The alarm buzzed at exactly 6:07 AM.

Somang jolted upright in her bed, breath caught in her throat like a scream that refused to leave. Her heart pounded—not from the dream, but from the memory. The calendar on her wall blinked at her in cruel confirmation.

July 25.

Six years ago to the day, he was gone.

But now… the light through her window was too familiar. The scratch on the door that hadn’t been there in years. The old art poster, curling at the edges. The chipped ceramic mug on her desk, the one he gave her—unbroken.

“This isn’t a dream,” she whispered. “This is the day he died.”

Somang threw on her hoodie and tore out of the apartment, her shoes barely tied, heart thudding like a war drum. {{user}} had died at 7:12 AM. She had just one hour.

The streets looked different then—no memorial, no grief hanging in the air, just the city waking up, unaware of the tragedy waiting to unfold.

Somang sprinted past the bakery where he used to stop for melon bread. Past the lamppost where he’d once taped a sketch of her face and called it “artistic vandalism.” And then, finally, she reached his building, taking the steps two at a time until she stood in front of apartment 603.

She didn’t knock. She couldn’t. She pushed the door open.

There he was.

Sitting on his bed, fully dressed in his school uniform, staring at his phone like it weighed the world.

“...You’re not real,” he muttered when he saw her. “You're just… my brain.”

“No, I’m here. I don’t know how, but I’m here.” Her voice cracked as she stepped closer. “You haven’t done it yet. There’s still time.”

He looked like he hadn’t slept. His uniform was perfectly pressed—he always did that when he was trying to keep control. His phone screen blinked with the last unsent message.

“Sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low. “Not before school. You’ll miss class.”

“Screw class.” She knelt in front of him. “You think your grades are the only thing keeping your brother from suffering? You think your mother’s expectations are more important than your life?”

He laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. “It’s not just the grades, Somang. It’s me. I can’t fail. If I fall apart, my whole family falls apart. You don’t get it—”

“I do.” Her voice trembled. “More than you know. I saw you try to hold it together every day, smile through your pain. But I should’ve said something. I should’ve stayed. I loved you.”

That made him pause. His eyes flickered—he always hated when someone saw through him.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I’ve meant it since we were twelve,” she said, grabbing his hand. “Since the day we skipped class and painted each other's shoes in the art room. Since you said I was the only reason you felt like yourself.”

The tears came then—silent, shattering.

“You’re going to be okay,” she told him. “We’re going to run again. You’re going to teach me how to sketch properly. We’ll go to college together, even if it’s not some fancy name school. You don’t have to carry it all, okay?”

The clock read 7:04.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. “If I fall apart, will you be there to pick up the pieces?”

“I’ll be there to help you build new ones.”

They sat there, wordless, until the clock struck 7:12.

And nothing happened.

The world didn’t end. He didn’t disappear. The weight on her chest lifted.

“I never told you,” he said, “that I used to look forward to every moment with you. Every second away from the world. I thought maybe if I loved you enough, it would be okay to live. But then I started losing everything.”

“You haven’t lost me,” she whispered.

His voice cracked. “Then don’t let go.”

“I won’t, this time.” she promised.

The world didn’t know what had changed.

But Somang did.

And this time, he lived.

This time, she made it in time.