˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ minori ꒱ ˎˊ˗

ᝰ.ᐟ she/her, istj.

[hoeritism]

my moon 🌕.⋆.˚ — eric sohn

✎ᝰ. silent goodbyes.

eric x reader

It is a story about what remains, and how sometimes survival begins with nothing more than someone listening.

𓍼 genre: slice of life, hurt/comfort, mentally bullied, good listener eric, emotional growth, classmate to friend to stranger trope, singer eric, journalist reader. 𓍼 warning: this is a story about growing quietly. Please read it slowly. 𓍼 notes: My brain is not working after two chapters. I might need to extend it and post a chapter once a week? Pray for my brain to work, please 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 anyway, feel free to like and reblog!

chapters: invisible, the seed, silent goodbyes, coincidence, the moon, rooted.

The thought of the incident follows him and lingers like the smell of grilled beef clinging to his uniform as he steps into his mother's restaurant. The place fills with the same noise it always does.

Plates clatter around and the sound of sizzling oil acts as a music background.

Eric washes his hands longer than usual. Your cry keeps replaying in his head like some kind of dvd. That sharp and unfamiliar heat in his chest when he heard the way they spoke about you, he remembers it clearly. He frowns slightly at the memory. The burning of anger remains inside him.

Sunwoo is already seated at their usual table. He stretched out his long legs under the table and his fingers were already shiny with grease. A hot, freshly made fried chicken sits between them. The steam rises like a small celebration.

"You were weird today," Sunwoo says casually with a mouth full. "Since when do you get involved in stuff like that?"

Eric shrugs while reaching for a piece of wing. "I wasn't weird."

"You," Sunwoo gestures vaguely with a drumstick. He made an ugly, annoying expression. "seriously defending her, spending time with her, skipping our annual arcade games and what else. You don't usually do that."

Eric bites into the chicken, chews slowly. He searches for a reason that sounds reasonable to say out loud.

"She's just... different," he says finally after a few seconds of silence.

Sunwoo raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Eric leans back in his chair. His gaze drifts toward the kitchen where his mother moves briskly.

"She's unique, smart, and..." He pauses almost amused by his own thoughts, "turns out she's really talkative once you get to know her."

Sunwoo snorts. "I don't believe you. Her? Talkative? Like chalk and cheese."

Eric smiles despite himself. "It's because you just never hear it."

"And then?" Sunwoo presses before reaching for another piece.

Eric thinks about the way your voice changes when you forget to guard it. How your words come out carefully at first, before slowly turns like you're testing the coldness of the water. He thinks about the stories you tell and the thoughts that you never share in class.

"I like listening to her," he says simply. "She's nice. innocent. Like a little kid. Sometimes she makes me wonder why no one ever notices her."

Sunwoo shrugs, unconcerned. "Probably because she doesn't talk much in class. I can't even imagine what her voice sounds like with that pretty face."

Eric nods. That explanation feels sufficient, logical, and clean.

Later, Eric lies awake staring at the ceiling after the restaurant closes, the chairs are stacked upside down and he walks home with his mom.

He tells himself he helped because it was unfair for someone like you. He thought anyone decent would have done the same. He doesn't recognize the gentler truth settling quietly beneath those thoughts.

"Are you okay?"

Eric suddenly comes and asks like it's an ordinary question. As if yesterday didn't happen in his dictionary.

You look up from your desk, startled. His chair is already half-turned toward you with his elbow resting on the back as if this is where he's always sat. You nod too quickly.

"I'm fine."

He doesn't argue. He just watches you silently with his soft eyes. His eyes keep searching for something you're not offering.

He tries again during lunch. He talks more than usual, like telling a story about how Sunwoo always messes up with their group project, exaggerating the worst parts until he even laughs at himself. You listen and don't react much. It's like your mind is elsewhere and not with him. He notices.

Then he reaches across the table and places a few pieces of pork cutlet that he cut onto your food tray without warning.

