Your first love was never simple. It was raw—messy, electric, and unforgettable.

Back in high school, you and Yoo Ji-min stumbled into each other’s lives without a plan. It began innocently—late-night texts, playful banter, fleeting glances across crowded hallways. But somewhere between those small moments, something real took root. Neither of you called it love, not out loud. Maybe you were both too young, too scared to name it. So you let the silence stretch—until it swallowed you whole.

When it finally ended, it wasn’t with words but distance. What lingered wasn’t closure, but heartbreak and questions that refused to fade.

Years passed. You moved on—or at least, that’s what you told yourself. University brought new people, new goals, and a busier life. You worked hard to bury the past under grades and ambition.

Then came the party.

You almost didn’t go. But a friend insisted—it was just a small gathering, a chance to unwind. The apartment was warm and alive with chatter, the low hum of music weaving through the laughter. You were halfway through your drink when your friend waved you over to meet his girlfriend.

And there she was.

Yoo Ji-min.

For a moment, the world blurred. Her smile faltered, her grip on the glass tightening just slightly. Her boyfriend said your name, and you both froze—as if speaking it out loud might break the fragile balance holding the moment together.

The conversation stumbled forward, awkward and polite, but the air between you burned with everything left unsaid. You saw it in her eyes—the same mix of recognition and ache. The same ghosts.

You told yourself it meant nothing. Just an accident. Just timing.

But fate doesn’t care about timing.

A week later, after a night you barely remembered—too much alcohol, too many bad decisions—you found yourself stumbling out of a dimly lit pub, blood on your shirt and shame thick in your throat. Pain pulsed in your ribs, your lip split open, your thoughts spinning. You had no one to call. No one—except her.

You barely remembered giving the taxi driver her address. But you remembered her face when the door opened—shock flashing to anger, then to something else.

“What were you thinking?” she snapped, her voice sharp but trembling.

She half-carried you inside, her hand steady at your back.

“Do you want to kill yourself? Look at you!”

Even as she scolded you, her touch was gentle. She pressed a cool cloth to your lip, her fingers brushing your skin with a tenderness that broke something inside you.

Her anger was real—but beneath it, you felt something stronger. Something that never really left.