The slide was cold against Mira's back. She curled tighter, pressing her face into her knees. The other kids had run off to play soccer, their shouts fading into the distance.
A shadow fell across her.
She didn't look up.
Something thumped onto the ground beside her. A carton of strawberry milk, condensation already beading on the cardboard.
Mira lifted her head just enough to see scuffed black sneakers walking away.
She waited until the footsteps faded before reaching for it.
The next morning, an origami crane sat on Jae's desk.
He didn't smile. But his fingers tapped the edge of his chair—tap, tap, pause, tap—as he watched her from across the room.
---
Mira didn't come out from under the slide at recess.
Jae found her there, knees drawn up, her left ear red from where she'd been tugging at it.
He didn't ask. Just crouched and slid a carton of strawberry milk toward her.
This time, she didn't take it.
Jae waited.
One minute. Two.
Finally, Mira reached into her pocket and held out a folded piece of paper.
They called me Stutterbird again.
Jae read it. Then, without a word, he crumpled the note and stood.
Mira thought he'd leave.
Instead, he sat down beside her, his shoulder brushing hers, and opened the milk carton himself.
They drank it in silence, passing it back and forth until there was nothing left.
---
Winter bit through the playground air.
Mira shivered at her desk, rubbing her hands together. Her scarf was gone—lost somewhere between the bus stop and the school gates.
At recess, she stayed inside, tracing letters in her notebook to keep warm.
A shadow fell across the page.
Jae dropped something onto her desk.
Her scarf.
Mira blinked up at him.
He was already walking away, his own scarf wrapped tight around his neck.
She pressed the fabric to her face. It smelled like laundry soap.
And faintly, just faintly, like strawberry milk.
---
Mira found the folded paper tucked in her desk on the last day before winter break.
Inside, a crude drawing of a rabbit with one ear flopped over. Beneath it, in messy handwriting:
Happy Birthday Stutterbird
She glanced across the classroom. Jae was staring out the window, fingers drumming that familiar rhythm against the glass.
Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap.
Mira pressed the note to her chest and didn't stutter once all day.
---
The transfer notice came in May.
Mira stood by the classroom window, watching Jae kick a soccer ball alone on the field. She'd written three notes. Torn up all of them.
In the end, she left nothing but a single strawberry milk carton on his desk.
When she turned back at the gate, he was still on the field.
Not waving.
Not watching.
Just kicking the ball against the fence in that same steady rhythm.
Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap.
Like a heartbeat.
Like goodbye.