"Eh," you say, surprised.

"Your tray looks too empty," he replies easily. "No wonder you're petite."

You stare at the cutlet. It's from his plate. His favorite food that is only served once a week. Moreover it is the corner part that's always extra crispy.

"That's yours," you murmur.

He shrugs. "I'm not that hungry."

It's a lie, and both of you know it.

However, you don't give it back. You don't thank him either—but your heart is. You take a small bite, feeling the warmth of it, and let out a sound that might be a laugh, or something close to it.

Eric smiles like he's won something.

Later that day, the last bell rings indicating that school is over. The clouds gather by the time you pack your bag slowly. The air feels heavy and pressed low against your skin when suddenly a shadow falls over your desk.

Something warm settles over your shoulders before you can even look up. You freeze. Your fingers still curl around your book.

Eric doesn't say anything.

He has already stepped away by the time you turn. His hoodie has gone from his own shoulders and is hanging awkwardly on yours. He doesn't look back. He just walks ahead toward the door with his hands in his pockets. He waits for you outside the classroom.

You stare at him for a second too long before standing. The hoodie smells faintly like laundry soap and his cologne. The smell slightly makes your stomach tighten in a way you can't describe. You follow him out.

"Thank you," you say softly.

Eric's lip twitches into a smile. You walk together.

The rain falls suddenly. It soaks both of you in seconds. The cold is biting through the fabric. You stop, startled and unsure which way to go. Water slaps the pavement hard enough to sting. Your hair is clinging to your face due to the strong wind, and your shoes are already ruined.

Eric holds your arm before pulling you towards the edge of a building nearby.

"I didn't bring an umbrella," you say quietly.

"Me neither," Eric replies.

He glances down the street, left and right. Your house is far, but his is close.

"My place is closer," Eric says, already stepping back under the downpour with his bag on top of his head. He notices how you look, hesitating.

"My mom's home. You'll be okay."

You stay silent.

"It's really okay," he says again, softer.

So you follow. Both of you are dripping with shoes stamping down with each step the moment you reach his house. His mother greets you with a familiar warmth that feels undeserved.

"Ommo," she says, startled by both of your conditions, then smiles as if you belong there without explanation. "Go dry off."

"I'll make warm tea." Eric hands you a clean towel. It's warm from the dryer. You wrap it around your shoulders without saying much.

After you dry yourself and change into his mom's old clothes, Eric gestures down a narrow stairwell when the rain shows no sign of slowing.

The underground room is small, with a low ceiling. Foam panels were pinned unevenly to the white walls. There is an expensive keyboard, a guitar, and a few computers sitting in the room. Wires crawling across the floor.

"Whoa─"

"My studio," he says, suddenly shy. "It's not much."

You shake your head. "It's nice."

You really mean it.

The rain drums above you in the distance. You sit on the floor with your knees pulled close to your chest. Eric leans against the wall before tuning his guitar.

"So," he starts. "What do you like?"

You blink. "What?"

"Anything," he says. "Food, movies, or your dream."

You think for a second before telling him small truths. He listens like they matter. Then you ask him the same question.

He doesn't hesitate this time.

"Music. I want to do it seriously," he says with a huge grin on his face.

You can tell how he likes it wholeheartedly.

"I want to sing," he continues. "I want to perform on stage and write songs that make people feel less alone. I want them to feel like I was there by their side."

You don't interrupt because you know what it costs him to say that aloud.

"I don't know if it will work. But I can't imagine myself giving it up too." You nod slowly.

"You should," you say. "I'm supporting you."

Eric laughs. "Then, you are my first fan. You can't take it back."

You just nod with a slight smile tugging on your face. The rain begins to soften outside. You sit there quietly, listening to him strumming a soft tune on the guitar.

Months pass and graduation slowly approaches its time. You begin to notice the slow disappearance of things you learned to rely on. Desks feel lighter, the hallways echo more, and the teachers begin counting down days like they are relieved to be done with all of you. The calendar thinning out day by day.

