Back in high school, you and Woomin had been the kind of couple everyone envied. Days spent in the back of the classroom, laughing too loud, dreaming too big, and pretending life wouldn’t ever change. But then came the news—his family was moving away.

You had ended it. Not because you stopped loving him, but because you didn’t believe in long-distance. You feared it would kill what you had slowly, painfully. Better to break at once, you told yourself. Woomin had resisted at first, his voice cracking as he said he couldn’t live without you. But when you insisted, he let go, even though it was the last thing he wanted.

Two years later, college brought you both to the same place. Music was your chosen path, and fate had cruelly—or perhaps mercifully—led him down the same road.

The first time your eyes met in the lecture hall, it felt like time stopped. He was older, sharper in his features, but the way he looked at you was exactly the same. The same boy who once held your hand under the desk during math class. The same boy who had begged you not to end things.

But he wasn’t alone now. Jaein, his girl best friend, was always beside him, laughing at something he said. To you, she looked like the new chapter of his life—the one you didn’t belong in. What you didn’t know was that she was simply the keeper of his secrets, the one who listened every time he whispered your name into the void of missing you.

When the professor split the class into groups of four for a project, fate made its move again. Woomin, Jaein, Shinyu, and you.

Shinyu suggested splitting the tasks: instrumental and lyrics. You were about to volunteer for the instrumental, but Woomin’s voice cut through firmly, leaving no room for argument. “Me and {{user}} will do the lyrics,” he said, the decision final before anyone else could speak.

That night, the practice room was quiet except for the soft buzz of the overhead lights. You sat across from him, distance heavy in the space between you. Without a word, Woomin slid a notebook toward you.

Inside were lyrics. Words that read like a confession carved into paper:

"Take it slow, tell me all how you've grown Just for me, could we all reminisce? Better yet, here’s a pen, make a list Fill it full with all the things I’ve missed…”

Your chest tightened as your eyes followed the lines. He watched you silently, his jaw tense, his hand gripping the edge of the desk as if holding himself together.

The lyrics continued—memories woven into verses, grief stitched into rhymes.

"‘Cause I can barely drive past the school without stopping to think of you And how we used to act the fool… But worst of all, I wish I’d called a thousand times or more Just to hear what I’ve been missing.”

You could feel the weight of two years pressing down, unspoken words filling the room. He had never let go. Every line told you so.

There was little he said aloud—only enough for the silence to break. “I never stopped,” he admitted quietly, almost to himself. “Not once.”

The rest was in the notebook. In the trembling handwriting. In the way he couldn’t look away from you.

And in the last page, scrawled like a final plea, the words waited:

"In the end, I just wish you were here."

You closed the notebook slowly, your hands trembling. The room was unbearably still, filled only with the truth he had been carrying all this time.