Ji-Woo lay on her bed with the lights off, phone glowing softly against the ceiling.
She hadn't even changed properly—still in her oversized gray hoodie, sleeves swallowing her hands, school skirt wrinkled from the day.
Her hair was loose, slightly damp at the ends, half-bangs falling into her eyes as she stared at the screen.
One message sat unread.
She typed anyway.
I'm sorry.
Sent.
She rolled onto her side, hugged a pillow to her chest, waited. The seconds stretched thin.
Nothing.
Her thumb hovered, then moved again.
I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean it.
Sent.
She swallowed, throat tight. Her phone felt heavier now.
A minute passed. Then two.
Her chest ached in that quiet, pressurized way—like holding breath too long.
She typed once more, slower this time.
Can we talk? Please.
Sent.
Three messages.
No reply.
Ji-Woo turned the phone face-down, pressing it into the mattress like that might stop the feeling from spreading.
Her eyes burned, but she didn't cry. She just lay there, staring at the dark, telling herself she deserved the silence.
Across town, Eun-Woo sat in his living room.
He was still in his school uniform—tie loosened, blazer folded neatly beside him.
The TV murmured in the background, some program neither of them were watching.
His phone rested in his hand.
The screen lit up again.
He didn't need to look to know who it was.
He had read the messages the moment they came in. Every word. Every pause between them.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard, muscles tense, like answering would physically hurt.
I should reply, he thought. I want to.
But he didn't.
He locked the screen instead, jaw tightening.
Mrs. Seo looked over from the couch, her expression sharp in that quiet, perceptive way.
"You've been staring at that phone since dinner," she said mildly. "Is it planning to speak first?"
"No," Eun-Woo replied.
"Then why do you look like you're bracing yourself?"
He didn't answer.
Mrs. Seo reached for the remote and lowered the volume.
"You're not the kind of boy who ignores people," she said. "So whoever that is—you're doing it on purpose."
Eun-Woo swallowed. "If I answer… I'll give in."
"Give in to what?"
"…Pretending nothing happened."
She regarded him for a moment.
"Silence doesn't fix fractures," Mrs. Seo said gently. "It just lets them widen."
He stood up suddenly, chair legs scraping softly. "I need to think."
Mrs. Seo watched him closely. "Thinking and hiding often look the same."
He paused at the hallway. "I know."
Then he went to his room, closing the door with care.
Inside, Eun-Woo sat on the edge of his bed and unlocked his phone again.
Three messages.
All from her.
His chest tightened painfully.
He set the phone face-down on the desk, pressing his palm over it as if that could keep his resolve intact.
In the quiet of his room, Eun-Woo stared at the wall—
Wanting to answer. Choosing .
--
Ji-Woo waited outside Eun-Woo's house, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
Her backpack was clutched to her chest like a shield.
The evening breeze slipped through the street, lifting her hair, teasing the loose strands around her face.
She kept pacing—one step forward, one step back—rehearsing words she was afraid would still come out wrong.
Then the door opened.
Eun-Woo stepped outside.
They locked eyes.
For a second, everything froze.
Ji-Woo opened her mouth—
He turned away.
He didn't hesitate. Didn't look back. Just walked, like he had every day since he decided silence was safer.
Her chest tightened.
Today, she didn't let him go.
"Go Eun-Woo—!"
Her voice cracked the quiet street.
He stopped.
Didn't turn.
Only when he heard her footsteps—too fast, too desperate—did he finally face her.
She stopped in front of him, breath uneven, fists clenched at her sides like she was holding herself together by force.
"Eun-Woo," she said softly, then stamped her foot in frustration. "Please. Stop won't you?."
He crossed his arms, expression unreadable. Guarded.
"I said I'm sorry," she continued, words tumbling now. "The words just—slipped out. I didn't mean them. I swear I didn't."
Her voice wavered. She swallowed.
"So please, and please" she said again, quieter this time, "stop ignoring me. Let's… let's go back to normal."
Her eyes shone.
She blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.
Eun-Woo studied her for a long moment.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked finally.
Not angry. Just tired. Honest.
