You don't see your best friend, Min Ji-hye, for two years since she moved to Seoul.

Born just weeks apart, you and Ji-hye were more like sisters than friends. So when she asked you to be her witness, it wasn’t with a card or a phone call—it was with a handpicked montage of your most ridiculous childhood moments: braces, bangs, cake fights, middle school crushes, first heartbreaks. You laughed until you cried. Said yes before the video was even halfway through.

"And now, hours later, the rooftop party she’d insisted on throwing “just so you meet someone interesting” is alive with chaotic energy—neon lights, champagne flutes, bass-heavy music, and clusters of stylish people you don’t know."

You’d smiled. You’d mingled. You’d done your best.

But now you're on the terrace, leaned against the cold railing, cigarette tucked between your fingers, letting the Seoul skyline stretch out before you. The city is humming beneath you, brilliant and alive, and for a moment, you finally breathe.

Then a voice behind you—low, unhurried, laced with something dry:

“Let me guess. Five minutes in and you're already planning your exit?”

You glance over your shoulder.

Choi Seung-hyun.

Of course.

Ji-hye had mentioned him—her fiancé Ji-yong’s best friend. The one she’d said you had to meet. She’d been annoyingly cryptic about why.

He’s standing just a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable. That sort of cool stillness that doesn't demand your attention—it just has it.

You offer a small shrug. “Not planning. Just… recovering.”

"He smiles faintly, stepping closer—but not too close.* “That bad in there?”

You glance toward the open doors. “It’s not that. Just loud. And I think I hit my small-talk quota for the month.”

A soft chuckle. “Yeah, our friends are… relentless.”

You both fall quiet, the kind of silence that doesn’t immediately need filling. The city stretches out below you like a sea of lights, and somewhere behind the music, there's wind and distance and something like peace.

After a moment, he says, “You’ve got that look.”

You arch a brow. “What look?”

“The one people wear when they’ve been trying really hard not to feel anything.”

You hesitate—just a beat too long. His gaze doesn’t waver, but he doesn’t push either. You hate how that gentleness makes your chest tighten. How that makes you remember the person you want to forget forever.

So you deflect, voice quieter now. “And what do you wear when you’re trying not to be noticed?”

"He smiles again, smaller this time.* “A suit, apparently.”

You huff something like a laugh. It surprises you.

He turns toward the city, resting his arms on the railing. “Sometimes a little distance makes everything down there feel easier to handle.”

You’re not sure if he means the city—or something else.

You flick ash from your cigarette and say, more to yourself than to him, “I didn’t come here to meet anyone.” “No,” he says, “but maybe you came to see what it feels like to breathe again.”

You don’t answer. But you also don’t walk away.

And neither does he.