pleasingsalmon

[pleasingsalmon]

Three Wheeler pt. 1

Kim Minji x M!Reader Indie-Band AU

Synopsis

In a converted showroom tucked between the quiet edges of the city, a burned-out sound engineering student, a bassist with sharp eyes and sharper instincts, and a literature major who sings like she's bleeding on tape, find each other by accident-and stay by choice.

What starts as a one-off jam session becomes something more: a rhythm that feels like home. But none of them are ready-not for the attention, not for the doubt, and definitely not for what it means to be seen.

Set against the backdrop of late nights, slow rides, and half-healed ambition, this is a story about building something out of nothing-together.

Genre: soft romance, slow-burn portrait of youth, indie-music theme, self doubt, post-coming of age, fluff.

Word Count: 3011

You’ve been saying you’ll quit for a while now. Letting the sticks collect dust, skipping a day of practice, then two, until the kit starts looking more like furniture than something that used to make your heart race.

Your dad doesn’t press. He just leaves the key in the same spot on the counter every Friday morning—like clockwork. The unspoken rule: if you’re going to mope, at least do it in a place that still echoes a little bit of who you were.

So you do. Some days, you don’t even touch the drums. Just sit in the half-sunlight of the old showroom, scrolling through videos of people better than you—cleaner technique, tighter fills, bigger numbers. It used to motivate you. Now it just makes you… tired.

Then, three nights ago, someone from the old jam group texted you.

There’s a drum battle at IndieCon this weekend. Low-key. Just show up. Bring sticks.

You left the message on read.

But this morning, something in your chest twitched.

You dug out your sticks. Found your half-torn stick bag. Didn't bother tuning anything—just tossed it over your shoulder and stepped outside.

The ride out is quiet. Just the low hum of the engine and the wind tugging at your sleeves. Your body remembers the turns better than your mind does. That’s the funny thing—your hands forget the song, but your muscles remember the way.

And now the venue’s just ahead—an old repurposed building with peeling banners and stacked speaker rigs outside. Nothing flashy. But something about it hums, low and electric.

You park. Kill the engine.

Take one long breath.

You’re not expecting to win.

You’re not even expecting to be remembered.

But you showed up.

And maybe—for now—that’s enough.

This is the third slot of the night in the "Drum Battle" showcase-a feature buried somewhere in the back half of the Indie-Con Vol. 4. A low-lit industrial warehouse-turned-concert space just behind your city.

The kit isn't yours, not even close to what you got at your place.

Snare's too tight. Hi-hat squeaks slightly when you lean too hard on the pedal. One of the toms sounds like it was tuned by a drunk stage-crew.

You ran a quick check before the set, but it's too late to complain now.

You weren't even supposed to be here.

Someone backed out last minute-broke a wrist skateboarding, you heard-and a mutual from an old busking video sent your name up the chain.

No prize money. No contracts. Just exposure and a chance to be the guy who plays something that people feel.

You don't care about the crowd.

But you care about the sound.

The space is built for feedback. High ceilings, exposed brick walls, and cables curling like veins along the floor. There's a faint buzz from the amps-somewhere between anticipation and a cheap power strip.

You roll your neck once, drumsticks tapping lightly against your palm. The house MC gives a shout, something about "Kaion, the backline kid," and your name gets scattered claps.

Doesn't matter. You don't need fireworks.

You step up.

Sit down.

Feet to pedals. Fingers to sticks.

That's all. You don't remember the count-in.

Just the moment your right hand drops clean into the first snare hit-and suddenly everything folds in.

You open with a ghost-note shuffle, light on the ride, like brushing wind across glass.

Fingers relaxed. Shoulders low.

Then you slip a flam into the snare, quick double-pedal burst to lift the room, and now they're watching.

You let the kick drum speak steady-not loud, but deep-the kind that pulses through the gut instead of the chest.

Something tribal, restrained.

You play like you're whispering a secret to the floorboards.

A few heads bob but you don't look at them. You keep your eyes low, letting your left foot tease the hi-hat loose, weaving syncopation into the mid-tempo groove.

At the one-minute mark, you switch-drop into a half-time pocket with rim clicks and a latin accent tucked into the snare line. Someone lets out a quiet "whoa" near the edge of the risers.

You never do too much.

No flashy rolls. No stick flips.

Just precision, emotion and control. Like you're building a language one measure at a time.

The final fill isn't big.

You want it to breathe.

Triplet kick-soft.

Drag on the snare.

Crash-cymbal choke.

Silence.

And the crowd claps. Not loud, but long enough.

Someone shouts your name. Someone else is already pulling their phone back from recording.

You stand slowly, wiping your palm on back of your jeans. Bow a little toward the front like it's reflex, not pride. Just manners.

You sling a small towel over your shoulder, stepping off the riser and down into the wings. Your heartbeat's starting to slow, but your ears are still ringing from the crash cymbal's decay. You lean against the painted pipe column backstage, breath fogging slightly in the AC-heavy air.

"You nailed it, man," someone says, slapping your shoulder while passing. You nod, still half in the rhythm, sweat drying on your collar.

And for a second, you think, this is enough. Just that moment after the sound.

The silence that still hums.

That's when you feel it. Not eyes, exactly. Just... a shift. Like static in the air. Like someone almost said something-and didn't.

You glance up from your towel, still halfway catching your breath, pulse soft in your throat. The house lights have dimmed slightly, but the con is still alive: people weaving through vendor tables, sticky hands gripping iced americanos, merch bags rustling. A low murmur builds off the walls, layered with the faint thump of a lo-fi beat looping from the other end of the room.

There. You spot her.

Far across the venue, half-shadowed behind a table of sticker zines, one hand hovering over a stack of cartoon-printed cassettes.

Oversized flannel sleeves bunched near her wrists. Dark hair loose. Body still but eyes watching, at you.

Not long. Not directly, just long enough for something to tug. She turns away like she wasn't looking at all.

And maybe she wasn't.

Maybe you imagined it.

You lower the towel from your neck, blink, shrug it off. And then- "Yo,"

The voice comes from your left. Close enough that you feel the shift in your space before you even see her. Another girl, this one standing just inside your bubble like she belongs there.

Bass case strapped across her back like she walked off a stage and didn't take it off. She's got sharp eyes, straight posture, expression unreadable-like she's always halfway between amused and unimpressed. "hi-hats boy," she says flatly.

You blink, "Uh. Yeah...?" you don't mean for it to sound like a question. It just comes out that way.

She doesn't miss a beat. "My friend thinks you're good." You glance over her shoulder instinctively, like you already know who she means. "But she's too shy to say it herself," she adds, mouth twitching like she wants to grin but refuses to.

You follow her eyes. Sure enough, the girl in the flannel is still at the sticker table-now flipping through a basket of old demo cassettes, pretending you don't exist.

"She saw your set," the bassist says. "Said you played like you weren't trying to impress anyone."

You scratch the back of your neck, suddenly aware of the sweat still clinging to your collar, "Yeah... guess I wasn't."

"Exactly." She tilts her head. "That's why she noticed."

