calm. Not charged. Just aware.
The teacher began, explaining the origins of Hangeul, how the characters mirrored the shape of the mouth and tongue when spoken — a perfect example of design meeting function. Y/n listened attentively, fascinated by the logic behind the script. She copied a few letters, circled them, then began tracing their shapes into little architectural lines — converting each syllable into a pillar, a curve, a doorway.
Taehyung tilted his head slightly toward her page.
"You see buildings in letters?" he murmured.
Y/n blinked, then smiled. "Sometimes. I want to be an architect."
He nodded, eyes returning to his notebook. "Then you'll love Bukchon Hanok Village. The rooftops. The way they bend with the sky."
His voice was low, unintrusive, but somehow intimate — like a bookmark placed into a chapter for later.
"Have you sketched it?" she asked.
"Not yet. I wait for places to feel familiar before I draw them."
As the class ended, the teacher handed out a cultural reflection assignment. They were to observe something Korean this week — a ritual, a moment, a habit — and reflect on how it was different from their own.
Y/n already knew what she wanted to write about.
The architecture.
The subtle, poetic way Korean buildings bowed to nature, not fought it. How homes blended with the land instead of standing out. It was the opposite of Jaipur's vibrant, sun-soaked palaces — but somehow, equally powerful.
Later that afternoon, the cafeteria buzzed with life. It was open and airy, with glass walls overlooking a small school garden. Y/n stood in line quietly, tray in hand, peeking at unfamiliar dishes — kimbap, tteokbokki, seaweed soup.
Behind her, a voice asked, "You're vegetarian, right?"
She turned to see the girl with round glasses from earlier — the one who waved during her introduction.
"I'm Hana," the girl said, smiling. "I'm in Class 2-B too. My cousin's vegetarian — I can help."
Relieved, Y/n nodded. "Thank you. I'm Y/n."
"I know," Hana grinned, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Everyone knows. You're the girl Taehyung actually looked at."
Y/n blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"
Hana laughed. "He never pays attention to anyone. Like ever. But today? Paper crane? First glance? That's... something."
Y/n didn't know what to say. She wasn't used to this — being observed, being part of quiet rumors. She just wanted to survive lunch.
With Hana's help, she picked up a plate of stir-fried vegetables, steamed rice, and miso soup. They sat near a window, and slowly, conversation trickled into comfort. Hana was curious, talkative, and kind — the kind of girl who remembered birthdays and never let someone eat alone.
Y/n told her about Jaipur, about old forts and monsoon palace walls and flying kites in January. Hana shared stories about temple festivals and how her grandma still made kimchi at home in giant clay jars.
Across the cafeteria, Taehyung sat with a group of boys. He wasn't laughing or talking much. But once, just once, his eyes drifted to Y/n's table. And stayed for a second longer than casual.
That evening, back in her dorm, Y/n unpacked slowly.
The room was small but sunlit, with a neat bed, a study table, and a view of the city skyline. She placed her sketchbooks on the desk, framed a little photo of her family beside her lamp, and opened a new journal.
She wrote:
"First day in Seoul. The city feels quiet and loud at the same time. I miss the warmth of Jaipur's stone walls and noisy streets. But I think I'll find poetry here too — in the way buildings lean into the sky instead of the earth. And maybe, in the way one person looks up from the back row and sees me."
She didn't sign it. She never signed her journals. But that night, as the city lights blinked softly in the distance, Y/n felt something inside her shift.
Not a dramatic change. Not a sudden pull.
Just the gentle feeling that she was meant to be here.
And maybe... someone else felt it too.
The next morning arrived like a hush — grey skies, quiet wind, and that gentle hum of Seoul waking up.
Y/n walked to school with her coat buttoned up to her chin and sketchbook tucked against her chest like a heartbeat. The city still felt unfamiliar — like a language she hadn't quite learned how to speak with her feet. But something about its lines pulled her in: the elegant curves of bridges, the way even alleys seemed designed, not accidental.
She arrived earlier than usual. The school corridors were almost empty, but the janitor was wiping the glass doors near the art wing. As she passed, he smiled and bowed. She bowed back, quietly thankful for these small, respectful rituals she was learning each day.
When she reached Classroom 2-B, the lights were still off — except for the faint blue glow of morning outside the windows. She stepped in, inhaled deeply, and paused.
He was already there.
Kim Taehyung sat at his usual last bench, half-leaning against the window frame, sketchbook on his lap, completely immersed in a drawing.
Y/n thought about pretending she hadn't seen him. But something about the moment was... still. Honest.
She took her usual front-row seat.
Silence stretched between them like a thread of silk. Not uncomfortable. Just present.
She opened her sketchbook too.
Today, she tried drawing Bukchon Hanok Village — not from memory, but from a photo she had saved. Its tiled rooftops reminded her of Rajasthani haveli terraces, except lower, more humble, curved like bows. She added little details — lanterns hanging, people walking in hanboks, alleys nestled like whispered secrets.
