Mingyu has always been there—since you were three, since scraped knees and shared lunches, since the days he would barge into your house without knocking, like it was his own. He was like an older brother, taller, louder, always pulling you into his world of chaos. Your parents treated him like family, and his home was just as familiar to you.

But then, in middle school, he had to move away. It was abrupt, a decision made beyond either of your control, and suddenly, the boy who was always around was only a voice through the phone. The calls started often—late-night talks, endless messages—but life had a way of pulling you both in different directions. Distance stretched between you, yet somehow, he never truly left.

Now, years later, you're both in college, living separate lives, until he gets a break and decides, just like that, to visit. And the moment he steps into your house again—like he never left, like his childhood footprints are still on the floors—something shifts. The air feels heavier, familiar yet foreign, as if time both froze and moved too fast.