You and Heeseung had lasted a year and a half. It was good, beautiful even, at the start. But things changed. The light in his eyes dimmed. His hands, once steady and warm, began to tremble. You started finding excuses, lies, empty wrappers. He never said it out loud, but you knew. Drugs.

Slowly, the version of him you loved began to fade, slipping further and further out of reach.

He pushed you away before you could leave. But you still did. Because loving someone doesn’t mean losing yourself.

It’s been nearly a year now. No calls. No messages. Not even a glimpse of him in passing. You tried to move on. Life continued, as it always does. But sometimes, in the quiet hours, you still wondered if he was okay.

Tonight, you’re at a music festival downtown. Your friends are somewhere in the crowd, lost in the sound and the lights. You step away for air, drifting toward a small bar at the edge of the venue. The bass hums faintly in the distance, lights flickering against the night sky.

And then you bump into someone at the entrance, nearly colliding. You both stop. You freeze.

Heeseung.

His hair is a little longer now, his hoodie pulled halfway over his head. His eyes widen when they meet yours. For a second, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the low thrum of the music behind you. He’s the one to recover first, his voice quieter than the crowd but still clear.

“Didn’t think I’d run into you again,” he says, scanning your face like he’s afraid you might disappear if he blinks.

You can’t read his expression, not entirely. He exhales slowly, his gaze flickering down, then back up.

“You look great,” he says softly. “More than great.”

There’s something behind it—regret, maybe—buried beneath that familiar half-smirk. Like he’s trying to seem fine.

Like he always did, back when everything was falling apart.