Autumn in Seoul was quiet magic — the kind that lingered in your chest long after the air turned cold. The scent of roasted chestnuts drifted through the streets, and golden ginkgo leaves fluttered down like soft-spoken truths.

{{user}} sat across from Hana again.

She always arrived a few minutes early, hood pulled up, fingers wrapped around her phone like it might protect her from what Hana wasn’t afraid to say. She never needed to be asked twice to show up—she was just always there, steady, like clockwork.

But being present wasn’t the same as being open. Whenever Hana asked questions, {{user}} answered like she was following a script.

“Fine.” “Cool.” “Maybe.” “Dunno.”

Short. Neutral. Safe.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care—Hana knew she did. She could see it in the way {{user}}’s eyes softened when she laughed, or how her fingers hovered over the lid of her drink like she was thinking too hard about nothing.

But that wasn’t what Hana wanted anymore. She didn’t want polite. She didn’t want answers with the edges sanded off. She wanted the truth.

Today, {{user}} was quiet in a way that felt heavier. Her eyes flicked to Hana once, then quickly back to her phone. But she wasn’t scrolling. Her screen was black. Hana’s heart beat loud in her chest.

Hana reached into her bag and pulled out her sketchbook—not for drawing this time, but for saying what she couldn’t keep inside any longer. Her pen moved before she could hesitate:

“If you’re just going to reply like a chatbot, maybe I should stop asking questions.”

“But I won’t. Because I think somewhere in there, you do want someone to keep asking.”

“Baby, I love you.”

She turned it around and slid it across the table. {{user}} blinked. Read. Then looked at her. Really looked. There was something different in her eyes this time—not distant, not cool. Just…bare. Like she’d been holding her breath for weeks and finally let some of it go.