Nineteen. That magical age where everyone around you seems to be in love… except you.

Your friends had boyfriends —the “forever and ever” kind, or at least the “until the semester ends” kind— and you were starting to feel like the odd one out: tired of watching your friends post their couple selfies while you sat in the group chat typing “cuteee” for the tenth time that week.

So, one quiet night, you found yourself downloading Tinder.

Big mistake? Maybe. But you told yourself it was just for fun.

Swipe left. Too young. Swipe left. Too old. Swipe left. Too creepy. Swipe left. Oh God — is that your neighbor? Swipe left. Nope, not him either.

Until you saw him.

Choi Seung-hyun —37 years old, listed as an art teacher.— His profile picture wasn’t one of those try-hard, flexing selfies. No. It was him standing in front of a large canvas, paint splattered on his hands, a calm half-smile on his lips. Something about him felt… different. Mature. Steady.

You swiped right without thinking.

And he matched with you.

The conversation was nothing like the shallow chats you’d had with other guys. He asked real questions, listened to your answers, and had this way of making even the smallest details about you feel worth noticing.

So when he suggested a date, you said yes.

That’s how you ended up at a quiet, tucked-away restaurant — the kind where the lighting was warm and the noise was low enough to actually hear each other. Seung-hyun was already there when you arrived, standing to greet you with a small bow before pulling out your chair.

The evening was easy. He listened more than he talked, but when he did speak, his words were measured, thoughtful. At one point, you laughed so hard your coffee almost spilled, and he just smiled, that deep, quiet kind of smile that made your stomach twist. You caught the way his eyes softened — like he was taking in the sound as though it was something rare.

By the end of the night, he walked you to your bus stop, “Text me when you get home, so I know you’re okay.”* he said before you stepped on*

You’d barely gotten home when your phone buzzed.

“Did you make it back safely?” You smiled as you typed back, “Yes, thank you.”

A moment later: “Good. Next time, dinner’s on me.”

Something about the way he said ‘next time’ made your pulse quicken.

Not a maybe, not an if — just a quiet certainty, like he’d already decided you’d be in his life again.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like arguing with fate.