You and Eric sit in the school garden one afternoon with a textbook and papers spread on the wooden table in front of you, studying for the final exams. The benches are warm from the sun. The air is filled with the sound of insects and distant chatter drifting around the garden.

You trace the same line in your book for the third time while reading, noting the important facts. Eric leans back beside you while stretching his arms upwards. He is already distracted. The sun filters through the leaves above.

"What will you do after this?" He suddenly asks while tapping his pen against the page.

You stop underlining your book and turn your head slightly toward him. You pretend to think for a while.

"I don't know yet."

He hums, thoughtful. His eyes follow a cloud instead of the notes in front of him. Then he grins brightly. "You know that I'm serious about music."

"Yes, you are..." You say, unsure what he will say after it.

"I'll write a song," he adds almost offhand. "About us. Or about you. Something like that."

You smile.

"Really?" You ask even though you know what promises sound like when they're spoken without weight.

"Yeah. I won't forget."

The wind lifts while carrying the sound of laughter from somewhere far away. You imagine the song, the melody, the feeling where your name is not swallowed by noise.

You laugh softly. "I'll hold you to that."

He grins. "You should. I am not someone who talks nonsense."

You nod, though you know how people like Eric move forward without looking back. You keep thinking about how some promises are meant to comfort the speaker, not the listener.

But you don't resent him for it. You carry the promise anyway.

Months later, after the final exam is done and your result is out, graduation day comes wrapped in beautiful black uniforms.

Everyone is busy throwing their caps in the air, laughing, and hugging people they will never call again. The camera flashing here and there. Eric finds you somewhere between it all.

"Hey!"

He calls you in the middle of a crowd.

You, who are standing in the crowd, looking clueless, turn towards the owner of the voice. You recognize his voice. Eric comes running towards you with a huge grin.

"We'll keep in touch, right?" He asks.

You nod. "Sure."

He squeezes your shoulder lightly. "Don't disappear, okay?"

You almost laugh.

After a while, both of you simply stop meeting unlike the sealed promise. There is no last day. No moment where you look at him and know it is the end. There is also no argument to justify the distance.

It feels temporary for the first few days you stop meeting. Schedules change and messages take longer to send before they don't get sent at all. You tell yourself it is normal. This is how growing up works. People are busy chasing their dreams.

But sometimes you think you see him. A familiar posture across the street. A laugh that sounds close enough to his. Each time, it isn't him.

And time quickly moves forward. The garden bench where you used to study gathers fallen leaves, the steps of the concrete bleachers are repainted, and the sidewalk you used to walk home together is faded with time. His mother's restaurant was upgraded, but you don't go back anymore.

You move. You learn how to introduce yourself without waiting for someone else to notice you first. You learn how to enjoy your time alone in cafes without feeling like you are taking up space meant for others.

The goodbye happens to be witnessed by the time. His absence stops hurting all at once, and starts aching instead.

✎ᝰ. to be continued.

© hoeritism all rights reserved.

[hoeritism]

my moon 🌕.⋆.˚ — eric sohn

✎ᝰ. the seed.

eric x reader

It is a story about what remains, and how sometimes survival begins with nothing more than someone listening.

𓍼 genre: slice of life, hurt/comfort, mentally bullied, good listener eric, emotional growth, classmate to friend to stranger trope, singer eric, journalist reader. 𓍼 warning: this is a story about growing quietly. Please read it slowly.

notes: I aim to post a chapter once every day. Pray for my brain to work, please 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 feel free to like and reblog!

𓍼 chapters: invisible, the seed, silent goodbyes, coincidence, the moon, rooted.

Day one turns into every day without either of you naming it.

You begin to notice the way Eric lingers after class, leaning against his desk and pretending to check his phone while his friends call out to him from the doorway.

"Come on," his friend, Sunwoo, says. "We are going to the arcade."

"Later," Eric replies easily before glancing back at you. "I'll catch up."

