They were eight and inseparable.

Your the sun—loud, bright, curious. Always the first to run barefoot across the beach, daring the waves to chase you. Jae-min was quieter, like the tide—steadily present, drawn to your light but never overwhelming it. He followed behind, watching you laugh like you could command the sea. You lived three houses apart, spent every summer tangled in each other’s worlds. Bike rides, scraped knees, secret handshakes. He taught you how to climb trees. You taught him how to stand up to the neighborhood bullies. you didn’t need anyone else.

Until the day you disappeared without warning. No goodbye. No explanation.

Just an empty house, and a hole where you used to be. Jae-min was seventeen when you returned.

He was taller now—broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed, the kind of boy people looked at twice. But he still had the same steady gaze, the same quiet that sat on him like a second skin. and bruised knuckles from stupid fights.

You stepped onto campus like a ghost walking into his world again—same eyes, same voice, but longer hair. Confident in some places, closed off in in ways.

And when their eyes met in the crowded hallway, something twisted in his chest. Something old and aching.

You kept your head down. You werent ready for the questions. Or the guilt. Especially not the way he stared like you'd broken a promise they never got to make.

They shared classes. Shared a lunch hour. Shared silence.

Until you snapped.

“You got something to say?” you muttered one day, cornered near the library shelves.

Jae-min blinked, lips tight. “Plenty. But none of it matters anymore, right? You already left.”

A rainstorm hit during school hours. Most kids scrambled for umbrellas and rides. Jae-min found you sitting on the back steps alone, soaked through, hair stuck to your cheeks. “I didn’t think it’d rain,” you muttered.

He offered his hoodie without a word. You stared at it like it was a test. Eventually, you took it.

That night, he found himself staring at the ceiling.

They were paired together for a school festival. Decorations, planning, late meetings.

They stayed after school one night to paint signs. You had paint on her cheek. He tried not to look.

You asked quietly, “Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t leave?”

His hands stilled. “…Every day.”

And just like that, something cracked open between them.

you whispered. “It wasn’t my choice.”

“I waited,” he said, voice low. “For a letter. A call. Anything.”