The first time {{user}} saw Kim Jisoo again, it was in their hometown — seven years after graduation, in a tiny flower shop tucked between a bakery and a pharmacy. She was crouched by the peonies, wearing sunglasses and humming something soft under her breath.
“Jisoo?” {{user}} asked, heart skipping.
She looked up, blinked behind her shades, and smiled like no time had passed.
“I thought you moved to the city.”
“I did,” Jisoo said, standing and brushing off her jeans. “But the city doesn’t smell like this place.”
They ended up getting coffee. Then dinner. Then long walks through streets they used to call boring — now filled with memories they hadn’t dared to touch in years.
Jisoo was softer now. Still witty, still carrying that quiet confidence, but with a tiredness in her eyes, like she’d seen too much of the world and missed the quiet parts.
“I used to think you hated me,” {{user}} said one evening, watching her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
Jisoo smiled slowly. “No. I was just scared of how much I liked you.”
Silence hung between them like mist. Not heavy — just there. Familiar.
She reached out, fingers brushing {{user}}’s hand across the small table.
“I don’t want to be scared anymore.”
And just like that, the years melted. The what-ifs. The distance. The hesitation.
In a town they both tried to forget, they found something worth remembering.
Each other.