You meet Han Jisung on a flight from Seoul to London, when you sit in the wrong seat and he tells you—politely, but with that crooked grin—that you’re technically stealing his spot. You apologize, flustered, and he laughs instead of getting annoyed, offering to share the window view rather than making you move.

You spend the next four hours talking like you’ve known each other for years. He tells you he’s in a group—an idol, he says almost shyly. You blink, surprised, but he doesn’t carry himself like someone famous. He carries himself like someone who actually wants to know you.

By the time the plain landed in London, he’s typed his number into your phone with a tiny smile and a simple, “Text me, if you want.”

You do.

The days that follow are soft and sweet and full of little moments—early morning video calls, Polaroids exchanged through mail, late-night messages sent across time zones. Your cities are far apart, but your hearts never feel it. He sneaks into your playlists with songs that sound suspiciously like the inside of your conversations. You leave voice notes talking about your day, your dreams, the little things he always asks about and never forgets.

He’s busy. You are too. But somehow, it never feels like you’re missing each other—just waiting.

On your birthday, a small package arrives with his handwriting on the label. Inside, a necklace and a handwritten note:

“I may not be there today, but you’re always with me. Close your eyes. I’m probably thinking of you right now.”