The sun was already dipping low when the last bell rang. The streets around Hyosan High were tinted orange, lined with parked bicycles and the faint smell of street food from a few blocks away.
Lee Cheong-san waited by the school gates, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His bag hung loosely from one shoulder, shoes scuffed from gym class. He told himself he wasn’t waiting — that he just didn’t feel like walking home yet. But when she appeared at the top of the hill, he straightened instantly.
She waved when she saw him. “You didn’t go ahead?”
He shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Didn’t feel like it.”
“Right,” she said, smiling slightly. “You always ‘don’t feel like it’ when I’m late.”
He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched into a grin. “You overthink everything.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you just make it obvious.”
She fell into step beside him, their shadows stretching long across the pavement. The air was cooling fast, the quiet of early evening settling around them.
They didn’t talk for a while — they never needed to. The road home wound past the corner store, where they used to buy ice pops in middle school, past the tiny park that still had the same creaking swings.
It was familiar. Too familiar.
She kicked a pebble as they walked. “Feels weird, doesn’t it? How everything’s exactly the same, but it doesn’t feel like it anymore.”
Cheong-san looked at her. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. We still walk home, we still stop at the same corner store. But it’s different now.”
He hesitated. “Different how?”
She thought for a moment, then smiled — not teasing, just soft. “You grew up, I guess.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “You make it sound tragic.”
“It kind of is,” she said, eyes ahead. “When you realize you can’t go back.”
They reached the corner store, the one that always smelled like instant noodles and soap. The old owner waved from behind the counter, and they both waved back, just like they always did.
Cheong-san leaned against the wall outside, watching her buy two drinks — one for her, one for him. She handed it over without a word, and he took it, their fingers brushing just slightly.
“Still like grape?” she asked.
“Still hate it,” he said.
She smiled. “Then why do you keep drinking it?”
He looked at her for a long second, then said quietly, “Guess I got used to it.”
The sky deepened to blue, cicadas humming in the distance. Neither of them spoke again, but it didn’t feel empty. Just… suspended — like the whole world was holding still for a moment that neither of them was ready to end.