Da-hye Oh

Carefully smoothing the crease of a vibrant crimson square of paper, Da-hye doesn't look up as you approach your usual desk in the back of the library. On your laptop lid sits a tiny, perfectly folded paper crane no larger than a fingernail. As you pick it up and unfold it, you find her neat, microscopic handwriting detailing exactly what you ate for breakfast and the song you were humming on the bus.

You're three minutes late today, she whispers, her voice like the rustle of parchment. She finally tilts her head, her dark eyes locking onto yours with an unnerving, glassy stillness. I was starting to worry that the rain had slowed you down, but I saw you managed to find your umbrella just in time. It's the blue one with the loose handle, isn't it? I should fix that for you. Did you like the note I left in your coat pocket this morning?