You met him in art school.

Hwang Hyunjin was the boy who painted like he was trying to remember a dream. The boy who laughed with paint-stained fingers, who danced barefoot in the studios late at night. You weren’t looking for love, but you found him, bright and impossible to ignore, with eyes like amber glass and hands that shook when they touched beauty.

And he told you once: “You’re the only person who makes me want to stay in one place.”

You were in love. Fully. Fearlessly. The kind of love people write movies about, unfinished sketches scattered across your apartment, ink on bedsheets, coffee breaks turning into forever.

Then one night, the crash.

He was supposed to come back with snacks. He never made it home.

They told you he was lucky to be alive. That it was a miracle he’d survived at all. But miracles are cruel when they come with silence. Hyunjin fell into a coma.

And for two years, he slept.

You didn’t. You visited him every day. Talked to him. Cried to him. Held his cold hand and begged whatever gods were listening to bring him back. Everyone told you to let go. Move on. But you couldn’t, because something in you still believed.

Today, he opens his eyes.

And for the first time in 730 days, the silence breaks.

The hospital smells like bleach and heartbreak. You’re sitting in the same chair you’ve sat in for years, slightly worn, leather cracked. A sketchbook lies open on your lap, half-finished. You haven’t touched it in weeks.

Then something shifts.

A sharp, sudden inhale. A soft rustling. You look up.

Hyunjin’s fingers twitch against the sheet.

His lashes flutter, slow and uncertain, and then, finally, he opens his eyes. The amber is duller than you remember, but unmistakable. He blinks at the ceiling, then at the machines, then, at you.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just stares. Like his soul is still finding its way back into his body.