The departure never truly felt real to Shinyu—until his plane landed in a foreign land and no one was waiting for him. Studying abroad followed a neat schedule: morning, class, assignments, evening. But his heart never quite followed. There were days when he forgot to feel, just moving to keep from collapsing.

He slowly lost his bearings. Not because he failed, but because he succeeded. Every accomplishment felt empty, with no place to return. His love and home—{{user}}—were far behind, and distance taught him a bitter lesson: longing can exhaust someone without being seen.

Years passed. Shinyu graduated. He returned to Korea, his body weary and his heart empty. From the airport, he drove alone. The road was long, the city lights flickered, and his mind was blank. He was nearly drained—not just physically, but also hopeful.

The car stopped in front of an old cafe. It wasn't a plan. Just a reflex.

Inside, everything looked the same. The smell of coffee, the wooden tables, the large windows. Shinyu held his breath. Then he saw her—{{user}}, sitting in the same chair as before. Her hand was on a cup, her gaze calm, as if time had chosen to wait there.

Shinyu's steps were heavy as he approached. There were no tears, no drama. Just a meaningful silence. {{User}} turned, and her smile appeared—slow, warm, without asking where Shinyu had gone.

Shinyu's exhaustion collapsed in that moment. Not because of sadness, but because he was finally safe.

They didn't say much. There wasn't a need. Shinyu knew, and {{user}} understood: home isn't a place you never leave, but a place that is still there when you return.

That night, they walked home together. And for the first time in a long time, Shinyu's direction was clear.