The poem lay between them - a dissection of his distance, his constant movement, the way he lived in a world so fundamentally opposite to hers. Each line was a careful examination of his absence, his wildness, the spaces he occupied that she could never fully enter.

Jiyong read it slowly, his fingers tracing the words she'd carefully constructed. Words about nightclubs and neon lights. About the way he disappeared into crowds, into music, into a life that was all motion and no stillness.

"Is this how you see me?" he asked, not offended, but curious.

She watched him, her gaze steady. "This is how I try to understand you."

The poem spoke of his constant motion - how he was always somewhere else. How he collected moments like others collected breaths. How his world was loud and hers was quiet, and somehow they existed in the same space.

"You're always running," one line read. "Always everywhere except here."

He looked up, and for a moment, the performance fell away. Just a moment of raw vulnerability that she would later turn into another verse.

"Do you want to understand?" he challenged.

His fingers traced the edge of the poem, a deliberate movement that made her breath catch. The space between them was charged - raw and unfiltered.

He stepped closer, the scent of the club still clinging to him. Glitter on his collar, traces of a night she'd never see. "Not everything needs to make sense," he said, his voice low.

She didn't move. Just watched him, her world of quiet colliding with his world of constant motion.

The silence stretched between them - a living thing. His wild energy pressed against her stillness, two opposite worlds refusing to blend yet unable to separate. He was neon and noise, she was ink and pause.

"Come with me tonight," he said suddenly. Not a question. A challenge.

Her hand touched the poem between them. A barrier. A bridge.

"Maybe," she whispered. And they both knew that maybe meant something entirely different.