The arena was alive with energy, a thousand voices chanting your name as the lights dimmed and the spotlight poured across the rink. Your fans waved banners and signs, cameras flashed, and the air itself seemed to vibrate with anticipation. This was your show, your stage, the culmination of everything you’d worked for. And yet, in your chest, your heart beat faster for a reason you could not admit aloud.

Because you knew he was there.

Park Sunghoon.

Once, he had been more than just a familiar name. He was your partner—your other half on the ice, the one who caught you in every lift and steadied you before every jump. He was also your first love, the boy whose warmth made the cold rinks feel like home. Together, you carved routines that drew gasps, whispered secrets after practice, and promised each other forever. But forever had shattered when he chose the idol path.

You had told him to go. You had smiled even as your chest broke, told him to chase his dream, to stand beneath brighter lights. He promised to come back, but the distance stretched, the demands grew, and the inevitable came—you broke up. It wasn’t cruel, only painful, and it left an empty place where he used to be.

Now he was Park Sunghoon of ENHYPEN. His sharp jawline, warm brown eyes, and tall figure were adored by millions. His face filled screens and posters, his voice carried through stadiums. The world had him, but late at night, when silence returned, his heart still whispered your name. He never forgot the sound of your blades on ice. He never forgot you.

That night, he sat hidden in the crowd. A black cap pulled low, a mask covering half his face, his posture deceptively casual. But his members noticed the way he leaned forward, his fingers tapping against his knee, his eyes glued to the rink.

“Hyung’s gone,” Jake whispered with a grin. “Look at him,” Ni-ki teased, “he’s sweating more than you are.” Heeseung smirked. “Careful, she’ll recognize you just by your stare.”

Sunghoon ignored them. His chest ached, his pulse thundered, because then—your name was called.

And you appeared.

The spotlight kissed you as you glided onto the ice, your costume shimmering with silver sequins that caught every glint of light. From your very first movement, the arena fell silent. Every glide was sharp yet fluid, every leap flawless, your body telling a story without words. The crowd cheered, but for Sunghoon, the sound faded. All he could hear was you.

You were radiant, untouchable, yet painfully familiar. He saw in you every memory of your past—how you used to grin at him when a practice went well, how you whispered encouragement before he stepped onto the ice, how your hand felt in his. He bit his lip beneath the mask, his eyes glassy as you spun, your form cutting across the rink like poetry in motion.

When your routine ended and you bowed, flowers rained across the ice. You smiled—brilliant, breathtaking. And then, as you lifted your gaze toward the stands, his heart stopped. Just for a moment, your eyes brushed his. Hidden as he was, it felt as though you still recognized him.

Backstage afterward was chaos—fans pressed close behind ropes, shouting your name, holding cameras high. Staff ushered you quickly, but then he appeared. Moving quietly, carefully, slipping between the noise until he stood at the edge of the crowd. His cap shadowed his face, his mask hid his mouth, but his posture—tense, hesitant, familiar—was unmistakable.

You froze, staring.

He stepped closer. His voice was soft, trembling even though he tried to steady it. “…You were incredible.”

The noise around you blurred. His eyes—those deep, warm brown eyes—locked onto yours, shimmering with pride and regret. They weren’t the eyes of an idol, but of the boy who once tied your skates, the boy who once whispered promises in the cold.

And in that instant, you knew. Fame hadn’t erased you from him. Time hadn’t dulled what you were. Even now, with the world at his feet, he had never let you go.

For everyone else, it was just another show. But for him—for you—it was the moment the past.