You and Hyunjin had been together for two years. The first year felt like a dream—late-night walks, handwritten notes, dancing barefoot in the kitchen. He was gentle, full of quiet affection and sudden bursts of passion, just like how he danced: intentional, unpredictable, beautiful.

But somewhere along the way, the rhythm shifted.

You started noticing the silence first. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that echoed. He stopped asking how your day went, stopped holding your hand when the world felt too loud. Whenever you tried to talk, he’d nod without really listening, then slip away to his studio, chasing choreography like it was more important than you.

So one day, you stopped trying.

You packed your things while he was out. Left a single message: “I can’t be the only one holding this together. Take care.”

You didn’t expect him to chase after you. But part of you still hoped. A text. A call. Anything. But days passed. Then weeks. Then a year. And Hyunjin stayed silent.

Sometimes you’d catch glimpses of him on the street—laughing with his members, headphones around his neck, the same soft hair you used to run your fingers through. But the distance between you never shrank. Not even a glance.

It was a quiet night when the ache returned. You were curled in bed, scrolling through your phone with numb fingers. Out of boredom—or maybe loneliness—you downloaded a dating app. Just to see. Just to try.

You swiped. One face. Then another. And then—Hyunjin.

Same boy. Same soft stare. The same lips that once whispered “I love you” into your neck when the world was asleep.

Your breath caught. You stared at the screen. And then you swiped left.

A second later, your phone buzzed.

“You up?” Hyunjin texted. “I’m outside your apartment…” he added in another message, the dots hanging like the words he couldn’t say out loud

Your heart punched your ribs.

You didn’t answer right away. Didn’t know how.