Something about the way she says it-not flirty, not smug, just fact-makes it land harder than it should.

She pulls a folded flyer from her back pocket, already creased and smudged. Hands it to you like it's been in her jeans for days. "There's an open mic, upstairs, in twenty minutes. It's the last slot. Nothing serious-just some messy stuff we're working out. Guitar. Bass. No vocals, unless she gets brave. Wanna tag along?"

You look down at the flyer. No fancy design. Just scribbled times, some already crossed out, and a corner inked with tiny doodles of stars and tape reels.

You look up. "Why me?"

She shrugs, "Well I dunno, she said you play like you listen," she says. "Just wanna proof if she's wrong."

And then she just turns. Walks off, like that was that. You watch her cross the floor, sneakers tapping against concrete as she heads toward the back stairwell. No wave. Not even waiting for a yes.

But halfway there, the girl in flannel glances back.

Quick. Barely a second.

And then she follows, steps quiet behind the bassist, disappearing into the upstairs hall like they were never there at all.

You stand there a while, flyer in hand, heartbeat still riding the tail end of adrenaline.

It's nothing.

But something about it feels like the start of something you won't be able to explain later.

The upstairs room is smaller than you expected.

Warm with people, but not loud. Not like downstairs, where the music and chatter rolled through your spine like traffic. Up here, the noise folds in on itself-soft voices, occasional feedback, someone laughing behind a half-shut curtain near the back. A girl with bangs sips from a paper cup, feet tucked under her as she leans into the amp buzz.

A few stand. A few sit cross-legged on the concrete.

There's a canvas tote of cheap beer tucked beside a pedalboard.

It smells like dust, amplifier heat, and old velcro-The kind that's been ripped open and closed too many times to still hold tight.

You stay by the wall. One shoulder half in shadow, pretending to check the stage layout-cables, chairs, outlet clusters-but in truth, you're just watching them.

Them.

She's already there. The bassist.

Same girl who handed you the flyer.

Now crouched low beside her bass amp, tuning with sharp, practiced movements. Fingers fast, expression focused.

Like someone who's played a hundred sets and still wants the next one to be better.

And then you see her-The flannel girl.

Standing just behind the mic stand, one sleeve slipped low past her wrist, the other hand adjusting the strap of a faded Les Paul hanging from her shoulder. The cable snakes across the floor like a trail she's trying not to trip on.

She's not talking. Not warming up.

Just waiting. Quiet, eyes scanning the floor like she's solving something.

They don't see you.

Not yet.

So you don't move.

They start without ceremony.

No intro.

No heads-up.

Just guitar-soft, deliberate. A little off-tempo in a way that feels intentional, like it's testing the air before trusting it.

Then bass.

Not flashy. But sharp.

You know this groove-Not the song, maybe, but the language.

Lo-fi, slightly mathy, tension-and-release type stuff.

The kind of song that builds sideways instead of up. The kind that leaves space for breath between notes instead of rushing to fill them.

The crowd doesn't react at first.

But you do.

You listen.

Really listen.

Because they're not just playing a set.

They're having a conversation.

Each phrase passed back and forth, not like musicians, but like people who know what the other is about to say-and still want to hear them say it. You lean your weight into the wall behind you, arms crossed loosely. Letting it pull you in.

Two songs pass like that. Then three.

By the fourth, heads are starting to nod.

Not big movements-just subtle things. Like someone agreeing with a memory they didn't know they had.

At the mic, she clears her throat-flannel girl. Her voice is quiet but carries, "Okay, last song. We might mess this one up."

The bassist doesn't say anything. Doesn't even glance at her.

Just raises her chin a little.

Ready.

It starts slower than the others.

Guitar first. A quiet, single-string line that feels like breath held between words. It aches with pause, not unfinished-just waiting.

And that's when you hear it.

The space. Not a mistake. An opening. Your fingers twitch. Just slightly.

You reach into your jacket pocket, feel the familiar shape of your brush sticks-the worn ones. You weren't planning on playing. Not really. But part of you brought them just in case.

Your feet move before you tell them to, one step at a time toward the kit in the back. Someone left it half-assembled-kick, snare, hi-hats, one tom leaning too far left. No frills. No mic.

Perfect.

You don't ask.

You just sit.

No one stops you.

No one says a word.

At the stage, she sees you-flannel girl.

Her eyes widen. Just a flicker then she looks down again, as if you weren't even there. Like she's not afraid.

Just... curious.

The bassist, on the other hand, glances once. Just once.

And nods. That's all you need.

And when you come in, it's soft, barely brushing the snare's rim. Feather-light taps that sit underneath their groove like punctuation-A comma. A pause. An unspoken agreement.

You ride their rhythm, not overtaking. Just coloring the silence between the chords, supporting.

Listening.

And something in the room shifts.

It's subtle-but you feel it.

The lean forward. The collective hush.

She sings, finally-flannel girl-and it's a little shy, a little breathy. But this time, she smiles at the end of the verse, not big but enough to mean it.

And the bassist?

She never looks away again.

Her eyes lock on yours, calm but sharp, like she's studying not how you play, but how you fit.

The song ends before you're ready. Just a final bass note. One fading chord.

No crash. No applause.

Just stillness, you glance up, brush sticks still resting in your palms. But then the girl with flannel mumbled from her place, "...that was better than expected."

And even though it wasn't directed at you-you feel it land anyway.

When the last note fades, the clapping comes late.

Not out of rudeness-just hesitation.

Like no one's quite sure if it's over yet.

Like they're still waiting for something else to happen.

A few beats pass. Then hands meet in scattered rhythm.

Polite. Stunned. A little confused.

And from the back, "Was that planned?" A random guy said soft but you still could hear it.

You shake your head once. Nope. But your voice doesn't carry. No one hears it but you. Still, you think they get the idea.

The bassist-quiet and unreadable all night-lets a half-smile pull at the edge of her mouth. Just a flicker. The first one you've seen. Flannel girl lets out a breath like she forgot she was holding it.

You tuck your brushes back into your jacket, slow and careful. Still no names exchanged. Just something real starting, softly-like a low tide easing in. The room hasn't cleared yet, but the buzz is starting to fade, like the echo of a last note still humming under your ribs.

You hear their steps, both of them stepping.

Flannel girl leads, guitar hanging from one shoulder like it weighs more emotionally than physically. She approaches with this mixture of nerves and something that looks like courage dressed as casual.

Behind her, the bassist moves slower. Measured. Her face is unreadable, but her eyes say she's been watching. Maybe since the first downbeat.

"Hey," flannel girl says, stopping just close enough to share the same air, "You, uh... that was cool."

You nod, small. "Hope I didn't crash your set."

She grins. It's crooked, nervous but sincere. "Kinda would've been worse if you didn't hop on, though."

Behind her, the bassist snorts. Light, almost hidden. Arms crossed, bass slung behind her like a backpack. "She was seconds away from punching the stage monitor out of pure disappointment," she says dryly. "Would've been tragic."

"I was not," flannel girl mutters, cheeks flushing. She doesn't meet your eyes.

"Sure. I saw your face during song two."

You glance between them, amused. "You were... expecting me?"