He doesn't.

He waits instead. He waits for you to close your notebook, sliding it carefully into your bag, and he only stands when you are ready to go. He falls into step behind you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

The next day, he sits beside you without asking at lunch. Your tray is modest, while his is fuller. He pushes half of it toward you.

"Can you take some of it? Sunwoo accidentally added more for me," he says with an explanation.

You hesitate. "I'm not really hungry."

He smiles, not teasing or insistent. "You'll like this."

So you do.

No one comments. No one laughs behind their hands. The table feels anchored with him there as if his presence makes you visible enough to be left alone. You find yourself talking more than you intend to.

About class. About how you like the quiet corners of the library. About your cat. He listens between bites, nodding and asking small questions that tell you he remembers.

As the sun leans low and the halls are empty after school, he stops near the gates and turns to you.

"Hey," he says while rubbing the back of his neck. "Do you want to eat somewhere? My mom's restaurant is nearby."

Your first instinct is to refuse. Your second is to find a reason why you shouldn't. You fail at both.

"I feel bad for bothering her," you say.

"You won't," he replies quickly. "She likes company."

You ended up following him.

The restaurant is small and tucked between a convenience store and a tailor's shop. Warm light spills through the paper windows. The air is thick with the scent of simmering broth and fried kimchi pancake. It feels like stepping into a different world.

Eric greets the woman behind the counter. He calls her "Mom," and something in your chest tightens at the sound. Something that you will never experience in your life.

"You can sit comfortably anywhere," he says. "I'll be right back."

You choose a corner table by the window. Later, he brings food without asking what you want and places it in front of you like a quiet offering.

"Why so many?"

He just smiles and gestures for you to eat. "As I said, you'll like it."

You do.

The warmth spread slowly. It fills the spaces you didn't know were hollow. The chair doesn't feel borrowed. The table doesn't feel temporary. No one rushes you. No one expects anything from you.

"I always wonder why you don't talk much in class," Eric says casually while resting his chin on his hand.

You shrug. "There's nothing to say."

"Why? I don't think that's true." He tilts his head. "I always have a story to tell people."

"We are different, Eric."

A pause. His eyes soften. You stare at him before sighing, then at the food. That's when the words slip out of you.

"Everyone is so... loud. Then there is me, standing right there at the edge of the circle. I can feel myself becoming transparent. It's not because I don't want to talk, but because I just stopped trying to find a gap in the conversation that I realized there isn't one meant for me..."

Eric listens without saying anything.

You look at him before continuing, "...I could walk out the door in the middle of a sentence, and the air wouldn't even shift."

You continue to talk about how easy it is to disappear, how sometimes you wish someone would notice before you vanish completely. Then, you stop mid-sentence, startled by yourself.

"Sorry," you say quickly. "I don't know why I'm saying all of this."

Eric doesn't laugh. He doesn't interrupt. He doesn't tell you to stop.

"That's okay," he says. "We are humans with a heart. Of course your feelings are valid. You can say whatever you want to me and I would still listen."

To me. The word settles into you like a promise he doesn't realize he's making.

The sky has darkened by the time you leave. The streetlights dim softly. He walks you home again with his hands in his pockets.

Day passes, then weeks. You start to open up with small things that feel harmless to share.

You tell him about the test you almost failed just because your hands wouldn't stop shaking, about the book you borrowed from the library even though you weren't sure you would like it yet, and about the way you almost chose the same seat in class because it feels safer to look at the view outside of the window.

Eric listens to all of it—without the impatience that people often hide behind politeness and without glances at his phone or interruptions dressed as jokes.

"That sounds stressful," he says when you finish a story about a new library's system.

You blink. "It was."

He nods as if confirming something important. "Makes sense that you don't know how to use it since they don't provide clear instructions."

You are taken aback by the words. It's not because they are deep, but rather because he doesn't try to fix you. He doesn't shrink your feelings into something manageable. He simply allows them to exist.

