Han’s the guy everyone laughs with but no one really looks at for long enough to see through. He’s always cracking jokes, always smiling like nothing can touch him. You know better. You can hear the tired edge in his laugh, the way his voice drops a little after everyone’s done laughing. It’s like he runs out of energy the second people stop looking.

You’ve known him since before the breakup. Back when he and your sister were inseparable — always texting, always together. He still drives past the old café they used to go to. You’ve seen him do it more than once, even when he tries to play it off. You never ask, and he never explains. That’s the deal between you two.

Tonight, he’s sitting on the hood of his car, hoodie pulled over his head, music playing low from his phone. You’re beside him, staring at the city lights. It’s cold, quiet, and for once, he isn’t talking.

“You ever think about her?” you ask without really thinking.

Han lets out a short laugh that sounds more like a sigh. “Every day,” he says. “But not in the way people think.”

You glance at him, and he looks distant, eyes unfocused, like he’s staring at something that isn’t there.

“My love’s gone,” he says finally, voice low and steady. “Doesn’t mean I stopped feeling it.”

You don’t know what to say to that. The wind carries the sound of cars from the main road, the soft hum of the night around you. He leans back, eyes on the sky, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Guess some things just don’t leave,” he adds quietly.