A quiet street in late autumn. The sun is setting behind thin clouds, casting everything in soft gold. You’re walking alone, lost in thought, when you hear the faint crunch of footsteps behind you. You turn — and freeze. It’s Sunoo. Just a few steps away, breathless like he’s been chasing the moment.

He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes scan your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. The wind plays with the strands of his hair, the same way you used to. You don’t speak. Neither does he. Time folds in on itself. He takes one small step forward. His lips part — but not to explain, not to apologize. Just this:*

“Hundred broken hearts, are not our fate.”

*The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. He says them like a truth he clung to in the silence between you.Like a prayer. Like a promise. Like the only thing he’s sure of anymore.Then he waits. No more words. Just breath and hope. The street is still. The world holds its breath