She didn't notice when Taehyung walked forward.
But she saw his shadow fall on the page before she saw his hand.
He held out a folded piece of paper — plain white, perfectly creased.
Another crane.
This time, he spoke.
"I made this while listening to you talk about Jaipur yesterday."
Y/n looked up, surprised.
"It's... for me?"
He gave a small nod. "Your drawing reminded me of a place I've never seen, but I felt it."
She gently took the crane and smiled.
"Then maybe you're an architect too," she said softly.
He tilted his head. "Maybe. Of feelings, not buildings."
Classes began as usual, but the air around her felt lighter — as though the morning had dropped a stone in the still water of her day, and the ripples would follow her for hours.
During literature class, they discussed Korean poetry — haiku-like verses with emotion tucked between syllables. The teacher asked if any international student would like to read one aloud. No one volunteered at first.
Y/n surprised even herself by raising her hand.
She stood, took a slow breath, and read:
"The wind does not ask
why the flower leans that way —
it simply follows."
The room fell quiet for a moment. Then the teacher smiled, nodding with approval.
Taehyung, in the back, was watching again. But this time, his gaze didn't feel like a mystery.
It felt like encouragement.
By the time lunch arrived, Hana had claimed her again.
"I'm not letting you sit alone today," she said, dragging Y/n toward the courtyard where sakura trees stood bare, their branches like skeletons waiting for spring.
They ate on the stone steps, laughing over chopsticks and cultural confusion. Hana offered Y/n a rice ball with pickled plum inside. Y/n wrinkled her nose but tried it anyway.
"It's... salty and sweet at the same time," she said.
"Like Seoul," Hana grinned. "A bit of everything."
Y/n smiled. "It's like Jaipur too. Everything layered — history, colors, noise, silence."
"You miss home?"
Y/n nodded. "Every day. But less than yesterday."
Later that evening, back in the dorm, Y/n opened her drawer and lined up the paper cranes — two now. She wrote a tiny note under them on a yellow sticky pad:
Paper doesn't fly unless you fold it.
People don't grow unless they step out.
She taped it beside her mirror.
Then she pulled out her architecture journal — the thick, spiral-bound one she hadn't touched since arriving. She opened to a clean page and titled it:
Korea Through an Architect's Eyes – Week One
She began sketching things she had noticed —
A pagoda roof near the metro station
The way sunlight filtered through the latticework of a temple gate
A street vendor's cart, curved like a camel saddle from Rajasthan but standing on Seoul's wet pavement
She didn't know it then, but these sketches would one day become part of her design portfolio — the first seeds of her vision to blend cultures through space.
By the time the stars were out, she sat at her window with a mug of warm chai from a packet her mom had slipped into her suitcase. She sipped slowly, watching the quiet city blink beneath her.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed.
An unknown Korean number.
She hesitated, then opened the message.
You draw feelings.
So here's one back.
[Image Attachment: A sketch of her — in pencil, soft lines — sitting at the stone courtyard steps, laughing. Beside her? A small paper crane drawn mid-flight.]
— T.
Y/n blinked.
A smile rose slowly, like the moon behind a cloud.
She didn't reply.
But she saved the sketch.
And that night, for the first time in Seoul...
she dreamed in both sandstone and cherry blossoms.
The week moved like watercolor on handmade paper — slow, bleeding color into corners, soft but unpredictable.
Y/n was beginning to settle into her new rhythm: wake before sunrise, fold her blankets with practiced care, prepare her notes, and walk to school early. Her footsteps were memorizing the path — the slightly cracked pavement outside the dorm, the bakery on the corner that smelled of red bean buns, the ivy-covered wall near the school gate.
But today, something changed.
As she entered the school grounds, she noticed a boy standing near the bench beneath the ginkgo tree. A familiar silhouette — sketchbook open, earphones in.
Taehyung.
She hesitated. Should she walk past? Say good morning?
As if sensing her pause, he turned slightly. One of his earphones dangled, letting the quiet notes of a classical guitar solo drift toward her.
"You always arrive early," he said, not looking up from his page.
Y/n smiled gently. "So do you."
He finally looked at her, his eyes calm but curious. "I like drawing before the world wakes."
She nodded. "Me too. Except I sketch buildings, not people."
Taehyung looked amused. "You sketched me."
"That was... unintentional."
"That's the best kind," he murmured.
Their unspoken companionship grew over the following days. They didn't walk to school together, or share notes, or talk in class. But they found each other in quiet corners — the art room before class, the library after lunch, the sunlit window during breaks.
Sometimes he would hand her a paper crane with a scribbled word inside.
"Balance."
"Foundation."
"Elevation."
They were all architectural terms. But she knew he meant something more.
In return, Y/n began placing small sketches on his desk — details from Seoul's older buildings: the hand-carved arch of a temple gate, the flowing lines of a bridge, the sloping edge of a hanok rooftop.
It was their language now.
One without sound.
But full of shape.
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