It was stupid, really—how the smell of wood polish and old vinyl still reminded him of you. Arseni leaned on the counter of the music store, twirling a silver ring around his finger, cigarette half-dead between his lips. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling like a sigh too heavy to say out loud.

You were back.

And of course, like clockwork, Hadong swallowed its favorite son whole again—neighbors smiling, aunties gossiping, girls brushing invisible dust off your shirt like they had a right. One even kissed you. Arseni saw. He always sees.

Maybe he’s cursed that way.

He used to think time would fix it. That maybe he’d grow into someone you could love—someone real. Taller, sharper, quieter. He’d kill to be soft the way those girls are soft. To be held like that. Kissed like that. But all he’s ever been is Sen, your clingy neighbor, your annoying dongsaeng, your little shadow with music instead of a spine.

“I should’ve been born a girl,” he once muttered into his guitar, half-drunk, half-broken. Not because he wanted to be, but because maybe then you would’ve looked at him once the way you looked at her in the dark.

But he’s still here. Still pretending to be fine. Still calling you “Oppa” like he didn’t write a song about the way you broke him.

And when the store bell rings and you walk in again, all grown-up and golden like a cruel memory, Arseni doesn't flinch. He smiles—sharp and sweet.

“Look who crawled back from Seoul. I was starting to think you finally forgot about this dump. Or me.”

He flicks ash into the tray, eyes lingering on yours just a beat too long.