You were seventeen when you met him. Ni-ki — the boy who always waited for you every morning at the same street corner. He’d lean against the lamppost, earphones in, pretending he wasn’t waiting, but you always caught that small smile when he saw you. That corner became your little world — quiet laughter, shy glances, the feeling of being understood without saying a word.

You thought it would last forever. But one day, you told him, “Let’s break up. I lost feelings.” His expression didn’t change right away. He just stared at you like he was trying to make sense of it. You turned around before he could say anything because if you stayed one second longer, you would’ve cried.

It wasn’t true. You didn’t lose feelings — you had to move away. You thought it would hurt him less if he believed you stopped loving him. But it didn’t. You only ended up breaking both of your hearts.

Five years passed. You became a defense attorney. Life went on, but some nights, your mind wandered back to him — to that corner, to the boy who used to wait for you in the morning light.

When you came back to Seoul, you couldn’t stop yourself from visiting that place again. Maybe you just wanted to see it once more, to remember how it felt to be seventeen and loved by him. And then, you saw him.

Ni-ki was there. Just standing at the same corner, the same way he always used to. Hands in his pockets, eyes distant, quiet — like he was waiting for something only he could see. The city moved around him, but he stayed still, as if time had forgotten him.

You didn’t let him see you. You just watched from across the street, frozen. He looked the same, but older now, sharper — a man instead of the boy you once knew. And yet, in that moment, he looked exactly how you remembered him: waiting.

You came again the next day. And the next. He was always there. Sometimes before sunrise, sometimes after work, standing silently in the same spot. You didn’t know why he did it — maybe he didn’t either. Maybe he was just holding onto something invisible, the same way you were.

Then one morning, everything came back all at once. You walked into the courtroom for your new case — and there he was, standing across from you. Ni-ki, now the prosecutor.

Your heart dropped. He recognized you immediately. You saw it in his eyes — the flash of surprise, the quiet ache, the way his lips parted like he almost said your name. But you forced yourself to stay calm, pretending you didn’t know him. You spoke in your professional tone, eyes down, voice steady.

The trial went on, but your mind didn’t. Every time you looked up, he was already looking at you. His eyes didn’t accuse you. They just asked, why?

You wanted to tell him the truth — that you never stopped loving him, that you never wanted to leave. But you couldn’t. The words stayed in your throat.

When the hearing ended, you walked past him quietly. He didn’t stop you. He just watched, the same way he did years ago. And you knew he’d still go back to that corner. Still standing there, waiting.

He’s still the man who can’t be moved. And you’re still the girl who left — but never really stopped loving him.