When someone ghosts you, you're supposed to write them off. Not dream about them. Not think about how their hair got better, their voice got deeper, or their face somehow forgot how to age.
Definitely not sit in your tiny apartment, wearing three face masks at once, eating cereal with a fork because all your spoons are in the sink, wondering why he of all people showed up in your story again.
But here I am. Three masks. Zero spoons.Full mental breakdown.
The worst part? I wasn't even mad.
I should've been.I should've stared at him and unleashed the full fury of my inner chaos goblin.Instead, I just said, "I didn't expect to see you anywhere." Which sounded casual, but in my head I was screaming:
OH MY GOD IT'S HIM IT'S REALLY HIM WHY IS HIS VOICE STILL PERFECT DID HE RECOGNIZE ME DID I HAVE FOOD ON MY FACE WHY DID I WEAR THESE SHOES MY SOCKS DON'T EVEN MATCH
It was not my proudest moment.
I spent the next two days acting like a normal person.Which means I cried once in the shower, stalked his LinkedIn, and then over-analyzed a single "Good luck today" like it was a hidden message in a Cold War spy letter.
Spoiler alert: it wasn't.He said "Good luck." That's it.
But it was the way he said it. Soft. Like it meant more. Like there was something unspoken in his voice. Something like, I'm sorry.
Was he?Was he sorry for disappearing?
For leaving me confused and small and seventeen, wondering what I did wrong?
Because back then, I was a mess. We were best friends. I thought maybe, maybe we were something more. I was too scared to say it, and then—poof. Gone. No call. No text. Not even a note.
Just silence.
Six years of it.
Now, apparently, I was shortlisted.Damshing wanted to see me again. For a creative round.
And if fate had a personality, I'm pretty sure it was cackling in a swivel chair right now with popcorn and a glass of wine, watching my life spiral into a plot twist.
Because now? I'd have to sit across from Chin Gi Hei again.In a room.With a PowerPoint.Wearing pants.
It was the most humiliating kind of closure: forced collaboration.
The morning of the second interview, I dressed like I was auditioning for the role of "Emotionally Stable Professional Woman" in a K-drama. Button-down shirt. Blazer. Lip tint. I even ironed my pants. IRONED. My. Pants.
I arrived twenty minutes early, clutching a hot coffee and a USB stick with my portfolio like it was a holy relic. I avoided the front desk mirror. I didn't need to know what my anxiety face looked like.
When the HR manager, a kind woman named Jiyeon, called me into the meeting room, I expected a panel.
Instead, there was one chair on the other side of the table.
One.
No. Please no. Please don't—
The door opened again.
He walked in.
Of course.
Of. Freaking. Course.
He looked... calm.Like he hadn't spent the last 48 hours spiraling into the abyss of emotional avoidance and internet stalking like I had.
"Hi," he said, setting down a notebook and pen.
Just "Hi."
I smiled. The fake kind. The kind you give when someone steps on your foot and says Oops. "Hi."
"Thanks for coming back," he said, folding his hands like some polite, well-mannered executive and not the boy who once ate six packs of banana milk during finals because he thought it made him smarter.
"I didn't expect you'd be leading this round," I said, trying not to sound bitter. I failed. A little.
He didn't flinch. Just nodded. "It was a last-minute change."
Of course it was.
The universe: twirls mustache
The actual interview started, and weirdly, I didn't bomb.
In fact... I kind of nailed it?
I explained my ideas. He listened. Asked smart questions. Gave thoughtful feedback. The kind that made me feel like I wasn't just rambling into the void.
We talked about brand voice, narrative tone, content hooks—and the whole time, I kept waiting for the awkward tension to swallow us both.
It didn't.
Instead, it hung in the air like background static. Not loud enough to distract me. Not quiet enough to forget.
He didn't mention the past. Not once.Neither did I.
We stayed perfectly professional.
Except my hands were shaking a little. And I swear his eyes lingered half a second longer than necessary when I smiled.
When it was over, he stood and offered his hand.I stared at it like it was a bomb.
Then I took it.
His grip was firm. Warm.
And just like that, the floodgates opened in my brain again:
This is the hand that used to write me notes in class.This is the hand that once fixed my busted umbrella during a thunderstorm.This is the hand that let go first.
I dropped it like it burned me.
He blinked. "You okay?"
"Yup," I lied. "Totally fine. Great. So fine I might start levitating."
His mouth twitched. A smile, almost.
I turned before I could see if it became real.
Outside the building, I sat on a bench and stared at the sky like it owed me answers.
He was the same.And completely different.
I didn't know what I wanted.An apology?An explanation?A reason to still feel the way I did whenever he looked at me like I was the center of his solar system?
All I knew was that something was starting again.And I wasn't sure if I wanted to run toward it—or away from it.
But fate, apparently, had other plans.
Because ten minutes later, I got a call.
"Congratulations, Ms. Seo Yeon. We'd like to offer you the position."