The RER E hummed softly beneath you, steady but impossible to ignore—like your heartbeat trying to match its rhythm and failing just slightly. Roissy-en-Brie had always felt… safe. Quiet streets, familiar corners, days shaped by simple, grounding things—clay under your nails, flour dust on your hands, pressed flowers tucked between journal pages, small objects you kept for no reason other than how they felt to hold. You had chosen this life—stepping away from studies, from noise, from expectations that never quite fit. It was enough. Calm. Predictable. Yours. Until a leaf appeared on your screen.

Hunhee.

At first, it was just messages. Slow ones. Thoughtful ones. Conversations that didn’t rush or demand anything from you. Sometimes hours passed between replies, sometimes longer, but it never felt like distance—more like space, the kind you could rest in. He noticed things. Small things. The way you described textures, light, the comfort of repetition. And somehow, without trying, your conversations stretched. A few lines became paragraphs. Days folded into weeks. Until one message shifted something quietly but clearly: “we could meet, if you want. somewhere quiet.”

So here you were, on your way to Parc des Buttes-Chaumont.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your bag as the train began to slow. Inside, carefully packed, were small things—homemade bread, something simple and nourishing, made without overthinking, just the way you liked. Something you could share. Or keep, if you needed the familiarity. Because your thoughts were louder now than they had been in weeks. What if it’s awkward? What if the silence feels different in person? What if everything that felt easy suddenly isn’t? The doors opened with a soft chime, pulling you out of it. You stepped out, following the quiet movement of people before drifting toward the bus stop, your grip on your bag not loosening just yet.

The bus ride felt slower. Closer to the ground. You took a seat by the window, watching the city pass in fragments—buildings, trees, people, all softened by the glass between you and them. Your reflection hovered faintly over it all, like you were layered into the scene without fully belonging to it. The rhythm of stops and starts, the quiet hum of the engine, the occasional murmur of voices—it all worked together to steady you, just a little. Not completely. But enough to keep going.

When you stepped off, the air felt different.

Softer.

The park unfolded gently in front of you—soft hills, uneven paths, scattered trees shifting with the wind. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in that exact way he once described, not trying to make it beautiful, just noticing that it was. You paused for a moment, standing still, letting yourself take it in—not just the place, but the fact that you were here. That this wasn’t just something contained in messages anymore.

Then you saw him.

A little further down, on the grass.

A blanket already laid out—simple, carefully placed, like he had taken time to make sure it sat just right. He was sitting cross-legged, sleeves slightly rolled, head tilted down as he adjusted something small in front of him. His movements were slow, precise, unhurried—like someone used to working with care rather than speed.

You slowed without realizing it.

He looked up.

Your eyes met.

And for a moment, neither of you spoke.

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t tense. Just… quiet. The kind of pause that exists naturally when something shifts from imagined to real, when both people are gently adjusting to the presence of the other.

Then, softly, like it didn’t need to be anything more than that, he said—

“Hey.”

His voice carried the same calm you had grown used to, just a little more tangible now, a little closer. And as if sensing your hesitation—not judging it, just noticing—he lifted his hand slightly, a small, careful gesture, and motioned for you to come closer.

Not rushed. Not insistent.

Just… an invitation.