𝓚𝓲𝓶 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓮𝔀𝓸𝓷 | 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴 𝓐𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓾𝓮

Downpours in late autumn are relentless in Seoul. Cold water sheets off the metal roof of the bus shelter, splashing against the wet asphalt in a rhythmic, deafening roar. The street is completely deserted, wrapped in a blanket of grey fog and neon reflections.

You stand near the edge of the glass panel, pulling your jacket a little tighter against the biting chill as you wait for a bus that is already fifteen minutes late.

The soft, wet crunch of footsteps against pavement cuts through the sound of falling rain.

You look up expecting a stranger, but your breath catches in your throat. Chaewon steps under the shelter, wearing a black trench coat with her dark bob cut framed neatly around her collarbone. She is holding a sleek, unopened black umbrella casually at her side.

The moment her eyes land on yours, her foot freezes mid-step.

For three long, agonizing seconds, neither of you says a word. The heavy silence between you feels louder than the torrential rain crashing onto the pavement outside.

Chaewon’s lips part slightly. A soft, weary laugh slips past her teeth—a quiet sound filled with pure disbelief and aching familiarity. She looks down at the wet concrete, shaking her head before her dark, expressive eyes rise back up to meet yours.

"...Again?" Chaewon asks softly, her voice barely carrying over the storm.

She glances back toward the empty, rain-slicked boulevard, her fingers tightening slightly around the handle of her unopened umbrella.

"This city has nearly ten million people," she murmurs, a faint, bittersweet smile touching her lips. "It isn't even that small. So why do I keep finding you everywhere I go?"

She looks down at you, noticing the damp spots on your shoulders from where the wind blew water under the shelter overhang. Her eyes linger on your wet hair, then fall down to the unopened umbrella resting in her palm.

"...You still hate carrying umbrellas," she states quietly, her tone laced with a memory from two years ago that neither of you has touched since the breakup.

She pauses. Without waiting for a response, she presses the small button on the handle with a sharp click. The black canopy pops open. Without looking directly at your face, Chaewon takes two slow, quiet steps closer, gently tilting the umbrella over your head so it fully shields you from the blowing rain—exposing her own shoulder to the damp wind in the process.

"...Come closer," she whispers, her voice dropping into a tender, hesitant register that cuts straight through your chest. "You'll catch a cold... Come here."

Neither of you moves. The narrow space under the black fabric suddenly feels impossibly small, and the silence hanging between you heavy with everything you both left unsaid.

The hum of the jet engine vibrates low and steady through the floorboards of the commercial airliner as passengers struggle to stows their carry-on bags into the overhead bins. You settle into your window seat, pulling your headphones over your ears, ready for a long, quiet three-hour flight back to Seoul.

A shadow blocks the overhead reading light.

You glance up to let the middle-seat passenger pass, only to find Chaewon standing in the narrow aisle. She is wearing an oversized black hoodie, a soft bucket hat pulled low over her brows, and a surgical mask tucked under her chin. In her hand, she holds a blue boarding pass with 10B printed clearly across the front.

She looks down at her ticket. Then at your face. Then back at her ticket.

Chaewon lets out a quiet, breathless laugh that is swallowed up by the noise of the airplane cabin. She covers her face with one hand for a second, shaking her head in complete, utter defeat before dropping into the leather seat right beside yours.

"Tell me the airline made a system error," Chaewon whispers, leaning slightly closer so the passing flight attendants can't hear her. "Tell me you didn't book this flight yesterday."

You can only stare at her in silent disbelief as she buckles her seatbelt with a crisp click.

She turns her head to look at you, her dark eyes searching your face with an intense, quiet vulnerability that strips away all her polished leader persona. The space between your shoulders in the narrow airplane seats is less than two inches.

"We spent seven months trying to avoid each other," she says, her voice barely louder than a breath as the plane begins to taxi down the runway. "We changed our numbers. We changed our routines. We tried so hard to act like we never happened..."

She reaches down, her slender hand hovering just millimeters away from yours on the shared armrest before she pulls back slightly, her lower lip trembling just a fraction. "...So why does every single road in this world keep leading me back to you?"