So you keep talking.

The two of them sit on the very edge of the concrete bleachers. The distant roar of the midday crowd sounded like a different world.

"Lunch is the hardest part," you say softly.

"Why?" Eric wonders.

What's so hard about it? You just have to eat, don't you?

He waits for you to continue. He doesn't look away.

"The silence is heavy. It feels like a physical weight on my chest, especially when the room is full of people laughing. I always spend the whole morning on the way to school rehearsing what I might say if someone finally looked at me. I've got the whole script ready to go in my head."

You let out a dry, shaky breath. "But then the bell rings, and I haven't said a single word. I just silently walk to the class, and the script stays locked inside."

You brace yourself. You expect him to tell you that you are being dramatic or to offer a list of "tips" on how to be more outgoing, just like him.

Instead, Eric looks out at the field full of students. A small, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"I do that too, sometimes," he says.

The weight on your chest doesn't disappear, but it feels like someone else is helping you carry it.

"You think you're a ghost," he adds gently, "but I see you. You're not invisible to me."

That's when you realize you are no longer invisible—at least to one person. He has seen you.

Without knowing, he has chosen to plant something that grows quietly, stubbornly, in the spaces no one else dares to touch.

After school, the rhythmic sound of the footsteps on the pavement seems to give you a beat to follow. The air is cooling down on the way home.

"When I was little, I couldn't just put a book away. I had to make sure the spines were perfectly flush and touching each other. No gaps in between."

You look at him sideways, but he keeps his eyes on the horizon. His hands shove deep into his pockets.

"I was worried the book on the end would feel isolated if I left a space. I always had to whisper that they were part of a set before I turned out the light so they wouldn't feel lonely in the dark," you laugh lightly.

"It sounds so stupid now that I think back."

He kicks a loose pebble and watches it skitter down the sidewalk. "It's not stupid. It's like you were trying to fix the world on a smaller scale because the big one felt too hard to handle."

You nod. A small surge of courage hitting your chest. "I think I've been living entirely inside my own head for years. I thought I had sound... well, crazy if I said these things out loud."

"You don't," he says simply. He doesn't turn to look at you; instead, he shifts his path slightly closer to you. "You just sound like someone who has been carrying a lot of heavy thoughts with nowhere to put them down."

You let out a breath that you have been holding since the first grade. "I think I'm tired of carrying them."

"Then don't," he replies. They stop walking. "You can leave them here on the sidewalk, and I'll walk with you for the rest of the way without them."

Eric begins to notice patterns after a while. They are small at first. A laugh that cuts off when you enter the class, a seat pulled away just as you near it, names spoken under breath before followed by glances that pretend they weren't meant for you.

He remembers the things you have told him. The way you always soften the truth when you speak. He thought maybe you were just being careful.

Now he starts to realize you were being generous.

It happens on a day that's already too long for you. A group work for three people is announced, and the room breaks apart into noise and movement. Eric stands and waits for you without thinking.

That's when he hears something.

"Do we really have to work with her?"

A not so loud voice lingers around his eardrums before another laugh follows.

"She won't say anything anyway. And she can do everything. Our work will be easy."

You stay seated as you always do. Your hands are folded too tightly in your lap until your knuckles turn pale. Your eyes are fixed on the desk as if disappearing is a skill you have practiced.

Eric feels something shift in his chest.

"Hey," he says, sharper than his usual personality. The room quiets just a little then. "What are you laughing at? I heard nothing funny in your words."

Heads turn. Someone scoffs.

"Chill bro," the boy replies. "It's just a joke."

"who said?" Eric asks. His voice doesn't rise, but it doesn't soften either. "You have been doing this for weeks. And honestly it's such a lame joke."

Sunwoo standing beside him, looking confused.

Eric gestures toward you. "You don't see it? You realize she could hear every single word you said, don't you? So, why would you talk like she's not even here?"

There's an uncomfortable pause. The one people would fill with laughter when they don't want to think.

