The classroom hummed with the usual morning noise — shuffling notebooks, the creak of desks, the faint chatter from a few students who’d shown up early. The late summer light filtered through the blinds in soft, angled stripes, striping across the worn floor and catching on your hair as you sat in your usual spot near the window.

Then, from the doorway, a familiar voice broke the air.

“Is this seat taken?”

You didn’t look up right away. You didn’t have to. That tone — smooth, annoyingly casual, just a little too confident — belonged to only one person.

Cha Seunghyun.

He was back.

It had been four months since he’d left for his maritime training program — four months since the airport, since the words you’d said to him through clenched teeth and burning eyes. Four months since the moment he’d turned, startled, and seen you standing there before boarding that flight, phone still in his hand, your voice still echoing in his ear telling him to die and never contact you again.

He had listened, mostly. He hadn’t texted. He hadn’t called. Not a word, not even when you’d half-expected him to ignore your warning like he ignored half the rules of life.

And now, there he was, sliding into the empty seat beside you like nothing had ever happened.

“Man, campus hasn’t changed at all,” he said, setting his backpack down with an easy grin. His tone was light — too light. “Still smells like instant ramen and regret.”

You felt his eyes flick toward you, waiting for any sign of acknowledgment. When you didn’t give him one, he only chuckled under his breath.

“You’re ignoring me,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair. “Guess I deserve that.”

He said it like it didn’t sting, but his fingers tightened slightly around the strap of his bag. For a moment, silence stretched between you — that kind of thick, weighted quiet that made the air feel dense.

Then, without warning, he leaned forward and pulled something small from his pocket.

“Here,” he said, setting it down beside your notebook.

It was a black cat keychain — small, glossy, and clearly handmade. The kind that would dangle off a bag zipper or a phone charm. Its painted eyes caught the light, almost mischievous.

“I found it at this tiny market near the port,” he said, eyes flicking to yours. “Reminded me of you. Kinda cute, kinda scary.”

You glared at him, and he laughed quietly, running a hand through his dark hair. His expression was relaxed, almost careless — but his gaze, when it met yours again, was softer than you remembered.

“You still mad?” he asked gently, voice low enough that no one else could hear. “I mean… yeah, I know. I disappeared. You told me not to talk to you, and I actually listened for once.”

He smiled faintly, the corner of his lip tugging upward. “Hardest four months of my life, by the way.”

You still didn’t answer. Your eyes dropped to the cat charm, then to your notes.

He sighed, the sound heavier now. “I wasn’t avoiding you because I wanted to,” he said quietly. “I was… figuring things out. I didn’t want to screw things up worse.”

He turned his gaze out toward the window, expression distant for the first time since he walked in. “You said some stuff that day. And I— I didn’t know how to deal with it. With you.”

For a second, he stopped. The mask slipped — no grin, no flirty tone, just honesty. It was rare for him, and it sat awkwardly on his face, like something that didn’t fit.

Then he looked back at you.

“I missed you,” he said finally. The words were simple, but they hit with quiet force. “Like, a lot more than I thought I would.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Everywhere I went — every damn place — there was something that reminded me of you. Even the stupid coffee cups. You’d probably laugh at how pathetic that sounds.”

His hand brushed the keychain again, pushing it a little closer toward you. “So, yeah. I brought that back. You don’t have to keep it, but…” His eyes flicked up, gray and warm under the light. “Maybe just don’t throw it away.”