For a long time, Harin had believed that life had betrayed her.
She rejected that fate as if some mistake had slipped into the script.
Why her? Why this body? This pain?
She wanted to run from the shadow, to extinguish it…
But the harder she ran, the closer it followed.
Then one day, she understood:
The shadow was only proof that somewhere, light existed.
So she stopped running.
And she danced with it.
It wasn't a happy ending. Not yet.
But it was a beginning.
Her beginning.
The alarm broke the silence like glass shattering over still water.
Harin opened her eyes.
The dream again: a long, cold corridor stretching endlessly.
At the end, nothing. Or worse… herself, broken.
The dream haunted her repeatedly, like a stubborn echo.
She brought a hand to her throat, where the choking sensation lingered, even awake.
Slowly, she sat up, rose without a word, and passed the mirror.
Her reflection stared back: a calm face, too calm.
As if her emotions had been erased by the depth of their own weight.
Her tired, deep eyes carried a frozen expression.
A strange calm.
The calm of someone who had suffered too much to scream anymore.
Next to the mirror, on the wall, hung an old sketch, yellowed with time: a woman standing in the rain.
A drawing she had made at sixteen. Before.
She thought:
"There was a time when I drew. Faces, hands.
I had two dreams: to become a pharmacist… and an artist.
But one day, I stopped.
Without knowing why.
As if a part of me had detached.
And it no longer wanted to return."
She tied her hair in a low ponytail, pulled on a cream-colored sweater,
and stepped outside, moving forward,
because the world wouldn't wait for her to heal.
She repeated to herself:
"Some days, I don't know if I'm okay.
But I keep going.
Because the world doesn't stop… even for those who bleed in silence."
At the university courtyard, Jisoo stood waiting, holding two cups of orange juice.
The moment she saw Harin approaching, her face brightened instantly.
"Hariiin ! " Jisoo called out, waving one cup in the air.
Harin practically lit up from the inside the second she heard her voice.
"Jisooooo!!" she replied, almost running toward her, her smile stretching from ear to ear.
Harin finally caught up to Jisoo, slightly out of breath.
"Sorry, I'm late…Harin exhaled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I had a nightmare and woke up terrified."
Jisoo's expression softened immediately. "Hey… it's okay. It was just a dream. You'll forget it soon."
She handed her one of the cups. "Here. Your orange juice, no pulp… as always."
Harin took it gently. "Thank you, Jisoo…"
Her voice was warm, grateful , the kind of tone she only used with the person who felt like home.
They began walking toward the building.
"So," Jisoo said, rolling her eyes dramatically, "are you ready for today? We have soooo much to do in practicals."
Harin sighed deeply. "Ugh, I know… and the worst part? We're not even in the same group."
Jisoo pouted . "It's honestly so sad."
Harin laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly. "I know. I hate when we have to split. The day feels longer without you."
Jisoo smiled at her softly. "But hey… we'll meet during breaks. And maybe I'll come over tonight ."
Harin's eyes sparkled. "Promise?"
"Promise."
A light breeze passed between them, brushing their hair as they walked side by side
two worlds that always felt a little brighter whenever the other arrived.
Later, harin wandered away.
Behind the library, the garden lay deserted.
Her steps carried her aimlessly, as if her body were searching for a place to breathe.
Then… she heard it.
A melody, faint, distant.
A piano. Trembling, incomplete, yet full of soul.
She stopped. Her heart raced.
It felt familiar.
She had played the piano too, once.
Before her fingers had abandoned the keys.
Her steps led her toward the music building.
And there, she saw him.
A young man. A solitary silhouette, standing still, back turned.
Junwoo.
But she didn't know his name yet.
There was something about him, a rare, magnetic presence.
She was about to approach,
when her phone rang.
She blinked.
He was gone.
Like a sound you think you heard, only to vanish the next second.
In a modern art gallery, dim lights created a hushed atmosphere.
Junwoo, a neurologist, moved slowly among the pieces.
Tall, elegant, with a gentle but worried gaze, as if carrying a secret too heavy to hide.
Suddenly, he stopped.
Her.
Among the crowd.
Harin.
In her eyes, Junwoo felt a silent spark of fate.
She stood alone, in front of an abstract painting.
Her hair fell in silky waves across her shoulders.
Her fair, almost moonlit skin.
An ivory dress floated lightly around her legs, like a gentle mist.
Her figure seemed sculpted from light.
Delicate. Straight. With a softness worthy of old master paintings.
But it was her eyes that struck him.
Even from afar. Deep. Calm.
Like two lakes that had weathered a thousand storms.
Junwoo had never seen such a silent gaze.
So fractured, yet so beautiful.
She didn't smile.
Yet a quiet sadness radiated from her.
Something indescribable, like an endless melody.
Her hands, clasped before her, spoke more than a thousand words.
A posture both dignified and fragile, as if she had survived something immense.
She wasn't just beautiful.
She was ethereal.
An unfinished painting.
A silent poem.
Junwoo felt his heart freeze.
He thought:
"She looked like a flower born in shadow.
Delicate.
Yet untamable.
A beauty not meant to be looked at… but to be contemplated."
He took a step toward her, breath shallow.
But… she vanished.
Like a dream.
Like a memory never truly lived.
He looked around.
Nothing.
No trace.
Just the emptiness she left behind.
He thought:
"I don't know who she is…
She looked like no one else.
Like a note played in silence.
An old wound that had learned to smile.
A light that doesn't blind… but warms unexpectedly.
I knew… I had just seen someone I would never forget."
She was gone.
But something inside him…
remained.
Clinging to her invisible presence.
Like a pianist hanging on the last note he never played.
That evening, Harin returned home.
The day had left a soft, almost existential fatigue upon her.
Sitting at her desk, under dim light, she opened an old sketchbook.
An unfinished drawing caught her eye.
She wrote at the bottom of the page:
"Perhaps art will return.
Perhaps it's just waiting for me to be ready.
Perhaps my talent never left me."
And in her mind, the melody returned clear, luminous.
She whispered to herself:
"Some memories have no words.
They are sensations.
Absences.
Notes.
And sometimes… these notes bring you back to life.