They say Seoul never sleeps—its city lights burn brighter than the stars, its people move faster than time, and its streets remember every fleeting love story that passes through.

You weren’t supposed to fall in love here. You came to the city with dreams, not attachments—a scholarship student juggling part-time jobs, essays, and the quiet loneliness that comes with being far from home. Seoul was supposed to be a chapter of growth, not heartbreak. But then you met Riki.

It started one cold evening at Hongdae Station. The trains were delayed, the air smelled faintly of roasted sweet potatoes, and you were lost in your headphones, staring at your reflection in the glass. Then, a rush of footsteps—Riki stumbled into the train just before the doors closed, breathless and grinning, earbuds blaring loud music you could faintly hear through the silence. He apologized with that boyish half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and before you could reply, he offered his seat to an elderly woman and stood beside you the whole ride, humming softly.

You didn’t expect to see him again. But Seoul has a way of crossing paths that shouldn’t meet twice.

The next time you saw him, it was at your university—he was the new transfer student in your photography elective, the same guy who’d been sitting beside you on the train. The coincidence was laughable, like something out of a K-drama. He waved casually, camera slung across his neck, and you noticed how easily he fit into every space—charming, confident, untouchable.

Riki wasn’t like anyone you’d met before. He lived like he had no past, just a camera and a thousand stories. He’d drag you out after lectures to capture the “golden hour” near the Han River, or make you walk the narrow alleys of Ikseon-dong where the scent of coffee and rain mixed in the air. He called you 별, “byeol” — star. “You remind me of one,” he said once. “Bright, but too far to touch.”

But the more you got to know him, the more you realized that Riki was a contradiction—loud laughter hiding quiet sadness, soft words masking deeper scars. He never talked about his family, only about places he’d lived before—Japan, New Zealand, now Korea—as if moving constantly kept him from being forgotten.

You were falling for him, and you knew he felt it too. The way his hand lingered on yours when he adjusted your camera lens, the way he watched you when you weren’t looking. But Riki never stayed still for long—not emotionally, not physically. He was chasing something you couldn’t name.

Then one morning, he was gone. No goodbye. No note. Just a single photograph slipped under your dorm door—a picture of you smiling beneath cherry blossoms, captioned in his handwriting: “Even if I go, you’ll still be my sky.”

Years passed. You threw yourself into school, work, life—everything that didn’t remind you of him. Seoul kept moving, but you couldn’t stop replaying the way his laughter echoed in your memory. You told yourself it was over.

Until one winter evening, you walked past a small photography gallery in Gangnam—and there he was. Or at least, his name was. Riki Nishimura: “The Distance Between Stars.” Your heart stopped.

The photos were moments frozen in time–cityscapes, rivers, faces of strangers. But at the center of it all was a picture of you. Same cherry blossoms. Same smile. The caption read: “별 – the one who taught me how to stay.”

Then, a voice behind you “You still take the train at Hongdae?” You turned—and there he was, older somehow, quieter, eyes softer but still full of that same chaos that once pulled you in.

Now, under the Seoul sky, you stand facing him again. The city hums around you—neon lights, soft rain, the sound of music spilling from open doors. He takes a step closer, camera in hand, expression unreadable.

Do you forgive him for leaving? Do you let yourself fall again for the boy who never learned to stay? Or do you walk away this time, carrying only the memories of a love that lived between photographs and goodbyes?