Flannel girl stammers. "N-no-well-not expecting. Just... I thought maybe-"

"She was pacing like a spotify ad break," the bassist adds, deadpan.

That gets a real groan from her. Then, before it spirals, flannel girl sticks out her hand abruptly. Almost embarrassed. "Okay, before this gets even worse-hi. I'm Hanni."

You take it. Her grip is warm, slightly you can feel callouse on her fingertips. "Kaion," you say. "Nice to meet you-properly."

She smiles at that. Then glances over her shoulder.

The bassist gives the faintest shrug, like she knew it was coming.

"Minji," she says, with a nod. "Also properly."

You return it, respectful. "Nice to meet you too."

Minji squints a little, tilting her head. "So where were you? You actually stayed through the whole set?"

"Yeah," you say. "Wanted to hear how you played. Cause it felt wrong to just jump in blind."

That slows her down. You can see it-how Minji takes that in. Like she wasn't expecting the answer to be thoughtful. Or honest. "...Smart move," she says eventually.

Hanni's boot scuffs the floor as she rocks on her heels, looking between you both. "Sooo... was that a one-time thing, or-?"

You hesitated, the easy part was playing.

This is harder-uncertain terrain where no sheet music exists. "I can't tell," you say honestly. "You two already got something good. I didn't wanna mess it up."

Minji raises an eyebrow. "You're worrying too much."

You meet her gaze. Then Hanni's. Your pulse stays steady, but something low under your sternum flickers. "Well," you offer, cautious but open, "maybe we could try again sometime."

Hanni lights up like you flipped a switch. "Yeah! Sure. Can we do it tomorrow?"

Minji groans. "Whoa, hold your horses, sweetheart."

"What? We're not doing anything."

"We literally have class until noon."

"...After class, then."

You laugh, rubbing at the back of your neck. "I mean, I'm around. You two've got my attention."

Minji smirks. "Clearly."

The con's still humming somewhere below you-bass bleeding through the floorboards, distant footsteps and echoes of a crowd that moved on. But here?

There's stillness.

A quiet hum in the space between you.

Something just begun-not defined yet, but you can feel it.

Not just the sound.

Something else.

Something steady.

[pleasingsalmon]

"One Week of Us"

Synopsis:

“We loved each other—but sometimes, even love asks too much.”

They were supposed to be fine. A dinner was planned, a ring was hidden, a future quietly imagined. But across seven quiet days, what once felt certain began to slip. Between routine mornings and wordless evenings, doubt settled in.

Word Count: 4.260 words

Pham Hanni x Male Reader

DAY ONE

Your POV

I wake up before her.

It's not unusual. I've always been the lighter sleeper. She says I twitch in my dreams, like a dog chasing something in its sleep. I always pretend to be offended, and she always kisses it better.

But this morning, I don't move.

I just lie there, watching her back.

She's curled up, hands tucked under her chin, the blanket pushed halfway down her shoulder. A strand of her hair catches the light from the window. It's quiet-just the hum of the city far below and the rustle of the curtain when the breeze catches it.

And still, something feels different.

She doesn't stir when I slip out of bed. No sleepy mumble. No soft "mmm" of protest when I steal the blanket entirely. Just stillness.

Maybe she's just tired.

I brush my teeth. Make two mugs of coffee-hers with oat milk, mine plain and bitter. I put on music, something light. The smell of toast fills the kitchen.

Ten minutes pass before she shuffles in, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, eyes still half-closed. She gives me a small smile.

"Morning," she says.

I hand her the mug. "Morning."

She takes a sip. Makes a face.

"Hmm, it's bitter..." she mutters, and moves to adds some oat milk herself.

I want to say something. Ask if she slept well. If she had another nightmare. But her back is facing me, and the moment passes.

Instead, I reach into the drawer next to the sink-not for anything, just... habit.

My fingers brush against the small box I've hidden there.

Cool. Velvet. Square.

I close the drawer slowly.

Not yet, said to myself.

I turn to find her already seated at the kitchen table, sunlight across her lap, legs pulled up into the chair. She's scrolling through her phone. Then she sets it down, as if suddenly bored of it. She looks out the window.

"Hanni...," I called out.

She turns her face to me, waiting for my next words to be heard without saying a thing, but smile.

"Tomorrow's Saturday, what do you think if we go out for dinner tonight?, promise I'll be home soon..." She looks at me for a second too long. Then smiles again, this time smaller.

"Yeahh," she says. "Sure, then let's do."

---

DAY TWO

Hanni's POV

I didn't think he'd mean it right away.

"Let's go out for dinner..."

He said it so easily. Like it was simple.

Dinner. Just the two of us, just like we used to do before late nights and early meetings started pulling us in different directions. He took me to the place with the hanging lights and tiny wooden menus-where we had our second dates-we argued about pineapple on pizza for twenty full minutes.

We laughed harder that night than I had in months.

But when I woke up today and saw the weekend sun spilling across the sheets, I realized I didn't want more than this-this was enough. At least for now.

We don't go anywhere.

He's still in his sweatpants, hair a little messy. I sit curled on the couch in my favorite blanket. The TV's playing something we've seen before, one of those comfort shows with punchlines we can recite. It hums in the background like static. But we're not really watching. Just... existing.

He makes pancakes. Burns the first batch. Curses softly.

I laugh and call out from the living room, "You always mess it up."

He pokes his head around the corner, spatula in hand. "But you're lucky I'm cute."

I smirk. "You bet."

He grins. That grin that always makes me forget the world is shifting beneath us.

I lean against him on the couch after the meal. His arm is warm around my shoulders. His thumb moves in soft, absent circles against my arm. I pretend I don't feel it. Pretend I'm not memorizing it.

Because I don't know how many more weekends I'll have like this.

Later at night, when he finally doze off, I slip out from under the blanket and wander to the kitchen, thinking I'll leave a note or doodle something dumb like I always do.

I pull the drawer open looking for a pen.

That's when I feel it...

Small. Square. Velvet-coloured.

I was too stun to move.

I don't open it. I don't want to open it. But my instincts already know what's inside that tiny box.

It's a ring.

I close the drawer, slow and careful like I'm afraid it'll shatter.

My breath catches somewhere between my ribs.

And just like that, the softness of the night turns into something I can't hold onto.

I swallow the lump in my throat and pretend nothing happened.

He's still asleep and the world had went quiet.

But I don't know how long I can carry this...

---

DAY THREE

Your POV

There's something different about her today.

She's not upset. Not distant in a way that begs confrontation. Just... quieter.

She laughs at the things she's supposed to laugh at. She eats the toast I made her, even though I burned it slightly again. She hums while brushing her hair in the mirror. But it's not the same kind of hum. It doesn't fill the room like it usually does.

She kissed my cheek this morning.

Not my lips.

A small thing, but I felt it.

And now I'm hyper-aware of every moment that passes between us.

The air feels softer, but not warm. Like how it feels right before the rain come.

We spend the all day in the apartment. I thought about asking her if she wanted to go out again by noon-do something, anything. But I stopped myself. She looked comfortable in my hoodie, curled up on the couch with a cup of tea, scrolling through something quietly on her phone.

