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httpsserene · 4 months ago

Note

Hello hello! How are you?

I wanted to request a Yuki Tsunoda one-shot before you close your inbox.

I was thinking of a GN!Driver!Reader (if possible) and Yuki going out for a stroll after the Japanese GP in which the reader got P1. Yuki is showing them around, local places to dine and such... Seeing them be so interested in his ramblings he starts to realize some stuff and decides to act on it!

Please and thank you! Have a nice day! ☀️

𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐠𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 - 𝐲𝐭. 𝟐𝟐

summary: yuki's private tours include exclusive features, just for you. pairing: yuki tsunoda x gn!driver!reader (reader's race/ethnicity/appearance is not described but, they're bi-poc < 3)

2.7k words. oneshot & smau. yuki pov. fluff. feelings realization. pre-relationship. explicit language. alcohol consumption. flirtation. horny thoughts. author's never been to suzuka (or anywhere in japan) but did a little research for this. i apologize for anything that's incorrect or inaccurate :) requested by @anicega < 3

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. serene returns with a yuki fic/smau she was hoping to post in celebration of him being promoted to RB...have this as consolation instead. belated happy holidays and happy new year, 2025 will be all you wish it to be x

title inspo from one direction's why don't we go there (miss u liam🕊️) they were my #3 artist of 2024 and i'm not ashamed to admit that. when i read this request for the first time i instantly thought of this song and it just had the vibe of realizing you're crushing on somebody.

in other news, my 3k followers celly will serve as my v-day special this year and will last the entire month of february (this is how u properly celebrate black history month) !!! so, trying to finish writing the last of my requests so i can focus on doing the 3k celly requests :) more fics and info coming soon but in the meantime, enjoy reading xxx

⌕ join taglist | requests & feedback | table of contents ↻

twitter • april 7th, 2024

Yuki watches your expression bloom with awe as you take in the endless sprawl of Sakura trees within Suzuka Flower Garden. Your hand grasps his forearm gently, tugging happily and exclaiming in delight as pink and white petals float through the sky. The flowers (while not as novel to him as they are to you; he’s seen many Sakura seasons growing up in Japan) make him feel nostalgic, memories of his youth—before F1, before karting—tingling somewhere at the back of his head. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Your mouth remains open in amazement until you end up sputtering around a mouthful of blossoms, and Yuki laughs.

“Take a picture of me, please?” Yuki accepts your phone, not complaining as you make him take hundreds of photos before you find two or three that you deem acceptable.

Yuki remains silent during your stroll underneath the trees. He allows you space to inhale the vanilla-like scent, to marvel at the image of graceful, falling petals. Every so often, the comfortable silence is interrupted by a passing fan sharing congratulations. They smile kindly while praising your first-place finish, but grin wildly while cheering for Yuki’s first home-race point.

“She sounded happier about your point than she did about my win,” you remarked, not offended or annoyed, but charmed.

Yuki denied the idea, but his pink cheeks undermined his credibility. The earlier silence is absent, but not missed as Yuki begins to explain the significance and traditions of cherry blossom season in Japan.

“The sakura is our national flower. It symbolizes Spring—the time of renewal, life and death, beauty and violence, the fleeting nature of life. The blossoms only last for two weeks, which tells us to appreciate what we have,” Yuki relays, recalling what he was taught in elementary school verbatim.

“We have cherry blossom parties,” he grins at your envious gasp, “—called hanami. The translation is ‘watching blossoms.’ It can be just a walk like we’re doing now, but we also have picnics under the trees with family, friends, and even colleagues. There is also something called yozakura, which is doing the same thing but at night. My middle school held a hanami every year.”

You come to an abrupt start, turning to look at him with pleading eyes, “Let’s do a yozakura! Can’t we have dinner here? I want to see the trees at night—it must be beautiful! ”

Sympathetically, Yuki frowns, “We don’t have enough time to have dinner here if you still want to make it to the shrine before it closes.” His resolve weakens at the growing pouty downturn of your lips, “…I guess, we can have a snack here before leaving.”

He lets you drag him to the closest takoyaki cart, pleased to see the vendor’s patience as you order in choppy Japanese. While the food is being prepared, Yuki tasks you with finding the perfect tree to sit underneath while he stays near the cart.

“The two of you make a cute couple,” the vendor comments, smiling adoringly.

Yuki chokes on his exhale.

The two of you are far from resembling anything near a couple. Or, at least, Yuki thinks so. He thinks of you as a close friend but, do you see him as a friend? What if you view him as a colleague, or worse: just another annoying, backfield, competitor? Banishing his spiraling thoughts, Yuki considers there is no need to correct the kind lady. She doesn’t seem to recognize him. And, if she did follow Formula One, she would know you two aren’t a couple.

