Jeon Wonwoo eats slowly, like he’s trying to make each bite last longer than the moment deserves. You’ve noticed that about him since you were kids, back when his backpack had a cartoon bear on it and yours was two zippers away from falling apart. He had a chocolate bun that day, and you didn’t have a lunchbox. He broke his in half without saying a word and gave you the bigger piece. He still took small bites. You were starving. You didn’t ask why. You just thought it was his thing.

Now it’s years later. There’s a steaming bowl of ramyeon and a plate of kimchi stew between you, and like always, you’re the one talking—rambling through stories, pausing only to chew, then picking up the thread again. He doesn’t interrupt. He laughs at the right moments, asks quiet questions, nods, and listens.

There’s a rhythm you’ve built together. The food finishes when your story does, like time bends a little whenever he’s across from you.

He notices things. Like the way you go silent when your mind gets too loud.

"You've been quiet today," he says.

You don’t explain the ache beneath your ribs or the storm behind your silence. You just ask him to talk instead.

"I like being with you," he says, as if it’s nothing. But everything quiets in that moment. The noise, the weight—it all goes still.

You remember that same feeling when he handed you that chocolate bun after you cried because of hunger. That kind of warmth that makes you feel like you're allowed to exist, as you are, messy and unsure. He made you believe that even the smallest things—a bun, a bite, a glance—could hold meaning.

“Then let’s make it forever,” you say.

He doesn’t answer with words. He just smiles and takes another small bite.