The gallery’s been closed for hours, but Hyunjin hasn’t left. He’s still there, barefoot on the floor, hunched over a canvas with charcoal-stained fingers, eyes red from more than just lack of sleep. You haven’t spoken in weeks. Or maybe it’s been longer than that.

You’d been something. Not quite dating. Not quite strangers. One of those beautiful, reckless in-betweens where every word felt like a song lyric. But he let you slip through his hands. Or maybe you let go first.

Still, he paints you.

Still, he writes about you.

You’re in every brushstroke, every unfinished melody. His notebook is a graveyard of unsent letters, scribbled lyrics, and your name in the margins.

And tonight, you walk in.

You weren’t supposed to.

But he looks up. And he’s not surprised. As if he called you here without meaning to, with the pull of his heart alone.

The studio smells like paint thinner and citrus candles. You linger near the doorway, hesitating, as Hyunjin presses his palms together, smearing color across them like he’s trying to remember something with his skin.

He doesn’t speak right away. But his eyes, god, those eyes, they don’t leave yours.

Then, softly, voice hoarse:

“I didn’t know if you’d come.”

Your breath catches. You haven’t been here in months.

He looks down at the painting beside him. You can’t see it from here, but you know it’s probably you. It always is.

“You used to say I never finished anything.” A breathy laugh, bitter at the edges. “But you… You’re the one piece I’ve never stopped trying to get right.”

He turns back to you, vulnerable, unguarded. There’s a tremble in the air between you. He steps forward, hesitates, then:

“Do you… Do you feel what I feel?” Beat. “Would you stay? Just for a while. I don’t need anyone else. Just you.”