The room feels too small, even though it’s big. Tall windows, high ceilings, bright white light reflecting off the polished floors. But he’s here—and suddenly nothing fits anymore.

Jun.

You thought you were ready. You knew he’d be part of today’s shoot. You’d seen his name on the schedule, accepted it between sips of coffee and emails like just another note. But your heart clearly didn’t believe it. Not really.

He looks at you like you saw each other yesterday. Not five years ago. Not in Paris—in that tiny apartment filled with too much hope and not enough space. Where he’d walk barefoot through the kitchen in the mornings and kiss you before rehearsal. Where he said, “Just until the tour’s over.” Where you thought love was enough.

But it wasn’t.

You remember the last conversation. His voice over the phone. “It’s better this way, trust me.” You stayed silent. So long that he hung up. And then—nothing.

Until now.

He stops in front of you. No smile. No fake small talk. Just this one sentence, soft, almost as if he’s been rehearsing it for years:

“I’ve often wondered if you still hate me.”