So I let her be.

I sat beside her, worked a little on my laptop, glanced at her more often than I meant to.

I kept catching myself watching her.

I don't know what I was looking for.

A sign?

An answer?

Proof that I'm just being paranoid?

Maybe.

Later, I got up to take a shower. When I came back out, she was standing by the kitchen, hands still on the drawer like she'd just closed it.

She looked up, startled. But only for a second.

"Is everything okay, babe?" I asked.

She smiled. That smile again. The polite one she gives to baristas or my older relatives she's only met twice. Not the one she gives me when she's being honest.

"Yeah," she said softly. "Just looking for scissors. Wanted to trim that dumb thread on your hoodie."

I nodded. Didn't press.

But the thing is... there are no scissors in that drawer. There's only pens, matches, and-

My heart thudded once, hard.

But I said nothing...

---

DAY FOUR

Hanni's POV

The apartment felt colder this morning.

Maybe it was the rain overnight, or maybe I'm just starting to feel everything I've been trying's so hard to suppress.

He left early. Kissed the top of my head like always, but didn't linger like he usually does. I stayed in bed after the door clicked shut. The sheets were still warm on his side, and for a moment, I curled onto the space he left behind.

I wann let myself be selfish.

I wann let myself wanting to stay.

But I can't.

I had meetings. Edits. Deadlines. Life pulling me back to the version of myself that exists outside this home we've built.

And yet... I barely heard anything in the meetings. I stared through people. Replied to emails in half-thoughts. I tried to work like I usually do, but the only thing I could focus on was the drawer.

The one I reopened last night. The one with his plans inside it.

He's going to propose, and I'm going to leave.

It's cruel, isn't it?

The worst part is-he doesn't even know what he did wrong. Because he didn't do anything wrong. That's what makes this all so much harder.

I didn't go home right away after work. I wandered. Took the longer train. Walked a block I never take. Pretended I had somewhere to be, when really I just needed to stall.

Because going back means facing him again.

Means pretending again.

Means maybe seeing the box again.

I finally walked in near 8 PM. He looked up from his laptop and smiled like nothing was different.

But everything is.

And the hours between us are running out.

---

DAY FIVE

Your POV

This morning, she was already dressed when I got up. Mug in hand, face unreadable. She smiled when she saw me, just enough to pass for normal-but something behind her eyes was... quieter. Like part of her was somewhere else. Like she had one foot already out the door.

Still, I kissed her cheek.

Said I'd see her later.

She said, "Okay."

Just that. Nothing more.

Last night, she held me really tight.

Not that it's an unusual thing-she's always been soft like that. Gentle. Loving in the quiet ways.

But last night... was tighter.

I felt it.

Her fingers pressed into my back like she was afraid I might disappear. Her breath buried beneath my collarbone, slower than usual.

She didn't say much. Just goodnight, in the softest voice she could manage.

But it didn't feel like a goodnight.

It felt like a goodbye she hadn't spoken yet.

And that scared me.

At work, I kept trying to shake the feeling off. Told myself I was being dramatic. That it's just stress. That maybe I'm the one acting different, hovering around this secret like it's something holy.

All day, I kept thinking.

Should I do it today?

Should I take her out after work, light a candle somewhere nice, and just ask?

I even opened the drawer this morning, held the box in my hand. Ran my thumb over the lid like it was a question. Like maybe it could answer me.

I kept it with me all day. In my bag. Close. Waiting for the right moment, but the moment never came.

When I got home, she was already curled up on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, eyes half on the TV. I asked if she wanted to go out. She said, "I'm tired."

And I didn't push.

I made us dinner. Something warm, something I knew she liked. We sat across from each other, forks clicking against the plates, and the silence between us was... comfortable, in theory. But I could feel her drifting.

She smiled when I made a stupid joke. Even laughed a little. But it didn't reach her eyes.

Like she was humoring me. Like part of her wasn't in the room.

After dinner, we cleaned up together, barely speaking. I wanted to touch her-just... reach out. Pull her close again. Feel that tight embrace from last night and ask what it meant.

But I didn't.

I couldn't.

She looked tired. And I was too much of a coward.

So I left the box in my bag. Pretended this wasn't the night I had imagined for weeks.

Pretended I didn't notice the growing gap between us.

Pretended we weren't unraveling by the hour.

Maybe I'll try again tomorrow.

Maybe I'll wake up brave.

Maybe she'll come back to me before she's gone.

---

DAY SIX

Hanni's POV

I woke up before the sun today.

Not because I had to, but because the air felt too thick to sleep through.

He was still curled beside me, chest rising slow, one hand thrown over my side like always-like home. For a moment, I let myself pretend this morning was ordinary. Pretend that my heart didn't feel like it was peeling apart at the seams.

But even silence has weight. And this one's getting harder to carry.

I slip out from under his arm gently. Make coffee.

It tastes like every other morning, but nothing sits right lately.

The warmth, the scent, the comfort-none of it fits inside me the way it used to.

I haven't painted in weeks.

I haven't taken a proper photograph in even longer-my hobby I used to do outside the main job.

And I don't know how to tell the man I loved that I've started to hate our reflection in the mirror.

I don't know how to tell him that I've lost me somewhere between all these routines we built so sweetly.

Every day, I lose a little more of myself in the name of this relationship.

I've smiled through it for so long, I don't think he even notices how hollow my laughter has become.

He still looks at me like I'm whole.

But I haven't been, not for a while now.

He walks into the kitchen, hair a mess, still blinking sleep from his eyes.

He kisses my forehead. It lingers.

I smile like always. It hurts.

We don't talk about the ring.

He doesn't know I found it.

He doesn't know I held it in my hand couple days ago, in the quiet of the night, crying alone in the bathroom afterward like some cliché breakup scene.

And he definitely doesn't know I haven't said yes-or no-not because I don't love him, but because I'm terrified I'll never find myself again if I stay.

He says, "Want to order takeout later?"

I nod. He smiles like nothing's wrong.

Maybe he doesn't feel it.

Or maybe he does and he's just waiting for me to say it first.

And the cruel part is-I think I would've said yes.

Not because I'm ready. Not because I believe in us.

But because I'm scared of what it means to walk away from someone who loves you this much.

But that wouldn't be fair to either of us.

It wouldn't be real.

So I just hold onto the moment.

His voice.

His laugh.

The way he says my name without hesitation.

Because tomorrow will come.

And I don't know if we'll make it to the one after.

---

DAY SEVEN

Your POV

She was already in the kitchen when I woke up.

Her back turned to me, pouring water into the kettle. The morning light framed her like a painting-warm against her sweater, hair tied up lazily the way she does when she's not planning to go anywhere.

For a second, I let myself believe we were okay.

That maybe this silence wasn't the edge of something breaking, but just... life being quiet.

"Morning," I said as I stepped in. My voice cracked a little-dry from sleep, and a bit nerves.

She turned briefly, smiled in that half-hearted way she's been doing lately. "Morning."

It hurt more than it should've.

