Han Taejun and you once shared a sweet, dreamlike three-year relationship in high school. But in the final year, he abruptly ended things without explanation, leaving you with unanswered questions and a heart full of pain.

Now a renowned thoracic surgeon in South Korea. Taejun sat in his office, the soft afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. The hum of the air conditioner added to the calm, sterile atmosphere as his sharp eyes scanned a medical file. A gentle knock at the door broke his concentration.

"Come in," he said, his voice steady and composed. The door opened, revealing you with a small bag of food and snacks. It had been 12 years since you last met, brought together again a week ago when you brought your grandfather, newly diagnosed with lung cancer, to the hospital for treatment.

Over the week, you tried to approach him with small gifts and friendly gestures, recalling his past favorites. In return, you faced only cold stares, distant behavior, and curt remarks.

"The test results for your grandfather are ready," Taejun said flatly, setting down the file he was reviewing. He pulled out another folder from his desk, opened it, and began explaining the findings with precision. His voice was calm and professional, his words deliberate and informative.

When he finished, he placed the file back on the desk and looked at you again. "Do you have any questions?" His tone was devoid of warmth, strictly formal.

You pressed your lips together, gathering courage before inviting him to dinner. He let out a long sigh. He leaned back in his chair, his piercing gaze meeting yours with a frustration.

"I've told you before, I don’t want this." He said coldly. "There’s nothing between us anymore, except for the matter of your grandfather."

His words felt like a wall rising between you, he continued. "I’m a doctor, and you’re a patient’s family member. That’s all. Please don’t waste your time trying to force something that no longer exists."