Dual POV
Seo-ah's POV
Three days had passed.
Three long, sleepless days since she'd written the ending — the real ending — to Paper Planes and Moonlight, only to hover her mouse over the "Publish" button and walk away.
She couldn't bring herself to release it into the world. Not yet.
It wasn't just an ending anymore — it was a confession. One that blurred the lines between fiction and reality until she could barely tell them apart. The final chapter wasn't about Seon-woo anymore. It wasn't even about Paper Planes. It was about him.
About Jae-hyun.
Her screen blinked softly, cursor dancing beside the dedication:
To the boy who never asked me to heal, but waited while I learned how.
She bit the inside of her cheek. Was it too much? Too obvious? Too honest?
She'd rewritten that dedication three times. The first one was cryptic. The second poem. But this one — this one felt true. And maybe truth was the only thing that mattered now.
Seo-ah's phone buzzed on the desk.
A message from Ji-won.
Ji-won: "You awake?"
She typed back:
Seo-ah: "I'm trying to be brave."
A moment passed before Ji-won replied.
Ji-won: "Then be brave. Just once. That's all it takes."
Seo-ah didn't respond.
Instead, she stared at the screen. The blinking cursor felt like a heartbeat, waiting for her pulse to catch up.
She exhaled — sharp, deep — and clicked "Publish."
There. It was done.
But the ache in her chest didn't go away.
Later that evening, she sat under the ginkgo tree — the one outside the literature building. Yellow leaves fluttered around her like tiny sunbursts falling to earth.
Notebook in hand. Hands trembling slightly.
She wasn't waiting for him.
At least, that's what she told herself.
But her heart... her heart waited. Quietly. Stubbornly. As if it still believed in stories with earned endings.
Jae-hyun's POV
When the notification lit up on his phone — "MoonWriter has published a new chapter" — his breath caught in his chest.
He was alone on the rooftop. The same one where he'd first listened to her voice note on repeat. The place that had slowly become the background of his heartbreak.
He didn't open the app right away. His thumb hovered. What if it wasn't about him? What if it was? What if it was goodbye?
But he couldn't read it.
So he did.
And halfway through the final chapter, his world narrowed.
"Maybe it's not about finding someone perfect. Maybe it's about meeting someone at the same page, even if neither of you are finished yet."
By the time he finished, he wasn't sitting anymore. He was running.
Down four flights of stairs. Past the literature hallway. Through the quad. Over the path by the library. Past the sculpture garden.
Until he saw her.
Beneath the ginkgo tree.
Still. Waiting.
Seo-ah's POV
She heard footsteps first — fast, urgent.
Her chest tightened. She didn't dare hope.
But then she saw him. Hoodie askew, breathless, hair windswept.
He stopped just a few steps from her.
Their eyes met. No words, just the weight of every page between them.
"You ran?" she said, a small breath of disbelief escaping her lips.
He gave a half-smile. "I didn't want the ending to wait."
The world seemed to pause. Even the leaves stopped falling.
"I read it," he said softly.
Her fingers clenched around the notebook in her lap.
She nodded. "I figured you would."
He took a small step forward. "It felt like you were speaking to me."
She exhaled shakily. "I was."
A pause. Just the sound of the breeze between them.
"I don't know how to be anything but honest with you now," she admitted.
"Then be that," he whispered. "Be terrified. Be messy. Be real. I don't want the fictional version of you. I want you."
Her lower lip trembled. "Even if I don't always write happy endings?"
He moved closer, kneeling in front of her. "Then we write our own."
She looked at him, eyes wide. "It might be clumsy."
"I like clumsiness."
"Unpolished?"
"My favorite."
She swallowed. "I'm scared."
He smiled — so gently it felt like light. "Then let me hold the pen sometimes."
Jae-hyun's POV
He had rehearsed a thousand things to say if this moment ever came. But now, standing in front of her, all he could do was feel.
He pulled something from his hoodie pocket — an old piece of paper. Faded, creased at the corners.
Her handwriting.
That first quote.
'Some hearts don't need rescuing. They just need to be held right.'
"I kept this," he murmured. "From the first time I read it. Long before I knew you."
She covered her mouth, a soft gasp escaping.
"I didn't fall for MoonWriter," he said. "I fell for the girl who wrote anyway — even when it hurt."
Her eyes filled with tears.
He stepped forward, gently taking her hand. "So... is this the part where we close the book?"
She shook her head. "No."
He raised an eyebrow. "No?"
She smiled, finally. "This is the part where we stop writing alone."
He grinned.
And then, without fanfare or metaphor, she pulled him into a hug.
No curtain call. No applause.
Just her heartbeat against his.
And for once, that was the only line they needed.