“Arigato gozaimasu,” he utters after a beat, reaching for his wallet as she begins plating the snacks.

She refuses to accept payment, ushering him to grab the small plates, “You’ve earned this meal; for your point and their race win—it is free.”

Yuki nearly exhausts himself expressing his gratitude to the vendor as he thanks her and deeply bows. When he finds you sitting underneath the chosen tree, he realizes he forgot to correct her assumption about his relationship status. Instantly, he forgets again, as you reach toward him to tuck a blossom behind his ear with a smile.

“Kawaii, Yuki-chan~,” you tease, grabbing your takoyaki dish off his stunned-still hands.

“Shut the fuck up,” he flusters eventually, cheeks burning at the sounds of the word cute and his name leaving your mouth in quick succession. Even if the grammar is incorrect and it’s nothing more than a joke.

Yuki practically swallows his snack in one bite. He didn’t know he was terribly longing for authentic street food until his first bite. Not wanting to rush you to finish, he busies himself by searching for the most unblemished flower he can find on the ground.

Yuki waits for the perfect moment when you're distracted by brushing away the petals clinging to your clothing and tucks the near-perfect blossom he picked behind your ear.

“Now we match; kawaii desu~,” he chirps, his grin deceptively innocent. “Close your mouth, it would be a shame if you swallowed more petals.”

Yuki snorts at your offended gasp and dodges the soft punch you throw out as you both dispose of your trash and head back to the car.

The drive to Tsubaki Grand Shrine is filled with anecdotes about his childhood mischief on these very streets you're passing by and questions about shrine etiquette. He didn’t realize you were so concerned about acting respectfully in the temple until you forced him to quiz you on appropriate manners and the important steps. Your dedication to having the perfect etiquette makes him think you’re one of the kindest people he’s ever known. It’s characteristic of you to be mindful of different cultures and kind overall; the fact that you willingly chose to celebrate a win by letting Yuki show you around Suzuka is telling.

Yuki parks smoothly, and soothes your worries calmly, “You have no reason to panic. It sounds like you have it memorized—and if you forget anything, that’s what I’m here for. I would be a terrible tour guide if I let you fuck around and get cursed.”

With a healthy amount of side-eye, you quip, “I will write an extremely negative review and give you one star on Yelp. If you decide to fuck around, be ready to find out! Is this your intricate plan to get me cursed with bad luck so I don’t win another race this year?”

With an appalled expression, he earnestly denies, “If I had to pick any driver to win besides myself, I would pick you,” Yuki sees your eyes soften sweetly and he swallows nervously, needing to deflect the attention, “And, maybe Pierre. Only because he would be mad if he found out I chose you over him.”

The soft tinge of your stare remains even as you roll your eyes at him and giggle, “Of course! I could never compare to your lil’ boyfriend Pierre.”

He shrugs, the two of you exiting the car and making your way to the entrance. Feeling devious, he speaks loftily, “Hey. we both know there’s nothing little about Pierre.”

Yuki can admit he deserved to be deafened by your shriek of disgust. His ears continue to ring as you adamantly state that you don’t need any image of the Frenchman in your brain besides the view of his car shrinking away in your mirrors.

The distraction was effective, your earlier panic about proper manners is nowhere to be found as you confidently navigate purifying yourself at the chozuya, only looking toward Yuki once for reassurance. While you’re busy being awestruck by the architecture and natural beauty, Yuki carefully makes sure you don’t stray into the middle of the pathway and finds himself taking candid photos of you. He knows you’ll be disappointed that you forgot to take any, but he doesn’t want to interrupt your reverence. Hopefully, his idea of what makes a beautiful picture satisfies you. He pauses at the thought, wondering if it’s odd that you’re in the forefront of all the images.

You’ve always been attractive—photogenic, to him.

The two of you reach the shrine and Yuki lets you pay your respects first. He offers you a handful of coins to choose from, reminding you that the amount doesn’t matter, any coin will do. You decided on a 5-yen coin; Yuki’s certain you’re unaware of the belief about that coin increasing your chances of finding a significant other. Although, he is aware that it’s an urban legend. It doesn’t stop his chest from tightening when he thinks about you in a relationship, with somebody who isn’t him. He tosses a 5-yen coin in the offering box to match.

He doesn’t believe in the myth, but if there’s any chance it helps him get together with you he’ll take it.

