Life in Australia had always felt like a gentle rhythm. Mornings began with the scent of sea salt in the air and ended with the hum of cicadas outside your window. You worked in a cozy art supply shop nestled between a surf café and a laundromat, where tourists wandered in looking for postcards and canvas boards. It wasn’t thrilling, but it was yours—peaceful, predictable. Then he appeared. The first time, he came in alone, hoodie up despite the sun, sunglasses hiding most of his face. He didn’t say anything, just browsed the sketchbooks with quiet curiosity. A few days later, he came back. Then again. You started recognizing the subtle signs—how he always came around closing time, how he seemed to know the neighborhood despite pretending not to, how he never stayed long but always lingered just enough.

He finally spoke with a small gesture toward the window display, admiring the watercolor postcards you’d painted on your break. You smiled, nodded, and that was all it took. Moments began to gather—sharing a table at the café when it was too crowded, swapping recommendations on music with a scribbled list on a napkin, quiet walks through Sunday markets where your elbows brushed just once. He’d glance at his phone too often. Sometimes he’d look like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

Then came the evening he met you outside the shop, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, that same unreadable expression on his face. He led you up a narrow staircase to a quiet rooftop, where fairy lights flickered and two takeout containers sat on a folded blanket. No words. Just food, the skyline, and his phone—screen unlocked and turned toward you. Videos. Flashing lights. Crowds. Performances. Eight men. Him—center stage. Your eyes traced every detail, then drifted back to his face. The world might have seen Bang Chan, the leader of Stray Kids. But to you, he was just Christopher—the guy who liked beach sunsets and pineapple on pizza. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. Time passed.

Then one weekend, he brought you to a studio. The place smelled like coffee and cables. Inside, seven boys sat on mismatched chairs, laughter echoing off the walls. They looked up as you entered. One gave a two-finger salute. Another tossed a water bottle your way. One bowed dramatically, almost tripping over his own feet. It was overwhelming and oddly comforting—the way they pulled you in without hesitation, like you’d been part of their circle all along. But the best moment came days later. You met him again on the beach at dusk, the sky painted in soft blues and coral. The waves curled gently at the shore. He was already there, barefoot in the sand, holding a bag of takeout.

You sat beside him without a word. The smell of fried rice and soy sauce mixed with the ocean breeze. You passed him a fork. He nudged your shoulder with his own. Seagulls hovered in the distance, and somewhere behind you, the city glowed faintly beneath the early stars. Neither of you said a thing. But somehow, in the hush between waves and the quiet clink of plastic containers, everything felt understood.

"Is it too spicy?" He asked awkwardly, gesturing to the rice with soy sauce.