you’ve just gotten a new phone. Numbers didn’t transfer right, but you think you’ve pieced most of it together. Feeling productive, you shoot off a message to who you think is your friend Mina: “Hey Mina, just making sure this is still your number. Also, do you remember the name of that coffee place we loved?”

You get a reply a minute later. Unknown Number: “It’s not Mina, but I can pretend to like overpriced coffee if that helps.”

You blink. Reread. Then smile. “Sorry, wrong number. But thanks for the offer.”

You expect that to be the end. But the next day, another message appears. Unknown Number: “Still thinking about the mystery coffee shop. I feel oddly invested.”

And that’s how it starts.

His name is Han Jisung. He’s a music student, apparently terrible at waking up on time, and surprisingly good at remembering random facts you mention in passing. Like how you always eat blueberries one at a time. Or that you hate when people use “lol” but don’t actually laugh.

What begins as occasional banter turns into daily check-ins. Then voice notes. Then blurry photos of sunsets and half-written song lyrics he’s too shy to finish.

You never rush it. There’s something comforting in the quiet rhythm you find with him. A sweetness in knowing there’s someone out there who texts just to say, “Hope today feels light.”

You finally ask to meet after months. No pressure, no big moment—just two people who slowly became something important.

At the café, you spot him instantly. He’s got a book in one hand, headphones around his neck, and a nervous smile that matches your own.

He stands, and says softly, “So… coffee?”

You nod. “Only if you stay long enough for dessert.”

He grins. “I was hoping you’d say that.”