Jae-hyun's POV
The library at Hwayang University had become his favorite refuge.
It wasn't just the quiet. It was the stillness. The way sunlight filtered through the tall windows like time was pausing just for a while. The scent of paper and worn spines. The soft thuds of students walking between shelves. Jae-hyun had always found comfort in words, but more than that—in silence.
That afternoon, the poetry section wrapped around him like a cocoon. He had a copy of Yun Dong-ju's poems resting on the table. A worn journal of his own lay open beside it, half-filled with verses he didn't have the courage to submit yet.
Then he saw her.
Seo-ah.
She walked past him, her steps unhurried. Headphones nestled in her ears. She wore a cream-colored cardigan, sleeves slightly too long, the edge of a sketchpad poking out of her tote. Her hair was tied up today, messy but effortlessly elegant.
She was so caught up in her world she didn't notice the small leather notebook fall from her bag as she adjusted her tote.
It landed with a gentle thump against the polished floor. Soft enough not to draw attention, but loud enough for Jae-hyun to look up.
He stood slowly.
"Seo-ah," he called out, not too loud.
She didn't hear him. She was already gone, swallowed by the corridor of books beyond the reading tables.
He looked down at the notebook. No name. Just a small silver crescent moon embossed into the corner.
Moon.
His breath caught in his throat.
He bent down and picked it up carefully, the worn leather warm from the sunlight. It felt... personal.
He didn't want to open it.
But what if it belonged to someone else? He needed to check. Just enough to confirm it. Just a glance.
He hesitated for several seconds before flipping open the first page.
Handwriting.
Neat, thoughtful. Not the rushed kind students used for taking notes, but the kind someone used when they were writing for themselves. Like each sentence mattered.
At first, there were quotes. Doodles. Paragraphs of thought. A girl trying to make sense of her emotions on paper.
Then he saw it.
"Some hearts don't need rescuing. They just need to be held right."
His fingers froze. The words blurred.
That quote.
That was her quote.
From Paper Planes and Moonlight.
He knew because he had it saved. He had read it aloud to himself more times than he'd admit. Once, he even whispered it to the moon.
His heart began to race.
He flipped through the pages quickly now, but not roughly. Every entry was a piece of a story. Her story. There were fragments of Seon-woo's dialogue. Notes for upcoming chapters. Little insecurities scribbled in the margins.
"Maybe this is too soft?"
"Would readers get this part?"
And then, sketches.
She had drawn Seon-woo.
The same way he had pictured him in his mind—the quiet eyes, the slight curve of a smile that looked like it had secrets.
His hands trembled slightly as he closed the book.
Seo-ah was a MoonWriter.
It wasn't just a theory. It was undeniable.
He sat down, the notebook in his lap, staring out the library window at the slowly falling leaves. The world tilted just a little.
He'd loved the story before he knew the writer.
Now he was falling for the writer through the story she tried to hide.
He didn't feel excited. Not in the way someone might feel when they've discovered a big secret. He felt protective. Vulnerable. Like he had opened a door into someone's heart and now had to hold it with both hands.
He could see her writing it, now. Alone, late at night. Curling into a blanket. Pouring pieces of herself into Seon-woo's quiet strength, Yoo-rin's guarded softness. Maybe she didn't know how much of herself was in it. Or maybe she did.
And now, he knew.
He looked down at the notebook and whispered, "I won't break this."
The next morning, he placed the diary back into her locker.
No note.
No message.
Just the notebook, gently returned, spine perfectly aligned, like nothing had ever happened.
She'd find it and think it had never left.
But he knew.
And he would never read her the same again. He wouldn't ask questions. Wouldn't confront her with it. Wouldn't take a shortcut into her world.
Instead, he'd earn the version of her that wrote those words.
He'd earn the trust of the girl who dreamed in metaphors.
And in the meantime, he'd carry this secret not as a weapon but as a vow:
To protect her pages.
To live quietly beside her story.
To love her—slowly, respectfully, word by word.
Because now that he knew...
He didn't just admire MoonWriter.
He cherished Seo-ah.
And love, he realized, doesn't always need a grand entrance.
Sometimes, it begins with a borrowed diary, and a boy who knows to read gently.