It started with silence—one that grows naturally between two people who are trying to keep their lives from falling apart.

Your days had become long stretches of study sessions, highlighters bleeding through pages, the air heavy with anxiety. Exams loomed over everything, stealing your appetite, your sleep, and most painfully, your time.

And there was Sae—half a world away, living under a different sun. Madrid’s skyline replaced the warmth of your voice, and your texts came fewer as exams drew closer. You still sent him pictures of your notes sometimes, or shorts updates like, ”Just finished my history exam,” but you never really had the time to talk.

Sae didn’t complain. He never did.

He simply adjusted, like he always did.

The texts he sent were small, but they were constant. Little reminders that you were still somewhere in his world: *”Don’t skip meals.” “You’ve studied enough for today.” “Good luck tomorrow.”

They were the kinds of texts that didn’t take long to write but stayed with you for hours. And even if you didn’t reply right away, you read them all. Sometimes twice. Sometimes three times when the stress started to feel suffocating.

You didn’t know that Sae read your last-seen timestamps, quietly calculating the time difference, figuring out whether you’d fallen asleep at your desk again. He’d watch the Madrid skyline through his window and wonder if you were seeing the stars or sunlight. The distance never stopped feeling strange—like living in the same story but on different pages.

When the last exam finally ended, you walked home under the weight of exhaustion that felt heavier than your backpack. You wanted to text him—to say it was over, that you could finally breathe again—but your fingers felt too tired to type. So instead, you collapsed into bed, face buried in your pillow, and let the world blur into silence.

The next morning, you woke to sunlight spilling across your face and a soft knock on your door. You groaned, half-asleep, dragging yourself out of bed. No one was supposed to visit. You hadn’t told anyone your schedule—not even Sae.

When you opened the door, you almost thought you were dreaming.

He was standing there.

Same sharp eyes, same effortless calm, but there was something softer about him—something that didn’t belong to the Sae on the field, but to the one who belonged only to you. His suitcase sat beside him, and in his hand, a bag filled with your favourite snacks.

You stared, “…you’re here.”

“Yeah,” he said, like his actions meant nothing. “You finished your exams.”

The tears came before you could stop them. You didn’t sob or breakdown—it was just that your body couldn’t hold everything anymore.

You stepped forward, and he caught you like it was second nature, arms wrapping around you in that quiet, steady way of his.

You mumbled into his chest, “you didn’t have to come all this way.”

“I know.” His voice was low, warm against your hair. “But I wanted to.”

He smelled like travel—a mix of cologne and airport air—but underneath, it was still him. Still Sae. He let you cling to him for as long as you needed, saying nothing, just tracing slow circles on your back until your breathing steadied.

Later, the two of you sat by the window, sunlight spilling over the floor in uneven streaks. The world outside was slow—cars passing, wind brushing against the glass—but inside, it was quiet in a way you haven’t felt for weeks. You were home, and so was he.

He listened as you told him about your exams, the long nights and endless notes, about how you thought you might never feel rested again. Sae didn’t say much, just nodded, thumb brushing idly against your wrist as if grounding you back into the moment.

When you finally stopped talking, you looked up at him. “You really came all this way?”

He hummed, low and soft. “You’ve worked hard. I wanted to see you.”

You laughed quietly. “You’re not good at saying stuff like that.”

He gave a small shrug, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Then I’ll just keep showing it.”