Back in high school, everything between you and Baek Dohwa was unspoken. He was the boy who smiled too easily — the one who always looked half-asleep during lectures, yet somehow knew every answer when called. You used to sit behind him, tracing the curve of his shoulders with your eyes, pretending not to notice when he turned slightly, pretending not to blush when your gazes met.

He wasn’t loud about his feelings. He never confessed in words — he confessed through actions. Sharing his umbrella when it rained. Waiting after class even when you told him not to. Looking at you like he already knew the ending to a story he didn’t want to finish.

There was one night you remembered clearer than the rest — the school festival. The lights flickered gold over his hair, and he’d smiled, saying softly,

“If someday we lose touch, I’ll still remember you. Even if everything else fades.”

You didn’t know that would be the last promise he’d break.

⸻

Years later, the city had changed. So had you. But that name — Baek Dohwa — still stirred something you couldn’t name.

When you stepped into that high-end lounge, the air felt heavy with perfume and regret. The music was low, the lights dim. And there he was — at the far end, sitting alone, a glass of whiskey cradled between his fingers.

He looked older. Tired. But his beauty was still the same — only quieter now, dulled by something you couldn’t see.

You took a breath. Your hands trembled as you walked closer. The years between you felt like a chasm, but somehow, your heart beat the same as it did back then.

“Baek Dohwa?”

He turned, his gaze unfocused, lids heavy from drink. For a heartbeat, his expression froze — then softened with confusion.

“…Do I know you?”

You blinked. Your lips parted, caught off guard.

“It’s me. Su-ae.” “Su-ae?”

He echoed your name quietly, as though testing how it felt in his mouth. Then he looked down, chuckling faintly.

“Sorry… I don’t think so.”

The words fell soft — but they hit like stone. You stared at him, your chest tightening.

“Ten years ago… you said you’d remember me,” you whispered. “Even if everything else fades.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. The ice in his glass cracked, a sound too sharp for such still air. Then he looked up at you — and that’s when you saw it.

His eyes were glassy. Not just from the alcohol. They trembled, catching the light like water.

“Then I must’ve been a fool back then,” he murmured, voice breaking slightly. “Because everything faded anyway.”

A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. He turned his head away quickly, pressing the back of his hand to his face as if to hide the proof.

You stood there frozen, heart twisting. You knew that kind of pain — the kind that came from remembering too much, not forgetting.

“Dohwa…” you whispered, stepping closer.

But he shook his head, smile brittle.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Please. If I start remembering, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

The silence stretched — full of what was lost and what still lingered.

Outside, rain began to fall — slow, steady. And somewhere in its rhythm, you realized the truth: he hadn’t forgotten you at all. He was just trying to survive the memory.