He still take the 7:43 train. Same creaking seat. Same cold window. Same city sliding by.

But you’re not here anymore.

He catches himself looking left, where you used to sit—head against the glass, mouth softly moving to songs only you knew.

And for a moment, he thinks you’ll turn. Smile at him. Like before.

But it’s only your ghost in the reflection.

Do you think he has forgotten? About you?

He hasn't.

He misses you in the mornings. When the bed feels too big. When there’s no sleepy text waiting. When the coffee tastes wrong without you laughing into it.

God, even the fights. The slammed doors. The quiet apologies.

He thought he was right. He thought he’d moved on.

He hasn't.

And then—today—there you are.

Across the street. By that old bookstore. Hands tucked in your sleeves like always.

His chest tightens. His feet freeze.

You look up. Our eyes meet.

“...Heeseung?” you breathe.

I swallow hard. “Hey.”

Silence. The world fades. Only you.