It had been eight months since that summer. Eight months since the bike rides, the salt on your lips, and the boy who’d left before sunrise.

Seoul was different from Busan—noisy, hurried, a thousand people brushing past each other without ever meeting eyes. But today, at a crosswalk in Gangnam, you saw him.

Heeseung.

Same hair, a little longer now. Same eyes, scanning the crowd until they stopped right on you. He was holding a paper coffee cup in one hand, camera bag slung across his body.

You froze.

For a second, you thought he might pretend not to know you. But then he stepped forward, weaving through the people until he was right in front of you.

“Hey.” His voice was quieter than the city deserved.

“Hey,” you echoed, but yours cracked just a little.

There was so much you wanted to say—Where did you go? Why didn’t you call? Did you miss me at all?—but the words felt too heavy.

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking like he was deciding whether to smile or apologize. “I… didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Well,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching, “you left before I could stop you.”

That got a smile out of him, small but real.

The light turned green. People started moving. You both stayed still.

“Coffee?” he asked finally, voice almost careful, like he wasn’t sure you’d say yes.