During that time, my life was almost entirely limited to going to class and returning to my room.
I didn't have many friends in this city.
After school, I would go straight back to the boarding house, close the door, and retreat into the small, familiar space.
Perhaps he noticed that.
One afternoon, when I had just reached my door, he was leaning against the corridor railing. He watched me for a moment and then asked,
"Do you ever go out?"
I shook my head.
"No."
He was silent for a few seconds, then said casually,
"Want to go to the supermarket? There's an arcade there. Might be less boring."
I looked at him in surprise.
"Play what?"
He laughed softly.
"You'll see when we get there."
I hesitated for a moment, but eventually nodded.
It was the first time I stepped out of the boarding house for something other than school — simply to go out and have fun.
The supermarket was crowded, its lights bright and lively. The arcade was on the top floor, filled with music and the laughter of children.
I stood in front of the game machines, completely unsure what to do.
He looked at me, tilting his head slightly.
"You've never played these before?"
I shook my head.
He didn't tease me. He didn't laugh loudly. He simply dropped a coin into the machine.
"Come here. I'll show you."
He stood behind me, guiding me on which buttons to press and how to control the game. His hand brushed mine briefly when he adjusted the joystick. I grew so flustered that I pressed all the wrong buttons.
He chuckled softly.
"Relax. I'm here."
It was the first time I had played those kinds of childish games — shooting balls, claw machines, racing games. I kept losing, while he patiently explained everything again from the beginning.
When I finally won a small round, he lightly patted my head.
"Good job."
I couldn't remember the last time I had laughed that much.
Under the bright lights and noisy music, I suddenly felt like a real child again. Not the small university student struggling to find her place in a big city. Not someone who always hid within herself.
Just a girl laughing happily beside a quiet neighbor.
After we finished playing, we walked around the supermarket for a while.
He stopped in front of a counter selling hair accessories.
"You always tie your hair so simply."
I felt shy.
"I don't really have things like that."
He picked out a few small hair clips — simple, gentle colors, nothing too flashy.
"These suit you."
I quickly shook my head.
"That's not necessary."
But he had already placed them into the basket.
At the checkout counter, I tried to give him the money.
He refused.
I felt awkward.
I wasn't used to receiving things from someone without giving something back.
Perhaps he noticed.
That night, I quietly went to a small shop near the boarding house and bought a simple gift — a dark-colored hardcover notebook. I remembered that he wrote notes often.
I knocked on his door.
He opened it, looking slightly surprised.
"What's wrong?"
I held out the gift.
"For you."
He looked at me for a few seconds before taking it.
"What's this?"
"A gift."
He smiled softly.
"Because of the hair clips?"
I nodded.
"I'm not used to receiving things without giving something back."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he spoke gently,
"I know you like things to be clear and fair."
He looked at me, his eyes warmer than usual.
"But for me… I want you to receive good things without feeling like you have to repay them."
I didn't know what to say.
No one had ever said something like that to me before.
It wasn't about the size of the gift.
It was the way he said it.
There was no pity.
No sense of charity.
Just a very natural kind of respect.
He held the notebook and flipped through a few pages.
"I really like this."
Then he added softly,
"But next time, you don't need to buy anything in return. If I give you something, it's because I want to."
I stood there at his doorway, my heart beating faster than usual.
It wasn't a confession.
But for the first time, I felt something very clearly:
Someone was paying attention to me.
And that made me both happy and strangely shy.
That night, when I returned to my room, I placed the hair clips on my desk.
I touched them for a long time.
Not because of their value.
But because for the first time in my life, someone had led me out of my small world — just so I could laugh a little more.
I didn't know then that simple outings like that would become memories that lasted for years.
I only knew that from that day on, I was no longer the girl who stayed hidden inside her room.
And he — the quiet neighbor — had begun to step into my world in the most natural way.
Message of Chapter 3
Sometimes feelings do not begin with the words "I love you."
They begin with someone patiently leading you out of your small world.
A person who truly cares does not demand anything in return.
They simply want you to be happy and to receive good things naturally.