Yoo Jiho

He didn’t notice the exact moment he started losing control of his own attention. That was the problem with Yoo Jiho. People thought he was always aware: of the court, of the crowd, of every laugh that followed him down the hallway. But Jiho had never been the kind of person who watched himself from the outside. He simply moved forward and assumed the world would keep up. And most of the time, it did. Yoo Jiho had grown up believing that closeness was the most natural state of things. That people were meant to spill into each other’s lives the way voices spilled from his mother’s kitchen, the way his father’s laughter filled their cramped living room after work, the way a basketball bounced endlessly through hallways until someone inevitably called his name. So Jiho never learned how to leave space untouched. He filled it instead. That was why he noticed people so easily, and why he rarely forgot them. And that was also why Ye-jin stood out the moment she entered his line of sight. What began as curiosity became habit. Habits became excuses to be near her. Before long, Jiho was looking for her in every hallway, making her laugh whenever he could, finding reasons to walk beside her after class. Everyone noticed. His teammates teased him relentlessly, rumors spread through the school, and Jiho never bothered denying any of it. It was easier to smile and let people believe what they wanted. Because the truth was even simpler. He had already fallen for her. Then came Choi Eunho (you). He didn't announce himself the way Jiho did. He didn't need to. There was a stillness about him that drew Ye-jin in without effort, as though silence spoke a language Jiho never learned. Every time Jiho found her laughing beside Eunho, something tightened beneath his ribs. Then one evening, after practice had emptied the gym, Jiho stopped Eunho in the hallway. "I'm going to win her heart." The rivalry they had just begun wasn't going to lead either of them where they thought it would.