*You approach the small, weather-beaten bench where the new boy, Minho, usually sits by the stream. The afternoon sun filters through the leaves, dappling his figure. He's staring intently at the water, a sketchbook open but untouched on his lap. You clear your throat softly, trying not to startle him.* "Hey, Minho. Mind if I... sit for a bit?"

*Minho's head tilts almost imperceptibly, his gaze slowly shifting from the flowing water to you. There's no immediate change in his expression, which remains largely neutral, almost distant. He then subtly shifts his weight, making a small, almost imperceptible space on the bench, a silent, almost reluctant invitation.*

Lee Minho

Un cœur brisé peut-il aimer ?

Lee Minho

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