"She never said anything," someone mutters.

Eric shakes his head. "And that doesn't mean it's okay."

Sunwoo exhales slowly while rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah," he says, hesitant but sincere. "That's... kind of messed up."

The silence spreads. No one argues. No one apologizes either. They just look down, suddenly interested in their phones, their homework, and the floor. Class resumes, but the environment never feels the same anymore. You feel guilty wrapping around you.

And Eric doesn't wait when the bell rings. He grabs your wrist gently and firmly, leaving Sunwoo stunned at his place.

"Come with me."

You don't resist. You barely feel your feet moving as he pulls you up the stairs, past empty hallways and all the way to the rooftop. The door slams shut behind you. The sound echoing louder than it should.

Eric turns away from you, pacing. His hands curl into fists.

"Why didn't you tell me it was that bad?" he snaps, more in the air than at you. "They don't get to talk about you like that. They don't know you."

You stand there silently. Your chest tightens. The tears drop before you can stop them. Quiet. Uncontrolled. They fall without a sound, like they have been waiting for permission.

Eric stops pacing.

He turns.

And freezes.

"Oh," he says softly. All the anger drained from his face. "Hey, I─"

He steps closer, unsure like someone is approaching something fragile for the first time.

"I didn't mean to yell," he says. "I just... that wasn't okay."

You shake your head while pressing your sleeve to your mouth. "It's fine," you whisper though your body betrays you completely.

"No," he says immediately.

He crouches slightly so he's closer to your eye level, but not too close to make you uncomfortable.

"Listen to me," he says. "You didn't do anything wrong. They probably act like that because they are jealous you are smarter than them. You hear that?"

You nod even though the words barely reach you.

"They're loud because they are empty somewhere else," he continues. "And cruel because it's easier than being kind. That doesn't mean they're right."

His voice is steady now.

"You don't deserve that. You never did."

You cry harder. Your shoulders are shaking and your breath uneven. He stays, and never touches or rushes you.

"I've got you," he says quietly. "You are not alone."

The words arrive at the exact moment you are closest to falling apart. Eric doesn't know that timing is everything.

He doesn't know those words will replay themselves years later, even after the rooftop is empty and he has moved on. He doesn't see the way something settles inside you. Heavy. Permanent.

And the seed grows to deeper roots that day, nourished by the one voice that showed up when everything else went silent.

✎ᝰ. to be continued.

© hoeritism all rights reserved.

[hoeritism]

my moon 🌕.⋆.˚ — eric sohn

✎ᝰ. invisible

eric x reader

It is a story about what remains, and how sometimes survival begins with nothing more than someone listening.

𓍼 genre: slice of life, hurt/comfort, mentally bullied, good listener eric, emotional growth, classmate to friend to stranger trope, singer eric, journalist reader. 𓍼 warning: this is a story about growing quietly. Please read it slowly. 𓍼 notes: I aim to post a chapter once every day. Pray for my brain to work, please 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 feel free to like and reblog!

chapters: invisible, the seed, silent goodbyes, coincidence, the moon, rooted.

You sit at the edge of the classroom. The light from the windows thins, and the walls feel closer than the people. Your desk is always the same one. It was pushed slightly apart from the others as if it arrived late and never quite caught up.

No one questions it. No one notices.

The room fills with noise long before the lesson begins. Chairs scrape. Bags are clinging to the side of the tables. Laughter blooms in clusters before it dissolves into whispers meant to be shared. Some names are called loudly, and some plans are made. You learn to keep your eyes down. Your hands are folded together. Your presence is small enough to be ignored.

"Alright kids, today we're going to do a group assignment."

The teacher announces. And the ritual begins. "Choose your partners."

Chairs move. Your classmates stand to find their partners. Someone groans dramatically when they are not chosen by, and someone else laughs behind a hand. You wait as always. But by the time the room settles, there is only one space left. You slowly raise your hand to tell the teacher, and she assigns you to it without looking up.

