The Polaroid shook a little in Seol-ah's hands. The rooftop in the photo was glowing under the sunlight, the sky stretching wide and blue above. She stared at her own face in the picture, hoping for a spark of recognition—some memory, anything—but nothing came.
"I don't remember this," she said quietly.
Eli crouched next to her, eyes on the photo. "That's because it's from two summers ago. We climbed up to your old roof. You wanted to catch the sunset."
Her throat tightened. "So it's real."
"Yeah," he said, steady but gentle. "Every photo he leaves is real."
She looked at him sharply. "Then who is he? Why does he have pieces of my life that I don't even remember?"
His gaze shifted, a shadow crossing his calm expression. "Someone who used to be too close to you. Closer than I'd like."
Her stomach knotted. "You mean—"
Then another thought cut in, sharper than the first. "How do I even know you're telling the truth? You always know what's coming. You always have an answer ready."
He didn't respond. The silence dragged on.
Her heart pounded, fear mixing with doubt. She shoved the Polaroid at him. "Just tell me the truth, Eli. Did we really—" Her voice wavered. "Did we really love each other?"
His eyes held hers, calm but unreadable. At last, he said, "Yes. But love isn't the whole story."
The overhead light hummed softly in the silence. Seol-ah gripped her camera strap, torn between wanting more answers and being terrified of what they might be.
She glanced back at the Polaroid, turning it under the lamp. Something new caught her eye—faint scratches along the border, as if someone had pressed too hard with a pen that wouldn't write.
She leaned closer. The grooves formed words.
The accident was staged.
Her stomach dropped.
Before she could speak, Eli's phone buzzed sharply. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his expression darkened.
"What is it?" she asked, voice tight.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and stood. "We're not safe here anymore."