The bridge arched quietly over the Han River, the water below reflecting streaks of fading gold as evening approached.
Seoul stretched endlessly in the distance — glass towers, slow traffic, the soft murmur of a city that never truly slept.
Ji-Woo stood near the railing, fingers curled lightly around the cool metal.
Her school uniform was still perfectly intact, as if the day had never touched her, but the wind refused to leave her alone.
It slipped through her hair again and again, lifting the strands and pressing them gently across her cheek.
She didn't move them away.
Her eyes stayed on the path behind her.
Waiting.
He was late.
Ji-Bok was rarely late.
A faint scraping sound broke through the hush — rough wheels dragging against pavement.
She turned immediately.
Ji-Bok approached slowly, skateboard trailing behind him instead of rolling beneath his feet.
That alone told her something was wrong.
He never walked his board.
Never.
When he reached her side, he didn't greet her.
Didn't even look up.
His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes, and his posture — usually relaxed, almost careless — seemed folded inward.
Smaller.
For a moment, she simply studied him.
"What happened?" she asked quietly.
No response.
Her brows pulled together.
"Why didn't you come to school?"
"Nothing," he said.
Too fast.
Too empty.
Ji-Woo lifted her hand and tapped the top of his head — not hard, but firm enough to make her point.
"Don't tell me 'nothing.'"
Ji-Bok let out a long breath, the kind that seemed pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.
"The camera," he said at last.
Her expression stilled.
He kept his eyes on the ground.
"My dad destroyed it."
The words were calm, but something beneath them trembled.
Ji-Woo blinked once, absorbing it.
That camera had never been just a camera.
She knew that much.
For a brief second, neither of them spoke. The wind rushed between them, loud in the silence.
Then she stepped a little closer.
"You shouldn't let this discourage you," she said gently. "There are still so many opportunities ahead of you. A camera is important… but it's not your talent. It's not your eyes."
He didn't move.
"You just have to follow your heart," she continued. "If you do that… things will find their way back to you."
Ji-Bok finally lifted his head.
There was tiredness in his gaze — but also something softer now.
He nodded once.
Then, because he was still himself even when hurting, the corner of his mouth tilted upward.
"You know," he said quietly, "I really don't know what I'd do without you."
Ji-Woo didn't interrupt.
"Since the first day we met… you've been the only person who actually understands me."
He let out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
"Sometimes I'm even annoyed at you for it."
Her lips curved.
"Annoyed?"
"You understand too much," he admitted.
For a moment, she said nothing. She just turned toward him fully.
And smiled.
Not a wide smile.
Not dramatic.
Just that quiet, steady one that reached her eyes — the one that always carried warmth without trying.
It hit him instantly.
His chest tightened.
Something skipped.
Ji-Bok looked away almost immediately, as if the feeling itself might expose him.
He had never dared to name it.
Never dared to look at it too closely.
So he did what he always did.
He hid it.
The wind surged again, louder this time, tugging at their clothes, tangling their hair together in brief, careless motions.
Cars whispered across the distant roadway.
The river moved steadily beneath them.
And yet — standing there beside her — the noise of the world seemed to dim.
Ji-Bok rested his arms against the railing.
For the first time that day, the weight on his shoulders eased.
Not gone.
But lighter.
Ji-Woo glanced at him, then out toward the horizon.
Neither of them spoke again.
They didn't need to.
Some silences were not empty.
Some were understood.
--
The set was chaotic, lights glaring, cables snaking across the floor. E
xtras whispered, moved props nervously, and camera operators exchanged uneasy glances.
"Eun-Woo!" the director barked, storming toward him, hands flailing. "Why are you moving like a snail today? Laziness isn't an option! You're holding everyone back!"
A few crew members froze mid-action, eyes darting between him and Eun-Woo.
Some whispered under their breaths; others shifted awkwardly, afraid to speak.
Eun-Woo's jaw tightened.
He held the clipboard a little too firmly, shoulders tense.
"Everything we filmed… never aired. All that effort was wasted," he said, voice calm but cold.
The director's face twisted red, veins standing out. "Wasted?! You think your excuses matter? Rubbish! Everything is rubbish if it doesn't meet my standards! You're wasting my time and everyone else's!"
Whispers grew louder among the crew.
Some exchanged knowing looks.
A grip tightened on a camera tripod.
"I'm going to speak with your manager about this," the director continued, pacing aggressively.
"If you make one more mistake, you're fired. Do you understand? FIRED!"
Eun-Woo's hands clenched into fists.
He could feel the heat rising in his chest. "Mistake? The work we put in, the shots we perfected… you never aired them! And now you call it mistakes?"
The director slammed his hand against the table, knocking papers onto the floor. "It's all rubbish! You're all rubbish if you can't get it right!"
A camera operator muttered under their breath, "Calm down…"
Eun-Woo's chest heaved. His teeth ground together.
"Rubbish?" he spat. "You insulted every single person on this set, every frame we created, and now you expect gratitude?"
The director took a step forward, voice venomous. "Try me again and you're done!"
Eun-Woo turned sharply on his heel, pushing past the set.
Whispers followed him as he stormed outside, the chatter of lights, cameras, and frustrated crew fading behind him.
He almost collided with someone.
Ji-Woo.
Cold drink in her hand, hair catching the late afternoon light, uniform still neat.
She raised an eyebrow, unflinching.
Eun-Woo froze, heart skipping.
She was… calm. Beautiful in the quiet chaos of the street.
She smirked, teasing. "Why is everyone around me sad or angry?"
He blinked, almost forgetting to breathe.
The tension of the set, the director, the anger — it all melted for a second.
"Why do you say that?" he asked, voice softer now.
She shrugged, sipping her drink. "Ji-Bok had a problem too. Just… something he's dealing with."
He paused.
Brow furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line.
Then a small, reluctant smile appeared.
She noticed, raising her own brow. "See? Everyone's complicated."
He shook his head slightly, voice low but steady. "We should go out sometime. Maybe… help you remember. Or at least… feel something."
She blinked, remembered, and nodded. "Okay."
He smiled, faint, almost shy. "Let me freshen up. I'll come pick you up later."
"Sure."
The wind tugged at her hair, the city humming softly.
Eun-Woo inhaled, letting the chaos of the set fade entirely, just for a moment, replaced by her presence.