The truth comes to Mira slowly, the way memories sometimes do—not as a revelation, but as a pressure.
She notices it in the quiet moments first. How Hiyoon mirrors her pauses. How he finishes thoughts she hasn't spoken aloud. How his silences feel practiced, familiar.
One evening, they sit on the steps beneath the bridge, the city unusually still.
"You're not just borrowing from me," Mira says finally. "You came from me."
Hiyoon closes his eyes.
"I was hoping you wouldn't say it like that."
"You're a memory," she continues, voice steady despite the weight in her chest. "Not invented. Not imagined. A version of someone I once loved—or almost loved. Someone I chose not to keep."
He opens his eyes. They shine, painful and clear.
"I was what you didn't let yourself finish," he says. "The question you never asked."
Mira remembers then.
A man years ago. A moment interrupted. A life she stepped away from because it would have demanded more than she could give.
Hiyoon is not him.
He is what remained.