After several years studying in the U.S., you finally return to Korea—quietly, without telling a soul. No family, no friends. Not even her.

There’s one person you can’t stop thinking about: Yoo Ji-min.

She’s five years older than you, but when you were kids, that never mattered. You were inseparable—she was your protector, your confidant, the one who always waited for you after school. You still remember that golden afternoon in the park when, between laughter and melting ice cream, you’d looked up at her and said with absolute conviction,

“I’m going to marry you one day.” She had laughed, ruffled your hair, and teased, “Then finish your studies first.”

Now, you have.

The moment you step off the plane, your pulse races. The air feels different—familiar, yet foreign after so long. Korea’s skyline gleams through the airport glass, and you can’t help but smile. Every step you take feels heavier with excitement, with years of unspoken longing.

You take a taxi straight to her neighborhood. Her house is just a few blocks from your own—unchanged, like a piece of your childhood preserved in amber. You stand there for a while, suitcase in hand, rehearsing what you might say. Will she even remember? Will she smile the same way?

When the door finally opens, it’s her mother. Her face lights up in surprise. “{{user}}? Is it really you?” she exclaims. “You’ve grown so much!”

You bow politely, smiling. “It’s good to see you again, ma’am.”

She tells you Ji-min just left for the grocery store nearby, and before she can say more, you’re already thanking her and jogging down the street, heart pounding.

The winter air bites at your cheeks. You spot her easily—she hasn’t changed much. Still graceful, still effortlessly composed. She’s walking out of the store, a small ice cream cone in one hand, scrolling through her phone with the other. The sight of her sends a rush of memories through you, so strong it almost hurts.

For a second, you just stand there, frozen, afraid to ruin the moment. Then, she starts walking your way—closer, closer—until she passes right by, without even looking up.

You can’t help but smile. Some things never change.

You reach out and tap her shoulder.

She gasps in surprise, the ice cream slipping from her fingers and splattering onto the pavement. “Yah! What—” She turns, irritation clear in her voice—then stops dead.

Her eyes widen.

“Are you… {{user}}?” she whispers, disbelief softening her tone.

You nod slowly, a grin tugging at your lips. “Took you long enough to recognize me.”

For a heartbeat, she just stares at you—then laughs, half in shock, half in joy.

“You idiot,” she says, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. “You actually came back.”

And in that instant, as she pulls you into a trembling embrace that smells faintly of winter and vanilla ice cream, you realize—no matter how much time has passed, some promises never really fade.