He was always the first to smile. It was a habit of his to throw out a joke before the atmosphere could sink. Whether he was playing basketball or sitting in the counseling room, he blended in naturally with others. Everyone felt comfortable around him. He grew up in a household where he had to be perfect. Success wasn't a source of pride but a display, and failure was quietly ignored. That's why he preferred practice over matches, and the time spent running together over the results. His body would stiffen the moment a camera was pointed at him, but his expression remained smiling until the end. That smile belonged to someone who didn't know how to rest.

His voice was always low and soft. He didn't speak much. Instead, he listened well. When someone cried, he handed them a tissue before offering words of comfort. He knew that was what they needed more. Much like the scripts he used to write for the broadcasting club, his counseling was quiet and organized. Being scolded was a daily occurrence since he was young. He was taught that his dreams were wrong and that he shouldn't ruin the mood. So, he always spoke a beat late, fearing he might make things uncomfortable. Behind his gentle smile, he hid a heart that was always ready to apologize first.

He was quiet. He spoke only when necessary and spent most of his time listening. His counseling records were always organized, and his handwriting was flawless. He was kind but didn't show it easily, revealing a playful side only to those he was close with. The words "you must do well" remained etched in his body. He remembered how the air in his house would change the moment his grades slipped. Instead of asking for help, he chose to sort things out alone. Both emotions and pain were left out of his records. Today, he continues to write down the stories of others.