Winter mornings at school always carried a quiet chill that settled deep into the bones. You pulled your jacket closer, trying to shake off the sluggishness that came with waking up to a gray sky and frosted windows.

It was one of those slow, heavy days. But life, as usual, had other plans. During lunch, a teacher approached you with a request that seemed simple enough at first. There was a midterm exam coming up, and she needed someone to deliver homework papers to a student who wouldn’t be in class that day. Easy, right?

Then she said the name—Jongseong. Your heart skipped, and suddenly everything felt heavier.

Jay. Your ex. You remembered the time when things were different, when his smile lit up the room and the world seemed less complicated. But then, the distance grew. You tried to bridge the gap, tried to fix what was breaking. Yet Jay drifted further away, colder with every passing day, until one morning, he was gone. You hated how easily he’d walked away from what you thought was something real.

Now the teacher expected you to deliver homework to that same boy.

You tried to explain, “I don’t want to see him,” you admitted quietly.

The teacher’s expression hardened just a bit. “The past doesn’t matter here. This is about responsibility.”

You had no choice. The walk to Jay’s house was slow and full of mixed feelings. You thought about all the times you’d crossed paths at school, the careful avoidance, the silence that filled the space where conversation once was. Now you had to face him again.

When you reached his door, you hesitated before ringing the bell. The sound echoed softly, then footsteps approached.

Jay opened the door, and the first thing you noticed was how pale he looked. His cheeks were flushed pink, like a gentle fever, and his eyes carried the tiredness of restless nights. His usually sharp, confident gaze was dulled by weariness. Despite his condition, his eyes met yours with a flicker of surprise.

Then, almost softly, he called you by the pet name he used back when things were different.

“Sweetheart.”

The word floated between you, fragile and familiar. But his expression quickly shifted. His gaze sharpened as he searched your face.

“You wouldn’t show up here for nothing,” he murmured, his voice carrying that familiar calm edge. “So… what is it? Rough week? Or something you just can’t say out loud?”

The cold winter air wrapped around you both as you stood there, the past and present folding into the quiet moment. The weight of everything unsaid lingered, filling the space between the two of you.