The city never truly slept.
Even at dusk, Seoul buzzed with urgency—blinking signs, murmuring streets, and cherry blossoms falling like they were running late for spring. Yoon Hae-won stepped off the train with a canvas bag slung over her shoulder and a hoodie pulled low over her eyes. Her suitcase squeaked against the pavement.
She wasn't here for adventure.
She was here to forget.
At the university gate, Hana stood bouncing on her toes.
"Hae-won!" she squealed, waving a strawberry milk carton. "You're late. I almost drank this without you."
Hae-won offered a tiny smile. "Tragic."
They hugged like they hadn't spent every day texting. Hana smelled like peach body mist and chaos. Hae-won smelled like charcoal pencil dust and lemon soap.
The dorm room was small, bright, and already half-covered in K-pop posters.
"You still stan Jiwon?" Hae-won asked, nodding at the idol cutout.
"He's aging like fine wine," Hana said. "You still sketch sad things in silence?"
"Depends on how noisy your playlist is."
That night, after the noise had dimmed and traffic faded, Hae-won pulled out her sketchbook.
Not Hana.
Not the room.
Not Jiwon's ridiculous smirk.
She drew a stranger.
A boy with tired eyes sitting by a campus fountain. His posture told stories. Ones whispered from quiet pain.
"You're sketching already?" Hana mumbled. "Tall, mysterious, emotionally unavailable?"
"I don't know his name."
"I do," Hana said, showing her phone. "Ji Min-jae. Business major. Doesn't talk to anyone. People say he's fractured."
Hae-won didn't respond. Her pencil hovered above the page, uncertain whether to finish him.
The next morning, campus buzzed with flyers, chatter, and rushing footsteps. Hana dragged her toward the art building.
At the entrance of the music hall, Hae-won paused. Someone was playing the piano—hesitant, raw notes.
She stepped closer.
There he was. Ji Min-jae. Alone at the grand piano. Hair falling over his eyes. Fingers dancing across the keys like the music was fragile enough to break.
She didn't move. Just watched.
It wasn't love.
It wasn't even interest.
It was recognition.
Then he stopped. And turned. Their eyes met.
"Do you always stare at people through windows?" he said.
His voice was calm, quiet, almost bored.
Hae-won straightened. "Only when the music's good."
His brow twitched.
"You're not a music major," he said.
"I'm not a talker either," she replied, and walked away.
Her heart thudded as she rounded the corner. She had made the mistake of answering him.
And now he might answer back.
.