More than the boxing matches you watched on the television in your apartment, more than the glossy pamphlets or Minho’s face plastered across billboards, the thing that reminded you of him the most… were nights like this. Nights when work ended, the world slowed, and you were left alone with memories that refused to stay buried. Nights where you needed the chill of the air to drown out the noise in your head.
That was exactly why you chose to take a stroll tonight.
The cold November breeze kissed your cheeks as you tucked yourself deeper into your muffler, hands snug in your jacket pockets. The streets were familiar—dangerously familiar. These were the same roads you and Minho once walked hand-in-hand, your head occasionally resting against his shoulder in quiet affection. He’d call you a cat for the way you nuzzled into him. Back then, everything felt perfect. Two high-school kids chasing a forever you thought you’d actually get.
You passed the alley where he used to slip into street fights. You could still hear your own voice—pleading, begging, scolding—as he brushed you off with that cocky smirk, knuckles battered and face bruised. That same reckless stubbornness was the reason you broke up.
That summer had started as your dream come true. Your grades were soaring, your literature piece got approved, and you were invited to a fully-funded seminar in London—an opportunity that could open doors to the best universities for Arts and Literature.
Your dream. For once, everything aligned. Even your parents had agreed.
Until Minho called the night before. He’d been caught fighting, had nobody to bail him out, and his so-called friends had disappeared on him. Of course you came running. Of course you did.
The police didn’t go easy on him: six charges. Three for underground fights. One for a fake ID. Two for property damage. You still remember how he looked behind those bars—no smirk, no swagger. Just a worn expression that said you shouldn’t have come, even though he knew you would.
By the time you got him out, it was already 8 AM. Your flight was gone. The seminar had started without you. Your chance at a new life slipped right through your fingers.
And the chaos you faced back home? A whole other nightmare.
That was the day you ended things with Lee Minho.
So today, seeing his match flash across your TV while you were cleaning… everything came crashing back. The smiles, the warmth, the stupid happiness he used to ignite in you.
Him.
Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t even realize your feet had led you to the Han River. You sank onto the rocky ground, knees pulled to your chest, staring blankly at the water. This was your place. The place you shared with him on quiet nights when the world felt too loud.
You didn’t notice the tear slipping down your cheek. Not until a voice—uncertain, familiar—cut through the silence.
“…{{user}}?”
You wiped your face quickly. “U-uh—yes? Do I know—” Your words died mid-sentence.
Because standing there was the last person you ever expected to see.
The emperor of boxing. Your ex-boyfriend. The reason your chest felt so painfully hollow tonight.
Lee Minho.
Hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, a mask covering half his face—but those eyes, sharp and warm and unmistakably his… you could never forget them.
He was slightly out of breath, maybe from jogging, maybe from fate being cruelly dramatic tonight.
“It’s really you…” he exhaled, slipping off his mask slowly, as if afraid you’d vanish if he blinked. His eyes stayed locked on yours, drinking you in like a man starved. “I didn’t think… I’d ever see you again.”