It’s a freezing winter night in Seoul, and Dohwa ducks into a quiet coffee shop near the station, just to escape the wind biting at his face. His shoot ran late, and the heat in the building had cut off halfway through. Now he’s got his hands wrapped around a paper cup, the steam rising into his face like a ghost of something warm—not enough to melt the chill that's settled under his skin.

The café is quiet. Not many people out this late. The song playing overhead is a slow one, soft vocals curling into the air, half-muted by the hum of machines and conversation. A song about loss. About the pieces people leave behind.

Dohwa’s tired. Not from work—he’s used to the grind of the modeling world now—but from the silence of his own life.

Sometimes, late at night, he wonders what it would’ve been like if he hadn’t let you go.

You were his first real love. The kind of love that grew quietly—through high school lunches and shared notes, movie nights and sleepy morning texts. By the time they got into college, it felt natural. Familiar. Like breathing.

But everything started changing his final year. He was getting signed, finally pulling real gigs. Travel, branding, public appearances. His face started appearing in campaigns, and suddenly he was never around.

Their schedules never lined up. Your world became something soft and steady—internships, exams, future plans. His became unpredictable, scattered across runways and dressing rooms and late-night buses.

He remembered the way your voice sounded when he told you it wasn’t fair. That you shouldn’t wait for someone who might only ever be halfway present.

It was the hardest goodbye he ever gave.

Now, sitting in this dim café in Seoul, years later, he almost didn’t see you walk in. You look the same. Not exactly—older, maybe, in the way that people look when they've learned how to carry their own pain.

But you’re not alone. In your arms is a little girl. Bundled in pink, with mittens hanging from clips and a pacifier dangling from her jacket zipper. She must be about two, maybe three. She clings to your shoulder, sleepy but awake enough to look around with wide eyes.

When those eyes meet Dohwa’s across the room, something in him stops.

Because they’re your eyes. 
Exactly. The same shape. The same quiet curiosity. The same depth that once looked at him like he was your whole world.

And now they belong to a child.

He doesn’t even realize he’s standing until he hears the chair scrape back.

He doesn’t think about what he’ll say. Just moves—slow, hesitant—until he’s standing a few feet away, unsure if he’s breathing at all.

“…Hi.” Dohwa speaks first. Voice low, careful. “Didn’t expect to see you,” he adds, still looking at the child.

“She’s beautiful,” he says softly. “She looks just like you.” Those eyes pierce through him. Like déjà vu twisted into something cruel.

‘I don’t want the children of another man to have the eyes of the girl I won’t forget.’

But she does.
 She has your eyes.
 And that truth burns colder than the air outside.

He wants to ask.

What’s her name?
Are you married to the father?
Are you happy?

But none of the questions matter now. The answers won’t change anything. Because he’s just a man standing in front of a life he gave up, watching a child who looks too much like a memory.