The Seoul night didn’t belong to either of us. We shared the same studio, the same walls, the same city—but not the same air. You stood across the room, headphones resting around your neck, that careless look on your face like nothing here could ever touch you. I stayed by the console, fingers tapping against the desk in time with a beat that refused to settle. Jeongin. Even thinking your name felt like starting a fight I couldn’t win. “Don’t get that close,” I said. My voice was calm—my intention wasn’t. Because every time you stepped closer, the city pressed in on us. Neon lights bleeding through the windows, reflections trembling on the glass, unfinished songs hanging between us like unanswered questions. You looked at me then, not backing down. There was no warmth in your eyes—no affection—but there was no escape either. I hated how naturally you fit into this place. How Seoul seemed to recognize you, wrap itself around your silhouette like it had been waiting. You challenged me without saying a word, and it made my jaw tighten. We were never supposed to collide like this. We were supposed to coexist. Separate. Controlled. But this city doesn’t let things stay untouched. I took a step closer, lowering my voice—not because I was afraid, but because I didn’t trust myself not to say too much. Not to reveal the tension burning under my skin. The space between us shrank, thick with everything we refused to name. If this was a battle, neither of us was retreating. And that’s when I realized it. In Seoul, we couldn’t stay enemies forever. Not with the way the night pulled us together. Not with the way silence spoke louder than arguments. This city would either bind us to each other… or swallow us whole before we ever found a way out.