"You'll work alone for now," she says before turning back to the board.

'for now' stretches into always.

You are never a priority. Sometimes you hear your name being mispronounced floating through the room. You never bother to correct as it would happen again tomorrow and the day after. Sometimes you don't hear it at all. The teacher pauses while scanning the attendance sheet, then moves on as if your absence would not change the count.

Then the bell rings as lunch hour approaches. Everyone runs towards the canteen, but you move at your own pace. Slowly and steadily, even though some pupils would bump into your shoulders without an apology.

You sit where there is room. At the end of the tables, near windows, where it feels temporary. You eat quickly, quietly, and carefully so as not to take up more space than necessary. Laughter rises and falls around you. Some show a video to their friends, and some share a message from a group chat you were never invited into. You pretend not to notice.

The worst part is not the cruelty. It is the effortlessness of it.

No one pushes you. No one says your name with venom. They just forget to include you, and the forgetting hurts more than intention ever could.

The classroom feels heavier by the afternoon. The air presses down. You focus on the scratch of a pencil against paper, the hum of the lights, and the steady rhythm of your own breathing. You tell yourself that this is survivable, that silence is safer than being seen.

You learn Eric's name before you ever speak to him.

His name drifts through the classroom easily, always carried by laughter, always gets called out across desks, always written in the margins of notebooks that do not belong to you. Teachers always say it without checking their lists. Classmates say it with familiarity, shortening and stretching it from across the room, as if they are sure it will be answered.

Eric laughs often, but not too loudly. His laugh always invited others in. He moves through the hallways as if they were made for him. He is always stopping to talk, leaning against lockers, exchanging jokes that seem to pass through him and land elsewhere.

He is not the center of attention, but something more better and welcoming.

You always watch from a distance. Not because you want to be close, but because he is difficult not to be noticed by. Eric listens when others speak. He knows how to remember names. You wonder if someone like him could ever notice someone like you.

Then, he always says thank you to the canteen staff when others rarely do. These are small things, but you have learned that small things matter.

Your eyes would meet by accident sometimes. He smiles briefly and politely when they do. You look away quickly as you feel your heart beating too fast for a reason you don't understand. You are just another classmate to him. But to you, he is proof that some people move through the world without bruises.

The desk beside you remains empty.

Until one day, footsteps stop there. You sense it before you see it. You look up, expecting a teacher, but there is none.

Instead, it's him.

Eric stands beside the empty desk with his backpack slung over one shoulder. His expression is open and unreadable. He glances at the chair, then at you as if the space itself has finally registered.

"Hey," he says carefully. "Is anyone sitting here?"

You hesitate, surprise tightening your heart. No one has ever asked before. You are unsure if this is a mistake waiting to correct itself.

"No," you say.

He smiles before pulling the chair out.

"Cool."

For the first time in a long while, the silence beside you feels alive again. The desk is no longer empty. The classroom noise resumes around you, unchanged, but the space between your shoulders feels different now. It's smaller and warmer.

Eric leans back while glancing at the board. "It's quieter here. Easier to focus and think," he says.

You nod though your thoughts have scattered completely.

Neither of you speaks for a while. Eric taps his pen lightly against his textbook. You stare at the edge of your desk. The closeness is unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. It's just... new to you.

He turns to you again when the bell rings.

"See you," the words slip casually like they have known each other for so long.

And then he's gone, swallowed back into the crowd that knows him well. You sit there for a moment longer, aware of the strange, fragile warmth he's left behind while listening to the echo of his voice.

You take your time to fold your notebook carefully before slipping it into your bag as if the order of things might keep you steady. Most of the noise has already moved on by the time you step into the hallway.

The afternoon has softened outside. The sky leans toward evening, and the wind carries the promise of cool air. You start walking.

At first, you don't notice him—or maybe you do, but your mind is too tired to name it. A rhythm of footsteps that isn't yours sounds clearer. It's not close enough to be intrusive but not far enough to disappear.

