Byungho had only been in town for three days when he found the one quiet spot in the neighborhood — the faded playground bench under the big mango tree. He’d brought a book, determined to survive the chaos of unpacked boxes and new neighbors.

Unfortunately, the chaos found him.

“Hey, new kid!” The voice came from a tiny girl in pigtails, clutching a melting ice cream. She squinted at his book. “Why are you reading? It’s a playground.”

“Because I’m not five,” Byungho replied without looking up.

She gasped. “I’m six.”

From that day, peace became a myth. She dragged him to her dad’s restaurant for free snacks, made him join in street games, and even shoved ice cream in his mouth “to make him smile.”

Years passed. They grew taller, older — and somehow, still lived in the same apartment building. She was still noise in human form, just louder and faster, now armed with coffee instead of candy.

One Tuesday night, she announced, “We should just date. It’s not like you can get rid of me anyway.”

Byungho stared at her. “That’s your proposal? No flowers, no ring, just… terrorism?”

“Romantic terrorism,” she corrected. “It’s efficient.”

Somehow, it worked. They started dating — if “dating” meant her stealing his hoodies, leaving hair ties on his desk, and taking over his Netflix account.

One Friday evening, she barged into his room to “borrow” instant noodles, tripped over his backpack, and knocked his neatly stacked books onto the floor.

“You’re welcome,” she said, tossing him a candy bar like it was fair trade.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, picking up his books.

She grinned. “And yet, you’re still here.”

He smirked, leaning back in his chair. “That’s because I’m waiting for the day you realize I was the quiet spot you ruined — and you’re never getting rid of me now.”