Burning incense at the temple comes without any more romantic realizations. Buying omamori, on the other hand, has Yuki thinking that what he feels for you is more than a simple crush. He forces himself to not stare at your selections and focuses on his purchases. An en-musubi (for finding love) for himself, and he’s chosen two for you: kotsu-anzen (for safe driving—he thinks it’s a little ironic) and katsumori (for success and victory—he knows you don’t need it).

On the way to dinner, Yuki notices your shuin and asks needlessly, “Is that to remind you of visiting?”

He can feel your gaze as he watches the road in front of him, hearing you ponder over your response, “Of visiting the shrine with you? Yes. Um, I don’t know if this is weird but, I bought you a couple of omamori, if that’s okay?”

Your tone is bashful and when he spares a glance, you avoid eye contact, fiddling with the shuin anxiously.

Yuki sighs giddily, relieved, “It’s not weird because I bought you a couple too. We can exchange at the restaurant?”

He sees the shock on your face from the corner of his eye, as if you weren’t expecting him to do the same. It angers him slightly, his previous obliviousness. If you didn’t ask him to show you around tonight, he never would have been aware of his budding feelings for you, nor the feelings he thinks you already reciprocate.

You’re overwhelmed with the number of choices at the hole-in-the-wall sushi establishment Yuki chose for the night, eventually slamming the menu shut and asking him to order for you. He sits up straighter at the responsibility, rattling off the plates he’d like to the server, mindful of any preferences and dietary restrictions you have.

A flight of sake samples is brought to your table, and Yuki finds it fitting that you enjoy the sweetest flavor because it compliments you. The alcohol loosens the tension gathered in him, helping him maintain a semblance of a regular conversation while he refrains from thinking about the shape of your lips, your attentive shining eyes, the length of your neck, your inquisitive questions as he recalls his childhood, the dip of your waist—Yuki doesn’t take another sip after he feels his eyes straying. He’s enamored with your undivided attention and it makes him feel hotter than he was in Qatar last year.

He asks to see the omamori you’re gifting him before you can comment on the flush spanning from his cheeks down to his collar. Receiving kotsu-anzen (for road safety) and katsumori (for success and victory) from you only serves to make him redder. He thinks about asking for your hand in marriage when he reveals he’s bought you the same and your flush blooms to match his.

With impeccable timing, the server begins to deliver the endless amount of plates Yuki ordered and the moment passes without being addressed. He almost whimpered aloud when your eyes fluttered shut at your first bite of food, moaning appreciatively at the taste.

Desperate to distract his hindbrain, he stutters, “W-What was I talking about before?”

Yuki feels like you know what he’s trying to hide, your eyes omniscient. He spots the corner of your lips tilting upward into a smirk, but it vanishes before he can be sure and you remind him, “You were talking about beating Natori in Motegi to win the F4 title in 2018.”

The rest of the meal remains lighthearted, intrigued chatter flowing around bites of food as you compare and contrast your junior careers and hometowns. It carries to the final stop Yuki brings you tonight, Isozu Beach. The vast, dark ocean is bathed in moonlight, the salty breeze cooling the air, and the coastline is lit up with buildings. The sound of waves crashing against the shore melts away as the heart-to-heart you’re sharing becomes his sole importance. He’s holding both pairs of your shoes in one hand, listening to your occasional giggles as the tide slips high enough to wet your feet and tickle your ankles. Your lilted and somewhat slurred speech tells Yuki you’re tipsy, but you’re insistent on simply linking your arm with his to prevent yourself from stumbling as you continue to walk the length of the shoreline. The stroll resumes and you slowly lean more of your weight into him; your head nestled on his arm, hand wrapped around his bicep, and Yuki feels you shiver at the next wind gust.

Like a gentleman, Yuki pulls off his sweater and helps you into it when your arms prove to be too clumsy to manage on their own without ending up stuck. Briefly, he squeezes his eyes shut to regain his composure after you bury your nose into the collar of his sweater with a pleased hum.

“Okay,” he says, sounding strangled, “Let’s get you back to the hotel—you’re more drunk than I thought.”

He suffers quietly during the short trip to the hotel you're staying in. The way you’re humming quietly as you play with the hem of his sweater has his grip tightening around the steering wheel, stopping him from reaching for the handbrake to halt the car and leaning over the console to kiss the tiny grin on your lips. Yuki escorts you to your room door, making sure you arrive safely.

He takes the keycard from you and unlocks the door after you fail at your first few attempts.

The door clicks open and Yuki speaks, “This was…nice. It’s the best celebration I have had in a while. We should do it again, sometime.”

You smile shyly, agreeing quietly, “I think so too. Thank you for showing me around.”

Nervously, Yuki’s voice wavers, “But, next time, I want it to be a date.”

