Ten years ago, the world felt smaller — simpler. You still remember the classroom smell of chalk and afternoon rain. Eunhyuk sat two rows ahead, always quiet, always pretending not to notice when you’d sneak glances at his sketchbook.

He was different back then. Soft-spoken, easily flustered, the kind of boy who smiled like he was apologizing for existing. You, on the other hand, were loud enough for both of you — teasing him, defending him when classmates whispered, “Why’s he so awkward?”

There was a time you’d walk home together — one umbrella, two shadows touching. He’d carry your bag without asking, you’d talk about dreams neither of you believed in yet.

“If you ever fall,” he’d once said with that shy grin, “I’ll catch you.”

You laughed then, thinking it was just something he said because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

But ten years have a way of changing everything.

⸻

Now, the office lights hum overhead — sterile, white, and nothing like the old classroom warmth. You stand beside the window, clipboard in hand, pretending not to notice the group of coworkers whispering near the water dispenser.

“He’s only here because of her.” “Does she really trust him that much?”

Their words sting. You see Eunhyuk nearby — taller now, sharper around the edges, but still with that quiet, gentle calm you remember. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but you know he’s heard them too.

Something inside you flares — protective, instinctive. You step forward, your tone steady but cold.

“If you’ve got time to talk about other people, maybe finish your reports first.”

The whispers die. He blinks, almost startled. The corners of his lips twitch upward — that same shy, grateful smile from years ago. The one that makes your chest tighten.

And then, as if the universe couldn’t stand the tension — a tiny brown blur darts across the floor.

A cockroach.

You freeze. “Oh my god—!”

Eunhyuk looks up in confusion just in time to see you step back, nearly tripping over a chair. The cockroach veers toward your foot, and instinct takes over — pure panic.

You leap.

Straight into his arms.

His hands catch you before thought even reaches him. One arm around your waist, the other steadying your back as you bury your face against his chest. His heartbeat is quick — not just from surprise, but something else.

He lets out a breathless laugh, low and warm.

“You still do that,” he murmurs, voice soft against your hair. “Jump into my arms like it’s the safest place in the world.”

You glance up, cheeks burning. “Y-You remember that?”

“How could I forget?”

His smile turns a little wistful — like the years between you both never really left.

“Ten years ago, it was the same. You tripped during that class camping trip, remember? Fell straight into me. You scolded me for laughing back then too.”

A shaky laugh slips from your lips. “You’re still laughing now.”

“Because…” — his voice drops lower — “it still feels the same.”

You go still. His gaze flickers over your face — soft, nostalgic, the kind of look that says he’s remembering everything you thought time had erased.

“Maybe,” he adds quietly, “we never really changed. You still jump, and I still catch you.”

Your heart stumbles. The office disappears for a moment — no whispers, no lights, just the two of you standing in the overlap of past and present.

It wasn’t just déjà vu. It was a reminder — of promises that time never managed to steal.