I moved to the counter, standing beside her like nothing was strange, like we hadn't been drifting just beneath the surface all week.

The coffee brewed. She handed me my mug before I asked.

Her fingertips brushed mine. It was nothing, but that's also everything.

The ring box was in my bag. I had slipped it in on Tuesday, and it's been there days ever since-through every second-guess and swallowed word. It's heavier now, somehow.

I wanted to do it tonight. I'd planned it. Quiet dinner. No speeches, no pressure. Just... the question. The hope.

But something about the way she stirred her tea made my chest tighten. Like she was saying goodbye in gestures I couldn't name.

I pushed the thought away.

Not this time. Not on the day I'm going to ask her to stay with me forever.

---

Hanni's POV

He said "morning" behind me.

I heard the hesitation. The crack in his voice. It was small-but I noticed. Lately, I notice everything.

The way he watches me more than he talks to me. The way he lingers by the bedroom door like he's waiting for me to start something-anything-that might fix whatever this is.

I turned and smiled, soft, because it felt wrong if I didn't.

But it wasn't real.

It couldn't be.

The tea in my hands was too hot. My chest was heavier than it should be.

And when our fingers brushed as I handed him his mug, I pulled away too fast.

I wonder if he felt that.

No, I know he did.

I've packed my suitecase already. It's hidden behind the door of the coat closet, zipped up and ready.

I only pack myself some change of clothes. My toothbrush. A pair of shoes. It's not everything-but enough.

I keep telling myself it's not permanent. I'm not leaving, leaving.

I just need some time. A pause. A breath.

I used to feel like myself around him.

Now I feel like I'm playing myself for him-like the version of me he fell in love with is someone I have to keep rehearsing, day after day.

It's not his fault.

It's not mine, either.

But something's broken. And I don't know how to fix it. Not without first stepping away from it.

He sat down beside me. We drank in silence.

I could feel him wanting to reach across the space between us. But he didn't.

And I didn't either...

---

Your Pov

I left the office earlier than usual.

Didn't tell anyone why. Just gave a half-smile, said I had "plans." That word felt too light for the weight it carried.

The subway home was crowded, but my thoughts made it quieter. I had rehearsed it all again in my head-what I'd say, what I wouldn't.

The dinner wouldn't be special by anyone else's standards, but for us, it was something. A gesture. A beginning.

I had the tofu she liked. That gingery sauce she always claimed tasted better homemade-though she never had the time to make it herself anymore.

And in my bag, hidden in the same inner pocket I'd touched about a hundred times this week, was the ring.

It wasn't about grand gestures. She never liked those.

It was going to be quiet. At home. Our home.

Just us and whatever we still were, whatever we could still be.

The moment I stepped into the apartment, I knew she wasn't home yet.

The lights were off. The air was still.

Even the silence felt stretched thin.

I set the groceries on the counter and slipped off my shoes with one hand, catching them before they thudded against the floor. I didn't want to disturb anything-even though no one was here.

I looked around. Everything was exactly the same.

Coats on its hanger, Her mug in the sink. Her scarf still folded neatly on the edge of the couch.

Too neat.

Like she had touched everything with care-for the last time.

Still, I shook it off. I was overthinking. Probably just nerves.

I moved toward the kitchen, intending to get started.

Cut the tofu. Put the rice on. Maybe light that one candle she said smelled like late spring in Busan.

Then I remembered I left the drink she liked-the pear soda-by the front door. I walked back to grab it, my footsteps echoing slightly.

Passing the coat closet, I noticed the door wasn't completely closed.

Strange.

We never left it open. It blocked the hallway light when it swung. We both hated that.

I paused.

Hand on the edge of the door. Just a glance to nudge it back into place.

That's all it should've been.

But something caught my eye, a suitcase.

It wasn't mine.

It wasn't even out of place-just... there, like it had been waiting for me to find it.

At first, I didn't move.

Maybe I thought if I didn't react, it wouldn't be real.

Maybe I hoped it was just a suitcase. Just a random thing. A coincidence.

But I knew better.

The weight of it. The way it sat-tucked just barely behind the coats, out of view but not hidden well enough.

I crouched slightly. Reached for the handle.

Not to open it-just to confirm it.

It was hers.

I stood up too fast, the sudden rush of blood making the silence in the apartment feel louder.

Like the walls were pressing in, listening.

I didn't call her.

Didn't text.

Didn't even move.

The groceries were still on the counter.

The tofu would probably go bad if I left it out too long.

And the ring-still in my bag, zipped up tight- it suddenly felt like a cruel joke.

Like a question I never deserved to ask.

I leaned against the wall, back hitting it harder than I meant.

She was going to leave.

And I was just now finding out.

With tofu in a bag.

With dinner planned.

With the words "Will you-" still somewhere in my throat.

I closed my eyes.

I didn't need answers.

Not yet.

I just needed to breathe.

---

Hanni's POV

I should've walked slower.

I should've never left work.

I should've never packed the suitcase in the first place.

But I did. I did all of it. And now I'm here, with every step toward home growing heavier - like guilt pressing down on my chest until it's hard to breathe.

I felt it all.

The guilt. The shame. The exhaustion. The terror.

Everything.

My fingers hovered over the doorknob for longer than I'm proud of. For a moment, I thought about turning around. Pretending I forgot something. Running to the nearest station. Or just sitting outside until the night swallowed me whole.

But I didn't.

I opened the door.

And immediately, I knew.

The bitter scent hit me before anything else. Not strong-not thick. But just enough to sting.

Smoke.

The air was stale with it. And there he was, sitting at the kitchen table with his head bowed, a cigarette resting between his fingers, burning too close to the filter.

He didn't even flinch at the sound of the door.

My breath caught in my throat.

He promised.

He promised to never smoke again- not because he wanted to, but because I asked him to. Because I hated the smell. Because he said, "If it's something that makes you unhappy, I'll stop. That's simple, right?"

I froze before taking one step forward.

He didn't look like himself. Not the man I spent mornings beside, not the one who hummed while chopping garlic. Not the one I kissed between subway rides.

He looked... wrecked.

My voice trembled out before I could stop it.

Weak. Barely audible, "Jeonso... we need to talk."

The sound of his name.

First time I'd said it in days.

He didn't look up.

Just exhaled - slow, bitter - and crushed the cigarette onto an unused saucer beside him.

Then, quietly "Why now... Hanni?"

His voice broke halfway through my name.

He didn't pause for long, but the silence between every word dragged deep.

"We've fought so many times before. You know that. Even once- once I thought I'd really lost you. I thought that was it. But you stayed. You chose to stay. So..."

He finally looked at me, eyes bloodshot. Face sunken, "Why now?"

I wanted to answer.

I wanted to run.

I wanted to curl up next to him and pretend this wasn't happening.

But I did none of those things.

I just stood there, my hand still curled around the strap of my bag, voice cracking open. "Because I don't know who I am anymore."

He blinked. Didn't speak.

I swallowed back the sob rising in my chest. "I stayed because I loved you. I stayed because I hoped it would get better. I stayed until I didn't recognize the person in the mirror anymore. I gave everything I could, and I know you did the same-"

"But?" His voice was sharp now. Not angry. Just... desperate. "But it wasn't enough?"

