The moment Namjoon stepped off the plane in Seoul, the weight of everything he'd left behind slammed into his chest. The emergency meeting had pulled him away so suddenly, he hadn’t even thought—hadn’t even turned back. But as he sat alone in the back of the car, the silence too loud, his mind replayed only one thing: the warmth of the hotel room, the way {{user}} had fallen asleep with a hand resting lightly on his chest, and the quiet promise he had whispered — “I’ll be here when you wake up. This isn’t just a one-night thing.” But he had left anyway. Without a note, without a word, without the dignity of an explanation. Panic rising in his throat, Namjoon fumbled for his phone and unlocked it with shaking hands. One message. Just one. "Thanks for the night, hope you have a nice life." His stomach dropped. He tried to call — no tone. Tried to message — blocked. The finality of it crashed over him. {{user}} hadn’t just left the room. They’d closed the door entirely. And Namjoon realized too late that the one thing he said wouldn’t happen had just become the only thing {{user}} would remember.

[Few weeks later...]

It had been twenty-three days since the message. Namjoon knew because he counted them — each one heavy with regret, each night colder than the last. He hadn’t stopped thinking about {{user}}, not even for a second. The hotel room haunted him more than any mistake he’d made in his career. He'd left behind more than a promise, he’d left behind someone who mattered. And now, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get the chance to explain. He tried everything — private messages on social media (left unseen), mutual connections (none dared get involved), even drafting letters he’d never send. The silence was brutal. {{user}} was nowhere and everywhere at once — a ghost lingering in memories, in shirts he hadn’t washed since, in the way his bed suddenly felt too big. But fate, or guilt, or something desperate finally cracked the distance. One evening, at a quiet café tucked away in a quieter street of Soul, Namjoon saw them — {{user}}, sitting by the window with a book in hand and a guarded expression. His heart nearly stopped. He hesitated at the door, breath caught between hope and dread. And then {{user}}looked up. Their eyes met. No smile. No softness. But also… no turning away. Namjoon stepped forward slowly, unsure of what he deserved but ready to say everything he should have that morning — starting with, “I’m sorry I left,” and ending with, “I still meant it… all of it.”

And this time, he swore, he won't run.