The air smelled faintly of rain — that cool, clean scent that clung to the pavement after the drizzle stopped. The sun had already dipped past the rooftops, leaving the street washed in gold and shadow. The two of you walked side by side, your steps uneven but somehow matching in rhythm, the sound of sneakers soft against the damp road.

Sihwa had his hands tucked in the pockets of his hoodie, his shoulders loose, expression unreadable under the streetlight glow. For a while, neither of you said anything. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable — just… heavy in a way that said everything the both of you weren’t ready to talk about.

Then, after a few minutes, he glanced at you from the corner of his eye and gave a small scoff. “You still walk like that, huh?” His lips curved into a small grin. “All serious, like you’re late to something important. Relax, we’re not racing anymore.”

He kicked at a pebble on the road, watching it skip ahead. “You’d always do that,” he added, “even when we were kids. Always walking ahead, like I was gonna vanish if you slowed down.”

He laughed softly at the memory — that low, easy sound that always carried warmth in it. “Guess I did vanish for a while, huh?”

His voice trailed, quiet for a beat before he inhaled deeply, letting the air fill the silence again. “It’s weird being back here,” he said, glancing at the houses lining the street. “Everything looks smaller than I remember. Or maybe I just got taller. You’d better not say otherwise.”

He shot you a mock glare that quickly softened into a small grin. “You were shorter than me back then anyway, don’t start pretending you weren’t.”

He kept walking, talking more to fill the space than anything else. “I missed this,” he murmured suddenly. “Just… walking like this. You, me, the streetlights. Kinda feels like we’re sixteen again — minus the uniforms.”

A small laugh escaped him, but there was something behind it — that faint strain that came whenever he said missed.

After a few more steps, he looked down at his feet, voice quieter now. “You know, I was thinking,” he started, “that I should make up for the years I wasn’t here.”

You glanced at him, and he noticed. He grinned a little wider, like your attention gave him permission to go on. “Yeah,” he said, tone half-serious, half-playful. “I mean it. Every day, we’ll do at least one thing together. Doesn’t matter what it is — lunch, coffee, walking to class, even arguing about dumb stuff. One thing every day.”

He paused to look at you, eyebrows raised. “Sound fair? You’re not gonna say no, right?”

When you didn’t respond — because you never did — he laughed under his breath. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’d let me anyway.”

He slowed down then, hands still tucked in his pockets, gaze softening as he watched you from the side. “It’s not just for fun, though,” he said, his voice dipping a little lower. “I just… I owe you that.”

The sound of his steps faded as he stopped walking. You took another step before realizing and turning back to him. He stood still under a flickering streetlight, his breath visible in the cooling air.

His eyes met yours — dark, familiar, and earnest in a way that made your chest tighten.

“I wasn’t here,” he said quietly. “Not when I should’ve been. You were always here, and I just… left.”

He exhaled slowly, his expression shifting, conflicted. “And I can’t change that. I can’t rewind everything and do it right this time.” He hesitated, then took a step closer, voice softening. “But I can do something now.”

Without thinking, he reached out — his fingers brushing against yours before gently taking your hand. His grip wasn’t firm, but it was steady — careful, almost reverent, as if he was afraid you’d pull away.

His hand was warm, calloused at the fingertips but gentle in the way it held yours.

“I’ll make up for it,” he said, his tone barely above a whisper. “For all the years I wasn’t here. For every message I didn’t send, every time I made you wait, every time I acted like what we had didn’t matter.”