"No," I whispered, eyes already swimming. "No, Jeonso. You were enough. You were always enough. But I wasn't enough for me anymore."

He looked away, blinking fast.

His jaw clenched once. Twice. Then relaxed, lips parting just enough for his voice to slip out again.

"But why now?"

His tone cracked open this time.

He was shaking.

"Why now, when I thought everything was finally... finally becomes good again? When I started to feel safe, to let my guard down - to believe we'd actually make it?"

Tears streamed down my cheeks.

"I was going to propose to you," he said quietly. "Did you know that?"

I nodded slowly.

"I found the ring."

He sat back in his chair like the last bit of air left his lungs.

"Then why..." His voice gave out. "Why did you still choose to leave?"

I step closer and stand, right in front of him before I even knew what I was doing. "I've been trying," I said. "Trying to keep up with everything - with your work hours, your silence when you're tired, the way we skip talking because it's easier than fighting. And somewhere in all of that... I disappeared." I sobbed, "I didn't want this, didn't plan for it to end like this. But staying when I'm falling apart... that wouldn't be love anymore. That would be survival."

He buried his face in our joined hands. His shoulders shook. Mine too.

And there, in our quiet kitchen, the two of us broke open - crying not because we didn't love each other...

...but because sometimes, even love isn't enough...

.

.

.

[pleasingsalmon]

"Between Frames"

Synopsis:

they met in silence, and found each other again the same way. she met him once, on a rainy evening, in a half-forgotten café. no promises—just a bench, a photo, and a feeling that lingered. years later, in a city that isn’t hers, she finds him again. or maybe, he finds her.

—between frames, something waited to be finished.

Word Count: 4,147 words

Kim Minji x Male OC

I forgot how to rest a long time ago.

Not in the dramatic, poetic way people say when they're trying to sound interesting. I mean literally. My body doesn't know what to do when it's not typing, coding, compiling, or rereading some stack overflow thread at 3 a.m. My meals live and die by food delivery apps. I fall asleep with my laptop open more often than I close it. I even haven't heard my own voice in days.

Remote work sounds dreamy until you realize your whole world exists inside a glowing rectangle.

The only reason I still go outside is because my wi-fi keeps dropping in the afternoons.

That's how I found the café-this half-forgotten corner shop wedged between a secondhand bookstore and a closed-down barbershop. The kind of place that smells faintly like cinnamon, wood polish, and loneliness. One outlet per wall. No background music. Just the clink of mugs, the hum of the fridge, and the occasional cough from the old man who owns the place.

Perfect for working. Or pretending to.

And that's where I first saw her.

Well-noticed her, actually.

She sat by the window. Always. Hoodie pulled up like armor. Camera on the table in front of her. Sometimes a small notebook, sometimes just her phone. She always ordered something sweet like matcha latte, or iced coffee. But today's just americano, black, no sugar, the way someone drinks it when they need it, not when they want it.

I never stared. But she was... present. Like a ghost with a lens. She didn't talk to anyone, not even the barista. Just watched the light shift through the smudged glass like it was the most important thing happening that day.

We shared that silence for a week. Maybe more.

Some days, I came in later than usual and she'd already be there, legs curled up on the seat, camera in hand, body still but eyes sharp. Other times, I caught her walking in a few steps behind me, camera slung across her back like it weighed more than it should.

We never spoke.

But I noticed things.

Her nails were chipped, not bitten. There was always a small bandaid somewhere on her hand, probably from fumbling with zippers or rushing some batteries reload. She didn't wear makeup, but sometimes she had smudges of eyeshadow near her wrist, like she'd wiped her face on instinct without realizing it was still there.

I thought maybe she was studying me too.

Or maybe not. Maybe she didn't see me at all.

Until one Thursday, when my brain had already melted from a broken AI pathing issue, and I'd been running on two hours of sleep and a half protein bar. I was staring blankly at my code, wondering if I could fake a power outage just to buy time, when I noticed it again-

*click*

That camera shutter. Not loud, but present. Like punctuation at the end of a breath.

She had taken a photo.

I glanced up-not at her, but past her, through the window.

Nothing.

No birds. No passing people. Just the same cracked sidewalk and a tree stubbornly holding onto the last of its golden leaves.

"You always shoot the same spot," I muttered, more to myself than to her.

Silence.

I figured she didn't hear me. Or she'd ignore it, like most people would.

But then she said, quietly "No. I shoot the same light. It just happens to fall here a lot."

I looked up.

Really looked.

She didn't meet my gaze. Still adjusting something on her camera, as if she hadn't just peeled the air open with that line.

There was a pause.

Like the pause between breaths before you realize you're alive.

"Photography student?" I guessed.

She finally met my eyes, expression unreadable.

"Senior year. Last project. You?"

I gave a half-shrug, lips twitching.

"Game developer. Remote work. And probably, no sleep."

She chuckled and her eyes softened just a bit. The edge in her posture dipped-not much, but enough that I noticed.

That was it.

That was our first real conversation.

But it stuck with me.

Because sometimes, it's not the words. It's the fact that someone answered.

---

After that first exchange, we didn't talk again for a while.

Not because it was awkward-but because that one thread, however thin, had already connected us. That was enough to let silence become something shared instead of something avoided.

We started nodding at each other. Little acknowledgments. Barely-there smiles when we crossed paths at the café entrance. She'd show up with damp hair some mornings, eyes puffy from lack of sleep, and I'd slide a napkin toward her when she accidentally spilled a bit of coffee on her notebook.

Nothing major. Just... proximity. Familiarity.

Two people orbiting the same quiet place.

Then, one afternoon, the rain came.

Not the soft, aesthetic drizzle people post on social media. This was the kind of rain that made umbrellas useless. The kind that punched puddles into the pavement and rattled the café windows like it was trying to get in.

I had just slammed my laptop shut after a build crashed again-third time in two hours-and muttered a curse under my breath.

She looked up from across the room.

I must've looked wrecked. I felt wrecked.

She reached into her bag, pulled something out, and slid it across the table toward me as she passed.

A small chocolate bar.

She didn't say anything. Didn't even wait for a thank-you. Just went back to her window seat, curled her knees up, and resumed staring outside like she was waiting for the storm to say something back.

I stared at the chocolate.

Then at her.

Then I stood up, slowly.

Coffee cup in hand, nerves crawling under my skin like I was about to do something reckless.

I walked over to her table.

"Can I sit?" I asked.

She blinked. Looked at the empty chair across from her.

Then back at me.

A moment. A hesitation.

Then a quiet nod.

I sat.

We didn't speak right away. I opened the chocolate, broke off a piece, and handed it back across the table.

She accepted it wordlessly.

We ate in silence. Chewing. Listening to the storm.

Eventually, she turned her camera around and placed it on the table between us. The display screen was on, a single image filling the frame.

An empty bench. Rain-spattered. Slightly crooked. Set beneath a tree that was halfway bare, its leaves darkened by the weather.

