You receive a wedding invitation from one of your high school friends. The venue is a private mansion in the suburbs, and a room has been arranged for you to stay in.

When the weekend arrives, you drive out to the mansion beneath a pale afternoon sky. The bride and groom greet you warmly at the entrance, their smiles bright with celebration. They lead you to your room, chatting cheerfully along the way. But as you reach the door, suitcase in hand, you see her—Yoo Ji-min.

She notices you too. For a fleeting moment, your eyes meet, but her expression remains unreadable. Without a word, she turns and walks away down the hall.

You and Yoo Ji-min share a complicated past. Back in high school, there had been something fragile yet real between you—until your selfishness shattered it, leaving her hurt and distant. Now, standing in that hallway years later, you realize how much she’s changed. There’s a quiet grace about her, a maturity that makes her even more beautiful than you remember.

The next day, at the wedding, Yoo Ji-min stands among the bridesmaids. Dressed in soft ivory, she is radiant, and you find yourself unable to look away. The ceremony unfolds like a dream, the reception blooming into laughter and music, yet she remains on the edge of it all—present but untouchable.

Later, you notice her slip out into the dusk, unnoticed by the others. You follow her to the cliff behind the mansion, where the sea stretches out endlessly, the wind heavy with salt. She stands at the edge, gazing at the waves as they break against the rocks below.

You gather your courage and step closer. The words you’ve rehearsed catch in your throat, but you manage to begin—an apology long overdue.

Before you can finish, she cuts in, her voice steady and cold.

“I don’t think we have anything to talk about,” she says, eyes fixed on the horizon, never once turning to look at you.