One April afternoon, in the small bustle of a corner café, “Flying Without Wings” drifted softly from the speakers. Its melody was classic, tender, a little too sentimental for such a lively place. But to her, it felt like returning to something that once lived, calm, but no longer painful.

She never liked Westlife before. She used to say all their songs sounded the same all too gentle, too heartbreakingly pure. But back then, there was someone who loved them deeply. Someone who once told her,

“If you listen closely, you’ll understand what it feels like to be loved without needing words.”

And somehow, she did. Soon, she found herself knowing every lyric My Love, If I Let You Go, Swear It Again songs she never meant to remember, but couldn’t forget.

She was the one who ended it. Not out of anger, not out of boredom. Just a quiet knowing that they wanted different things. And the kindest thing she could do was leave before love turned into something heavy.

Paul didn’t get angry. He didn’t beg her to stay. He only said, with a small, sincere smile,

“If you ever need someone to talk to again, I’ll still be here.”

And she believed him. Because for a long while, they still texted — little messages like “listening to this, it reminds me of you.” They still shared songs, small updates, quiet laughter. Sometimes she saw Paul post a picture with his new girlfriend, and smiled. Sometimes, a wave of longing passed through her, soft, brief, and harmless.

Now, all that remains are the songs of Westlife. But not as a wound as a kind of gratitude. Because through Paul, she learned how to love simple things like soft melodies and gentle words.

“Thank you, Paul. Because of you, I know love can sound like Westlife, simple, but sincere.”

Time has its own way of pulling apart two people who once understood each other. Their conversations stopped. The number still saved, but never dialed. And strangely, it didn’t hurt. Because some memories end beautifully like a song that stops right at its sweetest note.

And she understood that now. From everything she left behind, the songs were the only ones that stayed.

That evening, Mingyu showed up. He sat at the next table, tapping his fingers along to the rhythm of the R&B song in his earphones a sharp contrast to Westlife’s soft tune filling the café.

After a while, she caught the faint leak of his music and smiled.

“Your music’s kinda loud, huh?”

He blinked, pulling out one earbud. “Oh—sorry.” She chuckled. “It’s fine. Just... totally different from what’s playing here.” “Oh? You mean this one? Sounds like... old men’s love songs.”

She gave him a look. “That’s Westlife.” “Who?” “Oh my god.”

And just like that, their first conversation began.

Mingyu didn’t get it why someone would love songs so slow and sentimental. But he didn’t mock her. He just listened. Sometimes teasing,

“Don’t you get too emotional listening to stuff like that?”

“No,” she said softly. “It makes me feel peaceful.”

Over time, he got used to hearing it the faint sound of her playlist, the hum of her speaker, her quiet humming. He didn’t even notice when he stopped teasing, and started finding comfort in the calm her songs brought.

One night, they sat outside the café after closing. The street was quiet, the air cold, the city half-asleep. Mingyu looked up at the sky and asked,

“Why do you love those songs so much?”

She smiled faintly.

“Someone once showed them to me. But I still listen — not because of him, but because they’re beautiful. And because I’m grateful I once knew someone like that.”

Mingyu didn’t speak right away. He just nodded slowly, his breath visible in the night air. Then, after a moment, he said quietly

“Maybe you don’t just love the songs,” he murmured. “Maybe you love the way they remind you you’re still capable of feeling something that pure.”

She looked at him surprised, then silent. The wind blew softly between them, carrying the faint echo of If I Let You Go from her phone. And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she was listening alone.