"I took this last night," she said. Her voice was low, not tired exactly-but... worn. Like she was being honest on purpose. "I waited an hour for someone to sit on it. Anyone. But no one came. I almost deleted it."

I leaned closer, studying the photo.

"No subject?" I said quietly.

She shook her head. "No person. Doesn't mean it has no subject."

"What is it, then?"

She looked at me.

Really looked.

"The waiting."

That word hung between us. Not in a cheesy, romantic way. But like she had cracked something open without meaning to.

I glanced out the window, watching the rain blur the world into grayscale.

I understood it.

That feeling of setting a frame and hoping something shows up. Waiting for meaning to walk into view.

"Do you usually shoot people?" I asked.

"Only when they forget I'm there," she replied. "Otherwise, they perform. It's not real."

She picked at the cuff of her hoodie. A nervous tic, maybe. Or just a habit.

"And you?" she asked. "What do you make?"

"Games," I said. "Code. Interfaces. Logic loops."

"No, I mean-what do you make that actually means something to you?"

That stung a little.

But I liked it.

I leaned back in the chair and exhaled. "I don't know. I used to care. Now I just... fix what breaks."

"Maybe that's something," she murmured.

We let the rain fill the gaps for a while.

Then, almost shyly, I offered, "I'm Junwoo, by the way."

She tilted her head a bit, then gave a soft, blink smile.

"Minji."

She said it like it wasn't important. Like it wasn't the first real piece of her she'd handed me.

I said it back, gently. Like I was folding it into memory, "Minji..."

The bench photo stayed on the screen between us.

And in that moment, we were both the subject.

Waiting.

But not alone anymore.

---

Minji's pov

The rain had stopped by the time we left the café.

It didn't feel sudden-more like the storm had finally exhaled and decided to let the world breathe again. The streets were still damp, glistening under the faint gold of the streetlights, the kind that made everything feel like an old film.

Junwoo walked beside me.

Not too close. Not too far.

He didn't ask where I was headed, and I didn't ask if he needed to go the other way. We just... walked.

There was something about the silence that felt less like a lack of conversation and more like space-as if neither of us needed to fill the air just to prove we were comfortable.

I liked that.

I wasn't sure when I stopped liking silence with people. Maybe somewhere between deadlines and critiques and nights spent in my bedroom editing photograph essay until I feel numb on my fingers. Most of my conversations lately were about contrast ratios or lens choices or "why isn't your subject centered?" from professors who didn't really care about the stories I was trying to tell.

But he hadn't asked to see the photo. And when I showed him, he didn't try to interpret it. He just listened.

That empty bench had felt so heavy to me-like it carried everything I'd been trying to say in my final project without ever saying a word. Waiting. Stillness. Absence.

And he saw it.

That mattered more than I expected.

As we walked, I kept sneaking glances at him from the corner of my eye.

Junwoo had this look to him-kind of like he was always halfway between sleep and focus. The kind of person who probably forgot to eat when he was deep in a project. His clothes were practical but worn in a way that said he had a few favorites and stuck to them. His hands were in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched-not from shyness, but exhaustion that had become part of his posture.

He didn't look like someone who smiled easily. But he had smiled-just a little-when I told him my name.

Minji.

It sounded different when he said it. Like it was something worth remembering.

I don't know how many blocks we walked before I realized we were still on the same route. He didn't turn. Neither did I.

"You live this way too?" I finally asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. Just past the second convenience store."

I blinked. "I live near there. Dorms at the uni."

His brows lifted slightly, a surprised hum in the back of his throat. "We've probably passed each other before."

"Maybe," I said. "But we didn't see each other."

That earned me a glance. One of those sideways looks, thoughtful and slow.

"Guess we're both better at noticing empty things than full ones," he said.

I didn't reply. Not because I didn't want to-but because the sentence settled in too deep to touch right away.

We passed the first convenience store. The windows were fogged up from inside. Some students sat on crates drinking canned coffee, talking too loud.

I realized I didn't want this walk to end yet.

"I'm working on my final submission," I said, surprising myself by speaking. "Photo series. It's... supposed to be about stillness. But I think I made it about loneliness without meaning to."

He didn't say anything for a few steps. Then- "That's not a mistake."

I looked at him.

He kept his eyes ahead. "Stillness and loneliness look the same sometimes. Especially when you're the one behind the lens."

"Is it the same for code?" I asked. "When you build things?"

He gave a small, lopsided smile. "I think I hide in it, mostly. Fix problems I know how to fix. Pretend it makes me feel useful."

I let that sit. The same way he had let my words sit earlier.

We reached the corner where our paths finally split.

I slowed. So did he.

"I'm here," I said, nodding toward the narrow road leading to the dorms.

He turned slightly, hands still in his pockets.

"Right. You've got your bench to catch," he said quietly.

I smiled. "And you've got your bugs to debug."

He chuckled, just under his breath. I liked the sound. Unpolished.

For a second, we just stood there. Neither moving.

Then- "Same café tomorrow?" he asked.

That wasn't a question I expected.

But I nodded. "Same window."

He nodded back.

I watched him walk away until he disappeared around the corner.

And only when I was alone again did I feel the quiet come back differently.

Not heavier. Not lonelier.

Just... full.

Like maybe the next time I waited for someone to sit on that bench, they just might.

---

Junwoo's POV

The next morning, sunlight replaces yesterday's rain. The sky over Seoul is brushed in soft strokes of blue, like a fresh canvas. Junwoo wakes up with a rare sense of stillness in his chest.

He thinks of her quiet laugh, the way she tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear last night, the click of her camera, the way her eyes seemed to see through everything and still linger on him.

"She said she might be back there. Maybe she'd show me her other photos." He said to himself, then doing his routine inside the digital world.

Then it's noon already when Junwoo arrives at the café. Same spot by the window, the one where sunlight filters in gently-right where she sat. He orders the same iced latté, like muscle memory, even though he'd rather drink something warm.

His email notification chimes through his phone.

"Subject: Transfer Approval - Relocation Notice

Dear Han Junwoo,

We're excited to confirm your transition to our Seoul-branch lead developer role is approved... Travel itinerary is attached below. Your reporting date at the HQ in Berlin is..."

The message stares back at him from the screen like a sealed door.

Junwoo closes the email without finishing it. He doesn't want to think about Berlin. Not yet.

Not while there's still a chance she'll walk through that door.

He remembers how she smiled-not wide, not showy, but soft. Honest. He'd replayed the way she described the photo: "Sometimes, I think I take pictures of things I wish someone else could understand."

He sits for an hour.

Then two.

He tells himself he isn't waiting, that it's just a nice café, that he likes the seat.

But every time the door swings open, his eyes flick up too fast.

By sunset, the coffee's gone watery. He stares at the bottom of the cup, at the faint ring it leaves on the saucer.

Maybe she got busy.

Maybe she forgot.

Or maybe I was wrong about the way she looked at me...

---

Minji's POV

It had been raining again, light droplets tapping against the pavement like a ticking clock.

Minji slipped into the café just past noon just as usual in past couple weeks, a few strands of damp hair clinging to her cheeks. She looked around the room instinctively, eyes trailing over the tables, the window seat-

Empty.