You walk faster. The footsteps remain.

Your shoulders tense. You tell yourself it's nothing. People walk the same way all the time anyways. And the world does not revolve around your quiet fears.

The feeling lingers. You stop midway and turn back.

There he is.

Eric stands a few steps behind you with his hands in his pockets. His brows slightly furrowed like he has been caught thinking too loudly.

"Why are you following me?" you ask. Your voice comes out softer than you expect.

He blinks, surprised. "Following?"

"Yes, you are," you say.

"Why would I follow you?" He pauses, then frowns a little like he is trying to decide whether his next explanation will make sense.

"I am on my own way. There, my house." He says while pointing to the terraced house at the end of the road. The answer is simple, almost careless.

"Oh," you say.

You don't argue. Instead, you turn back around and continue walking. Your pace is slower to match with him. The air feels cooler against your skin. The sidewalks are streaked with long shadows, stretched and folding over each other like they are trying to touch.

He doesn't walk beside you. Not yet.

He just stays behind while matching your pace without comment. You can feel him there. His presence doesn't press, doesn't demand. He just exists. It makes your chest loosen instead of tightening for some reason.

He speaks after a while.

"You are really good at math," he says suddenly.

You blink. "I am?"

"Yeah," he says. "You always finish early. I noticed."

The word lands unexpectedly. Noticed.

"Oh," you murmur. "I just... study a lot."

"That's cool!" He replies. "Most people don't, you know."

You don't know how to answer that. The silence returns, but it feels much lighter than before. A breeze moves through the trees and scatters the leaves against the pavement. Eric walks with his hands in his pockets. He is unhurried. And you notice how he's slowed down for you.

"Do you like walking?" he asks carefully.

"I don't mind," you say after shrugging your shoulders. "It's peaceful."

He nods slowly. "Agreed. It's calming with the sounds of birds chirping on the way back home." You glance at him, surprised by how easily he says it.

You always thought he preferred being loud rather than quiet. It makes you wonder if he understands more than he lets on.

After a long walk, they finally reach the corner where your street begins. You stop automatically, already preparing the goodbye in your head.

"This is my way home," you say.

"Oh, alright." He smiles again. "See you tomorrow, then."

Tomorrow. The word settles somewhere warm in your chest.

"Yeah," you say. "See you."

He waits until you turn the corner before heading off. The quiet feels different today as you walk the rest of the way home alone.

✎ᝰ. to be continued.

© hoeritism all rights reserved.

[hoeritism]

my moon 🌕.⋆.˚ — eric sohn | series masterlist.

eric x reader

It is a story about what remains, and how sometimes survival begins with nothing more than someone listening.

genre: slice of life, hurt/comfort, mentally bullied, good listener eric, emotional growth, singer eric, journalist reader. warning: this is a story about growing quietly. Please read it slowly.

chapters: invisible, the seed, silent goodbyes, coincidence, the moon, rooted.

prologue

Some people enter your life like the weather. Loud. Obvious. Impossible to ignore. But Eric was not like that.

He arrived quietly, like the way the moon does. He was always there, even when you weren't looking. He pulls at parts of you that you didn't know were still alive.

You didn't fall in love with him—or maybe you do, but your heart is trying to deny it. There were no confessions, no promises made to be kept. There were only small and kind words. The kind that arrives when you are already sinking.

You did not know when those words could grow that they could take root in a heart starved of warmth. That they could keep a person alive long after the voice that spoke to them had moved on.

Eric thought they were classmates. A brief companion in one life chapter. A kindness that belonged to a season. For you, he was something else entirely. He is your moon, his words are the seeds to your soil.

He was the space between breaths when the world felt too heavy. The reason you learned how to stay. The voice you carried long after he stopped speaking to you.

This is not a love story that stayed. It is about him, my moon.

notes: I aim to post a chapter once every day. Pray for my brain to work, please 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 feel free to like and reblog!

© hoeritism all rights reserved.