Let Her Be Bi

 The campus courtyard was littered with late cherry leaves—pale, almost ghost like now in the mid-autumn air. A wind came down from the north, not sharp but constant, carrying the scent of dry leaves and distant incense from the small temple across the street.

He stood beneath a tree whose yellow leaves rained down in slow, reluctant spirals. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his oversized black hoodie, head tilted upward, lips moving silently—praying, or at least pretending he knew how.

His name was Ji-hoon, a Korean student just over twenty. He had the kind of hair people noticed before they noticed his eyes—light brown, impossibly straight, cascading down past his shoulders like it had been cut from silk. There was something theatrical in his presence, but today, his elegance was dimmed by the storm behind his eyes.

Agony didn’t wear a mask with Ji-hoon—it sat openly on his face. His jaw clenched. His brows curved with disbelief. His lips trembled with questions he hadn’t dared to ask aloud.

He had just heard something from a friend. And it wasn’t just anything—it was the kind of news that changed the temperature of the blood in your veins.

Her name was Aiko.

She was the kind of girl whose laugh felt like music made just for spring. Her eyes, warm and unreadable at the same time, could undo him with a glance. They shared notes in class, exchanged quiet smiles, and once—only once—shared a coffee beneath this very tree when it was still green.

She was Japanese. Brilliant. Beautiful. And now, it seemed, unreachable.

His friend, with the careless weight of someone not in love, had told him she was a lesbian. Not just unsure. Not questioning. But in love—with someone else. A girlfriend. A serious, hidden relationship.

Ji-hoon hadn’t said anything in reply. He had just turned and walked. Straight here. To this courtyard. To this wind.

Now, he stood still, wishing he hadn’t asked. Wishing he hadn’t listened. Wishing something so invisible as hope didn’t feel so heavy.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice a mist in the cold air. “Let her be bi. Let there be space for me, even in a corner of her heart. Even in the future. Anything but nothing.”

He clenched his fists, pressing the prayer into his palms.

The bell in the tower began to toll for the next class. But he didn’t move.

Because love is a kind of madness, and heartbreak is its quiet twin—arriving not with shouts, but with silence, with stillness.

Somewhere behind him, laughter echoed faintly. And though he didn’t turn, he knew it was her.

He closed his eyes. Held his breath.

And prayed again—not to win, not anymore. Just to be seen. Just to matter.

Even if only in a fleeting way. Like the leaves that fall in mid-November, never knowing if they’ll land at someone’s feet.

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