Ji-Woo froze, then shook her head.
"Nothing," she said quickly. "I'm not asking you to fix anything."
She looked down at the pavement. "I'm asking for forgiveness. Because I realized something."
He waited.
"I realized how important you are to me, since I lost my memory you were always there" she said, voice barely above a whisper.
The street felt impossibly quiet.
Eun-Woo exhaled slowly, like he'd been holding that breath for days. He turned away again—but this time, not to leave.
"Let's goto school or we will miss the bus" he said.
Ji-Woo's head snapped up. "Huh?"
He had already started walking.
A small smile tugged at her lips before she could stop it. She hurried after him.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" she asked, falling into step beside him.
Eun-Woo glanced at her briefly.
"You're already here," he said. "That's enough."
She walked closer, matching his pace.
And this time—He didn't pull away.
--
Ji-Woo went up to the rooftop for air.
The kind that didn't press against her ribs.
The door creaked as it swung shut behind her, metal groaning softly before settling. Wind rushed in immediately, cool and clean, tugging at her sleeves and lifting her hair so the loose strands brushed her cheeks.
She took two steps—
And stopped.
Ji-Bok stood near the railing, one foot hooked casually around the bar, hands in his pockets. He was looking down at the school grounds far below, students moving like small dots, the city stretching out past them in quiet layers.
She hadn't expected anyone.
"You always come up here?" she asked as she walked over.
He glanced sideways, eyes crinkling as his mouth curved into that lazy, unbothered smile. "Only when I feel like contemplating life."
She huffed. "So… daily."
He laughed under his breath.
Ji-Woo leaned against the railing beside him, metal cool through her sleeves. She glanced around at the open sky, the rooftops, the way the wind carried distant traffic sounds up to them.
"What are you doing here anyway?" she asked.
Ji-Bok didn't answer right away.
Instead, he reached behind his back.
She turned just in time to see him pull out a camera.
Not a phone.
An actual camera—black, solid, strap worn soft from use.
Her eyes widened. "Is that… real?"
He smirked. "No, it's imaginary."
She hit his arm. "You know what I mean."
"I like taking photos," he said, lifting it slightly. "And this place? Great view."
She nodded, genuinely impressed. "You wanna be a photographer?"
He chuckled, shaking his head. "I wish."
Then, quieter, "My dad wants me to take over his business."
The words fell heavier than his tone.
Ji-Woo glanced at him, but before she could say anything, he straightened, smile snapping back into place.
"Enough of that," he said. "Too serious for a rooftop."
He tilted his head toward her. "So. You and Eun-Woo… back to normal already?"
She nodded.
Then sighed.
Her shoulders dipped as she looked down, fingers tightening around the railing. The wind tugged at her hair, hiding her expression for a second.
Ji-Bok watched her—not intruding, just noticing.
After a beat, his grin returned. "Wanna hear a fact?"
She blinked, pulled back into the moment. "What?"
"You can't feel your tongue when you smile."
She stared at him. "…That sounds fake."
"Try it."
She hesitated, then smiled cautiously, lips pressing together as she tested it.
At that exact second—
Click.
She froze. "Did you just—"
Ji-Bok lowered the camera, laughing. "Got it."
"HEY!" She smacked his arm. "You tricked me!"
"For science," he said solemnly.
"Delete it!"
He glanced down at the screen, then back up. "Nope."
"Ji-Bok!"
He studied the photo again, smile softening. "Wow."
She frowned. "What?"
"You look good when you smile."
Her breath caught.
"…What did you say?"
Her face warmed instantly. She laughed, flustered, and hit him again. "Don't say stuff like that so casually!"
"Ouch," he said, rubbing his arm dramatically. "Abuse."
Then, more quietly, more real, "I'm serious. It's nice."
She hit him again, harder this time. "Stop!"
He laughed, backing away, hands raised in surrender. "Okay, okay! I'll stop!"
The wind carried their laughter across the rooftop, sunlight flashing off the camera in his hands.
Ji-Woo smiled again—without thinking.
This time, Ji-Bok didn't lift the camera.
He just looked at her.
And for a moment, the view really was perfect.