Of course it was.

She let out a breath and sat in the same chair anyway. She didn't even need to order-the barista nodded gently and brought her the usual.

Hot. Bittersweet, americano

She stared at the cup for a moment before sipping it, the warmth doing little to dissolve the weight in her chest.

Three days. Three long, sleepless, breathless days.

Three days of cameras she didn't want to hold, project proposals that read like sand slipping through her fingers, and quiet apologies whispered into the dark with no one to hear.

She could have come sooner.

Should have.

She touched the camera strap around her neck and sighed.

"I told him I'd come back," she murmured softly, the words only for herself.

Outside, the world continued as usual-students rushing to class, an elderly couple walking arm-in-arm, a boy carrying a bunch of sunflowers.

But the chair across from her stayed empty. He wasn't just late, he was gone.

Minji didn't even realize how long she sat there, not until the coffee had cooled and her fingers had gone still around the ceramic. She reached for her bag, ready to stand, when a voice gently stopped her.

"Excuse me-miss Minji, right?"

She turned. It was the barista. Same one from last time. Kind eyes. Worn apron.

"There's something I probably shouldn't give you," she said carefully, "but..."

Minji blinked.

The barista glanced down, then held up a small folded piece of paper. Its edges were worn like it had been handled, hesitated over.

"He left a note for you," the woman explained, her voice low. "Actually, he told me not to give it to you unless you asked. Unless you said something about him. But... I think I must. Just in case you're wondering too."

Minji felt her breath catch in her throat.

She took the note slowly, fingers trembling just slightly. She could already recognize the handwriting on the front. It wasn't her name. It wasn't a title. Just:

If you come back.

She sat back down, the same seat, the same view. Her heart drummed too loud against her ribs as she unfolded the note.

If you come back: I've been here.

Not every hour, but enough to believe in it.

I didn't know if it was real-what we felt-but I know I wanted to know you more.

I wanted to stay.

But life...

Sometimes it pulls before we're ready.

If this note finds you, maybe it means something still lingers.

-J-

Minji stared at it.

Her vision blurred.

The sounds around her dulled, even the soft jazz humming from the speakers. She folded the note back carefully, holding it in both hands like something delicate. Like something rare.

She didn't cry. Not quite.

But she sat for a long time, not sipping her coffee, not watching the door-just listening to the echo of what could've been.

And the strange, aching hope that it wasn't quite over.

Not yet.

---

Years had passed by before I realized...

And I've always thought milestones would feel louder.

You know-more triumphant. Maybe music would play in my head, or the world would blur around the edges in cinematic timing. Something dramatic. Something... earned.

Seeing my name on the wall, printed in serif letters beneath spotlights and white space-Kim Minji, South Korea. I imagined something loud. Maybe a spark inside me. The kind of feeling that makes your chest warm and your hands shake.

But all I felt tonight was quiet.

Not the comforting kind. The kind that settles on your shoulders like fog. The kind that makes even applause sound far away.

This is my first abroad event I attended and I was part of twelve international participants invited to exhibit. A recognition I used to dream about during all-nighters in my cramped dorm room. And yet, standing here now, I felt almost... misplaced. Like I was looking at someone else's life from a distance.

I suppose that's the price of getting what you want after too long. You change too much along the way to recognize the version of yourself who asked for it in the first place.

I stood near the back of the gallery, arms folded loosely, watching strangers drift in and out. Some leaned in to read the artist bios. Some tilted their heads at photos like they were decoding a secret language. A few even stopped to look at mine, murmuring things like "elegant" or "subtle, nostalgic lighting." No one asked what the bench meant.

I didn't expect them to.

I tried to enjoy it, of course. I sipped the wine, nodded politely at the compliments, and I smiled at all the right moments-except one.

Except when someone pointed at the bench photo and said it reminded them of longing. Like they could almost feel the ghost of someone who had just left.

They didn't know how close they were.

They didn't know that I took that photo just a few days before he left me a note.

That damn note.

"If you ever come back, just know that I've been here..."

I still remember reading it in the quiet of that cafe. Same window seat. Same bitter coffee. Everything was unchanged-except he was gone. And I hadn't even told him my full name. He left not knowing if I'd ever think about him again.

But I did. Every time I picked up my camera. Every time I framed something fleeting. Every time it rained.

I don't know why I submitted that photo to this exhibition. It doesn't match the others. It doesn't showcase technical excellence or innovation. It's just a moment. Empty. Damp. Still.

But it's the only one that ever felt unfinished.

And now-tonight-I kept catching myself glancing toward the doors. As if he might walk in. As if the universe still owed us one more rerun.

It's foolish, I know. I don't even know where he is now-he could be anywhere on earth, far beyond my reach.

Also, years have passed. People should move on. I moved on... or at least, I pretended to.

Still, I kept looking.

By the time the final hour rolled around, the air had changed. Softer. Quieter. The wine ran out. The laughter faded into coats rustling against arms and doors swinging closed. One by one, they all left.

And when I finally turned away, surrendering to the thought that maybe he truly belonged to a different chapter of my life-

-there he was.

Leaning against a blank wall in the corner like he'd always been part of this place. Like he'd been waiting for the last guest to leave, the noise to die down, and my heart to soften just enough to hear his voice again.

It's really him...

He hadn't changed much. A little older, maybe. More tired around the eyes. But it was still him.

I didn't speak. I couldn't. My breath lodged somewhere in my chest, and my thoughts scattered like spilled photographs.

He took a few steps in, quiet, slow. Not intruding. Just... arriving.

"It took me a minute," he said, voice low, almost a whisper between us.

"I thought it was someone else. But your name was on the flyer." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded brochure. A crease ran across the middle, like it'd been carried around for days.

"I found it pinned on the wall at work. Right next to the printer, actually. Didn't even know I was looking for you until I saw your face. "He held the flyer up like proof. I didn't need it. He was here.

I laughed-shaky, sudden, soft. "You came all the way here because of a flyer?"

"No," he said. "I came because of a bench. Years ago. In the rain."

My heart clenched.

He stepped closer, gaze flicking toward the photo behind me. The one with the empty bench.

"You really kept it," he said. "I thought maybe it was just... a passing thing."

"I couldn't delete it," I said quietly. "Even when I tried."

Silence stretched between us.

I wanted to say more. I wanted to ask why he never wrote again, why he vanished from that café. But the answer was already there. We didn't exchange numbers. We never made promises. We only had a moment. One perfect, unfinished moment.

And maybe that was why it still hurt.

He finally exhaled. A breath he'd been holding for years.

"I missed you," he said, and it wasn't loud, or rehearsed. Just the kind of truth you only say when there's no one else around to hear it.

And I-

I just smile, hearing that word came out of his mouth.

I wanted to tell him everything.

But instead, I stepped back, toward the photo.

"You want to see it properly?"

He looked at me, then nodded.

We stood side by side, both of us staring at a framed memory. That photo meant everything and nothing. To others, it was an aesthetic shot. A quiet mood. To me, it was the last breath before everything changed.

And here we were again.

Breathing the same air....

.

.

.