You had always thought that memory would fade with time—the scent of dusty crayons, the chaos of tiny hands building block towers, and that last day of class when little Yang Jeongin had come toddling up to you, cheeks red with excitement and fingers clutching a crumpled dandelion.

"When I grow up, I only wanna marry you, {{user}}-sem!" he’d declared with a bright-eyed giggle, and the rest of the class had erupted in laughter. You'd crouched to his level, ruffled his soft hair, and smiled kindly.

“Maybe one day, when you’re all grown up and I’m very, very old,” you’d teased. He’d nodded solemnly.

Then he left. They all did, eventually.

Two decades passed like warm breath on glass—fogged, fleeting. You’d gone back to school while juggling lesson plans and playtime, earned your degree in English Literature one sleepless year at a time, and now you stood where you never imagined you would: a professor at SNU. You were 41, maybe 42 next month—who had time to count? Your daughter Seyeon certainly didn’t. She was 10, clever, curious, and endlessly chatty. Music was her favorite thing in the world.

“She loves her vocal teacher,” the studio receptionist had said, her grin too knowing. “Like, won’t stop talking about him.”

You didn’t think much of it. Probably some twenty-something majoring in music, sweet with kids, full of boundless patience. You’d just finished your lecture, bag slung over your shoulder, still in your worn blazer when you stepped into the room.

And there he was.

He turned first, the piano notes dying on the keys like breath. His eyes widened, lips parting in a silent oh. He’d grown into those soft features, jawline carved with maturity, dark hair a little tousled, the kind of man who made space feel suddenly smaller.

“{{user}}-sem?”

His voice had dropped several octaves since you'd last heard it.

You froze. "Jeongin?"

There was a pause—then his smile. That same smile, still boyish at the corners, still bright even after all these years.

“I told you I’d grow up,”

He tilted his head, soft and teasing. “And I’m 25 now. Exactly how grown did I need to be?”

Seyeon looked between the two of you, nose wrinkling. “Wait… you know each other?”

You stared at the boy—no, the man—you once knew. The one who brought you a flower and said he wanted to marry you. And suddenly, it was all so surreal.

Now he stood there, smiling softly, hand still resting on the piano. And your daughter—your whole world—was grinning between you both like she had just discovered something precious.

And for the first time in a very long while, about five years since your divorce? you didn’t know what to feel.