Ji-Woo walked through the city slowly, like she was afraid the moment might disappear if she rushed it.
Jeonju greeted her gently.
The streets were calm, lined with low buildings and quiet shops just beginning to open. Old brick walls stood beside newer cafés, and the air felt softer here—less hurried than Seoul.
There was the faint smell of morning food, the sound of bicycles passing, birds calling from somewhere unseen. It was a city that knew how to breathe.
She smiled at every corner.
At places she remembered.
A small street she used to walk through after school. A shop she once stopped at just to look through the window. A bench she had sat on when she didn't want to go home yet.
Each memory tugged at her chest, warm and aching.
She pulled her hood a little lower, hiding her face. No one could see her.
They probably think I'm dead, she thought quietly—not with drama, just fact. To them, I'm gone.
The thought didn't hurt the way she expected. It just felt distant, like touching an old scar.
As she turned down another street, her steps slowed.
Her school stood there.
Unchanged.
The gate.
The building. The familiar emptiness of early morning. Ji-Woo stopped and stared at it for a long moment, then smiled—small, private, real.
"I came back," she whispered to no one.
Laughter drifted through the air.
Her head snapped up.
She turned slightly—and there she was.
Fah.
Her laughter was unmistakable, light and bright, surrounded by a small group of girls as they walked together.
Fah's one-side ponytail bounced as she talked, hands moving animatedly.
Ji-Woo's heart tightened.
Have they already forgotten me? the thought slipped in before she could stop it.
She watched for a second longer… then smiled again.
I'm glad you're laughing, she thought.
She took a step forward—
And froze.
Min-Ju was walking toward the school, bag slung over his shoulder, expression calm but focused.
Just seeing him made her chest ache so sharply she had to inhale slowly.
She wanted to run to him.
To hug him. To say his name.
But she couldn't.
Min-Ju-nah...
If he saw her, everything would break.
Ji-Woo turned her face away quickly, pulling her hood lower, heart pounding. She waited until he passed, close enough that she could almost feel his presence—then stepped forward again.
Head down.
Walking on.
Leaving behind the people she loved, even though every part of her wanted to stay.
--
The rooftop was quiet, wrapped in open sky and the dull hum of the city below.
A weak breeze tugged at the edges of Ji-Bok's uniform as he leaned against the railing, eyes narrowed, waiting.
Mi-Sook arrived like she owned the place.
Her footsteps were unhurried, precise. She stopped a few steps away, arms folded loosely, lips curved in a knowing smile.
"Did you do something?" Ji-Bok asked without greeting. "Ji-Woo didn't come to school today."
Mi-Sook tilted her head, pretending to think. "Me?" she said lightly. "Nothing."
Ji-Bok straightened. "Nothing?" His voice sharpened. "She doesn't just disappear."
Mi-Sook shrugged. "People get tired. People run away. It happens."
He stepped closer. "You're lying."
Her smile didn't fade. "You don't have proof."
For a moment, the wind filled the space between them. Ji-Bok stared at her, jaw tight, searching for a crack that never came.
Mi-Sook glanced at her phone, then turned as if to leave. She took two steps before stopping.
"Oh," she said casually, looking back over her shoulder. "That thumbprint you were so worried about?"
Ji-Bok's eyes darkened.
"It'll come out in the next two days," she continued, voice smooth. "And don't worry—" her lips curled into a slow smirk, "you'll be the first person I show."
Then she walked away, heels clicking softly against the concrete.
Ji-Bok watched her go.
He scoffed, turning back to the railing. "Yeah," he muttered. "Try me."
But the city below felt louder than before, and for the first time that day, the wind felt cold.
--
After school, Eun-Woo went straight to Ji-Woo's house.
The sky was still bright, the afternoon calm, but his steps were quick.
A small paper bag swung lightly from his hand—inside were her favorites, chosen without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He imagined her opening the door, surprised, pretending she wasn't happy to see him.
He rang the bell.
Once. Twice.
The door finally opened, not to Ji-Woo, but to her maid.
"Yes?" she asked politely.
"I—I'm here to see Ji-Woo," Eun-Woo said. "She wasn't feeling well."
The maid's expression shifted, confusion flickering across her face. "Miss Ji-Woo isn't home."
He blinked. "She isn't?"
"No," the maid replied. "No one is."
Eun-Woo checked the time instinctively.
3:30 p.m.
"Oh," he said quietly. "I thought—"
"Madam Kim doesn't return until midnight," the maid added gently. "She left early this morning."
Eun-Woo nodded, murmured a thank you, and stepped back as the door closed.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the gate.
Something felt… off.
Ji-Woo was sick. It was after school. And yet, the house was empty.
After a brief hesitation, he walked to the front steps and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees.
He placed the paper bag carefully beside him, as if Ji-Woo might still come back and see it waiting.
He pulled out his phone.
The screen lit up, but there were no new messages.
Eun-Woo leaned back against the door, eyes lifting to the quiet street. Cars passed now and then. The world kept moving, unaware that something was missing.
"I'll just wait," he murmured to himself.
And so he did—sitting there, phone in hand, waiting for someone who wasn't coming home anytime soon.
--
Ji-Ho came home the way he always did—quietly.
He slipped off his shoes at the door, lining them up neatly, movements automatic.
The apartment felt the same as ever: dim, a little cramped, heavy with a silence that wasn't peaceful.
He adjusted his bag on his shoulder and took one step inside.
"Ji-Ho."
Mrs. Park's voice cut through the room.
He stopped.
She sat at the table, arms crossed, eyes already sharp. "You're late."
"It's the usual time," Ji-Ho replied calmly, lowering his gaze as he loosened his tie.
She clicked her tongue. "Excuses already. You think that attitude will get you anywhere?"
He didn't answer.
He never did.
He simply walked past, careful, like any wrong movement might set something off. Her words followed him anyway—complaints, comparisons, disappointment wrapped in tired frustration.
None of it was loud.
None of it was dangerous.
But it pressed down on him all the same.
Ji-Ho closed his bedroom door softly and sat on the edge of his bed, pushing his glasses up with a slow breath.
A knock came almost immediately.
"Hoseok?" Ji-Ho asked.
The door opened before he finished.
Hoseok stepped in with his usual too-wide grin, hair a mess, energy filling the small room.
"Hey! There you are. Tough day, huh? I could tell just by your face."
Ji-Ho managed a small smile. "I'm fine."
"No, no, you're not," Hoseok said confidently, flopping onto the chair. "But that's okay! I have a plan."
Ji-Ho already felt tired.
"Listen," Hoseok continued, leaning forward, voice bright. "You just need to relax more. You think too much. If you smiled more, maybe mom wouldn't nag you so much, you know?"
Ji-Ho's smile stiffened.
"And!" Hoseok added quickly, not noticing, "you're top of your class anyway. What's the pressure for? People have it way worse."
That did it.
Ji-Ho looked down at his hands, fingers curling slowly. The room felt smaller.
"I know you're trying to help," he said quietly. "But… please stop."
Hoseok froze. "Oh. I— I was just—"
"I don't need cheering up," Ji-Ho continued, voice still calm, but thinner now. "I just need… quiet."
Hoseok's grin faded, guilt replacing it. "Right. Yeah. Sorry. I made it worse, didn't I?"
Ji-Ho didn't answer. He didn't have the energy to.
Hoseok stood awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll, uh… I'll give you space."
When the door closed again, Ji-Ho exhaled slowly and leaned back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The house was loud in all the ways that didn't make noise.