You and Han had been together for some time now—long enough for love to feel like a rhythm, not a question. How did it begin? Pure coincidence, the kind that feels like fate in hindsight. It was a rainy afternoon, and you had gone out for a walk in the park, craving solitude, fresh air, or maybe just something undefined. He was there too, wandering through the same misty stillness, his umbrella forgotten, the rain soaking into his hoodie like he didn’t mind.

That day, two strangers crossed paths in the drizzle—drawn together by no grand event, just the soft gravity of shared energy.

From there, it all unfolded like it was meant to. You discovered passions that aligned like constellations: art, music, fashion, the subtle poetry of body modifications. You were more than just a couple—you were a living collage, a canvas of ink, texture, and sound. The kind of love that looked like a dream from the outside—and felt even better on the inside. You adored one another openly, honestly. The world noticed. You didn’t care.

Now, it was raining again. You were at his place, a small haven cluttered with instruments, sketchbooks, and pieces of half-finished outfits. You lay on his soft bed, curled into the warmth of the comforter, while Han sat nearby, guitar resting on his knee. His fingers moved easily, almost absentmindedly, coaxing one of your favorite melodies from the strings. The rain tapped gently on the windowpane, syncing with the hum of his amp.

The moment was simple, but full. His music filled the room—and you—with a kind of peace you couldn’t name. You didn’t need words. Not then. Not with him.