The Silence Of Lost Feelings

Lumen Mun had always been the kind of student who could coast through school on sheer intellectual prowess. He rarely needed to study, his mind absorbing information with ease while others struggled to keep up. Teachers often shook their heads at his potential—brilliant, they'd say, but lazy. They spoke of him as a "wasted opportunity," a genius who didn't seem to care about his own brilliance. To Lumen, though, school was a game of appearances. He didn't care about grades or expectations. Life felt like a predictable routine, a series of monotonous steps he had no desire to challenge. The only thing that ever truly captured his attention was his art, though even that was done in idle moments, as a means to escape the weight of the world around him. His notebooks were filled with the beginnings of sketches—trees, faces, landscapes—nothing more than fleeting thoughts captured on paper.

Then, everything changed with the arrival of a new student. Lina Elara.

The beginning of the semester was always filled with new faces, but none quite like hers. She transferred mid-year, her presence like a gentle breeze that swept through the classroom. She wasn't conventionally striking, but there was something about her—a quiet allure, a warmth in the way she moved and interacted with people. When she entered the classroom, it wasn't her beauty that caught the attention of the room but her aura—an unspoken confidence and an openness that drew people in. Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, framing her face in a way that seemed effortless, and her eyes—bright, curious—scanned the room with a sense of quiet observation, as if she were already mapping out the dynamics of the place.

Lumen didn't look up at first. New students came and went, and he couldn't care less about the transient nature of it all. But then, fate, in its infinite way, placed her in the empty desk beside him. Lumen barely registered her presence at first, too engrossed in his latest sketch to be bothered by the world around him. But when she sat down, a soft, almost imperceptible fragrance of floral perfume reached him—subtle, but enough to make him pause. It wasn't strong, yet it lingered in the air like a gentle reminder of something new.

"Hi," she said, her voice light, like the first breath of spring air. "I'm Lina."

Lumen didn't answer right away. His pencil hovered over the page, the momentum of his thoughts interrupted. He glanced at her briefly, unsure of how to react. "Mun...Lumen Mun," he muttered, his voice curt and guarded, unsure of what else to say.

The lesson proceeded, but Lumen's attention kept straying back to her. There was something about her calm composure, her way of absorbing everything with such quiet focus. While he scribbled mindlessly, her neat, looping handwriting contrasted sharply with his chaotic scrawl. She seemed to take everything in with a kind of intensity—an intensity that piqued Max's curiosity.

When the bell rang and the chaos of students packing up began, Lumen quickly shoved his notebook into his bag, eager to avoid any unnecessary conversation. But before he could escape, he heard her voice again, this time with a note of genuine interest.

"You're good at drawing," Lina remarked, her eyes fixed on his notebook. Lumen froze. His mind raced, his pulse quickening as he realized she had seen the rough sketch of a tree he'd been working on.

"It's nothing," he muttered, quickly closing the notebook and tucking it away.

But Lina wasn't easily deterred. She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing in a way that seemed both inquisitive and appreciative. "Nothing? I think it's better than anything I could do. Do you draw often?"

Lumen shrugged, not sure how to explain his relationship with drawing. "Not really. Just… something to pass the time."

"Well," she said, smiling warmly, "you're good at it. You should keep at it."

Her words caught Lumen off guard. He wasn't used to compliments, especially not ones that felt so sincere. Most people had dismissed his art as nothing more than idle scribbles—something to pass the time when he was bored—but Lina's words felt different. They made him wonder, for the first time, if his sketches were worth something. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they were more than just distractions.

"Thanks," he said quietly, feeling a strange warmth bloom in his chest.

---

In the following days, Lumen found himself distracted by Lina's presence. He couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. She was easy to be around, her gentle laughter a balm to his usually solitary existence. It didn't take long for her to integrate herself into the class, her friendly demeanor winning over both students and teachers alike. People gravitated toward her, drawn to her infectious optimism and warmth. Lumen, on the other hand, remained the same—aloof, guarded, his walls carefully constructed.

But Lina didn't seem to mind his distance. She sought him out, in the quiet corners of the school or during lunch breaks, always with the same unshakable determination. She would sit beside him, asking him questions that probed beneath his surface, refusing to let him hide behind his reticence. Slowly, like a gentle stream wearing away at stone, she began to break down the walls he had so carefully built.

One afternoon, as Lumen sat under a large tree, sketching in solitude, Lina appeared beside him without warning. He startled for a moment before glancing up at her.

"What are you working on?" she asked, peering over his shoulder.

Lumen shifted uncomfortably, his hand instinctively pulling his sketchbook closer to his chest. "Just a landscape," he mumbled.

She studied it for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "It's beautiful," she said, her voice quiet yet genuine. "You've got an eye for detail. It's like I can feel the breeze just by looking at it."

Lumen blinked, caught off guard by her words. No one had ever spoken about his art like that—no one had ever seen it like she did. In that moment, something inside him shifted. It wasn't just about drawing anymore; it was about being seen, truly seen for the first time.

"Thanks," he murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips. For the first time, he felt the weight of his drawings lifted from the confines of his own mind and shared with someone who appreciated them.

From that day forward, Lumen's life began to change in ways he hadn't expected. Lina would seek him out during breaks, sit with him during group activities, and ask him more questions about his art, about his life. Slowly, Lumen found himself opening up to her. He started sharing his sketches, letting her into the world he had kept hidden. In return, Lina opened up to him as well—telling him about her passion for painting, her dream of one day exhibiting her work in a gallery, the way art made her feel alive.

Their conversations became a bridge between their worlds, each exchange drawing them closer together. For Lumen, who had always been content with his own solitude, Lina became a presence he could no longer ignore. And for Lina, Lumen's quiet depth and raw talent intrigued her in a way no one else had. They were different, yet in their differences, they found something that felt real and unspoken. Their connection grew slowly but steadily, like the roots of a tree spreading beneath the surface.

By the end of the semester, their bond was undeniable. They were opposites in so many ways—Lina's vibrant energy complementing Lumen's quiet demeanor—but together, they balanced each other in a way that felt effortless, natural. The friendship they had built seemed destined to become something more, though neither of them dared to voice it aloud.

One afternoon, as they sat together under the same tree, Lumen was lost in his sketching while Lina read a book beside him. She looked up from her pages and smiled, her voice soft as she spoke.

"You know," she said, "I think you could do great things with your art. If you really wanted to."

Lumen paused, his pencil hovering over the paper as her words sank in. For a moment, he wasn't the aloof, indifferent student anymore. He was simply Lumen Mun, the person who had once only dreamed of creating something more than idle doodles. Her belief in him felt like a key turning in a locked door that had always been closed.

"Maybe," he replied quietly, but for the first time, he didn't doubt it. Something within him had shifted, just enough for him to believe that maybe he could do something great after all.

And so, the seeds of something profound were planted that day—seeds of a story that would grow, twist, and change in ways they could neither predict nor control. A story that would be shaped by love, loss, regret, and growth—each moment, each turn, marking them both forever.