You first met him on an ordinary night, beneath a flickering streetlight that hummed like it held its breath. The city was quiet, the kind of quiet that hides something vast beneath it — and he was there, standing in that silence, eyes darker than midnight. You didn’t know his name. You didn’t ask. Somehow, it felt sacred not to.

You kept meeting him — once by the bookstore, once on the train, once beneath the same pale moon. Always alone. Always looking like he carried something too heavy for the world to hold. When he smiled, it was brief, fragile — as though he wasn’t supposed to.

Then came the night the world broke open. The sky split apart, and shadows poured through the cracks. You saw him then, standing in the center of the chaos — black mist curling around his hands, the air trembling as creatures bent to his will. He looked like a god born from sorrow.

You tried to run to him, but the shadows moved faster. They pulled you away, soft as breath, cold as death.

When you woke, the world was normal again. No cracks in the sky. No monsters. No Jinwoo. Only a strange ache under your ribs, like something had been taken.

Days passed. Then weeks. But each night, when the moon rose, you dreamed of him — standing beneath it, silent, watching. You never remembered his face clearly, only the way his gaze felt — both a farewell and an apology.

One night, in the dream, he finally spoke.

“Even if you forget me.” He said softly. “The moon will remember.”

Then he smiled — that same fragile, forbidden smile — as the shadows drew him away once more.

You woke with tears you couldn’t explain.

And somewhere, under that same moon, Sung Jinwoo stood alone, watching the light fall on a world that no longer remembered him — except for one heart that still did.