“I think…I think I would like that,” your small smile grows into an unrestrained grin, pupils wide with infatuation.

He exhales roughly, the tight pressure in his chest lightening as it sounds like you like him, want him, too, “W-wait—really?”

Yuki looks on as you hold onto the door for stability as relieved-sounding laughter overwhelms you. Your amusement quiets when you straighten up to meet his eyes once more, probably seeing how he’s honestly shocked at your returned feelings.

“Yuki, babe—” Oh. He’s going to sing in the shower when he gets back to his hotel room. “—I tucked a cherry blossom behind your ear and called you kawaii. I know the 5-yen coin has that myth about relationships, and I bought an en-musubi omamori for myself because it’s for finding love. Obviously, Yuki—I would like to fall in love with you.”

Lost for words, and with his mouth gaping, stunned, he says, “...You do?”

You’re kind enough to spare him with a roll of your eyes, “I do.”

“I bought the en-musubi, too,” he reveals for no other reason than not knowing what to say.

“I know, babe,” Yuki’s heartbeat skips, “I saw it in the bag during the drive back here.”

“When is your flight scheduled?” He asks suddenly, a plan beginning to form in his mind.

“Tomorrow morning?” Your brows are furrowed in confusion at the change in topic, glancing down at your phone screen to confirm, “—Or this morning, I suppose, since it’s the next day already.”

He swallows, eager again all of a sudden, “Is it too soon if I ask you to cancel your flight and spend the rest of the week here with me?”

instagram • yourinstagram

liked by charles_leclerc, f1, selenagomez and 652,113 others

yourinstagram missed my flight because i got lost in suzuka. not because i got hammered 👍🏽

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user1 when i put "two f1 drivers start dating e/o" on my 2024 bingo card, i meant for it to be lestappen… happy for you though haha...

user2 WHERE HAVE YOU BEEEEN ???!!!

user3 BEDS EMPTY 😡 user4 NO NOTE 😵‍💫 user5 CAR GONE 😫 user2 i was going quoting rihanna but this works too LMAO

danielricciardo well well well

yourinstagram are YOU doing well 🤨 danielricciardo i’m not the one who told their team that they needed to reschedule their flight bc of food poisoning yukitsunoda0511 it’s me! i’m food poisoning 😁🙋🏻‍♂️ user6 YUKIII PLS 😭😭😭

user7 no shot u missed your flight when u told your team to be ready for it on the radio 🤡

yourinstagram do as i say, not as i do—is the phrase, i believe :) user7 okayyy mother gothel since u know what's best 😝

oscarpiastri hey you never gave yuki his sweater back, in case you forgot 😀

yourinstagram oscar please stfu i’m never telling u anything again landonorris hey don’t speak to osc like that…he’s just a boy :( yourinstagram lando u can stfu too? tf ??? these hands are rated e for everyone 🤺 user8 the threat of violence almost distracted me from the sweater exchange…keyword being almost

user9 no post about the race win and no tag for yuki on the last photo…

-yourinstagram hey i won the suzuka gp in case anybody forgot :p -yukitsunoda0511 hey i’m in the last photo in case anybody didn’t know :3

instagram • yukitsunoda0511

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yukitsunoda0511 i do private tours 🇯🇵🍣⛩️🌸🌊🌖😚🥇

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pierregasly no point in asking who took that last photo 😏

yukitsunoda0511 your mom did pierregasly yuki please yukitsunoda0511 is what your mom said last night user10 your honor, my client pleads: boy best friends

user11 that’s a lotttt of emojis yuki-san

user12 he graduated from the charles leclerc school of emoji usage with honors 🧑🏻‍🎓 charles_leclerc i am a very good teacher 😊 user12 chuck legleg responded i can die happily now

yourinstagram do you have any tours available in shanghai next week?

yukitsunoda0511 there’s a spot open at a discounted price! yourinstagram how much will it cost me 🥴🤧 yukitsunoda0511 five or six kisses should cover it :) yourinstagram payment is on its way rn 🏎️��💨💨 user13 this could have been a private whatsapp message… user14 going to say taylor swift sucks on twitter so death comes faster

visacashapprb when you tell your driver to have some decorum and he decorates his caption instead 🫠🫠🫠

user15 WAITTT WHY WAS THIS ACTUALLY A FUNNY JOKE💀💀😭 user16 when you tell your driver to score a point and he decides to score a date as well 🫠🫠🫠 pierregasly when you tell your driver to stop harassing pierre and he cyber bullies him instead 🫠🫠🫠

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cbeargyu · 1 month ago

Text

the mysterious boy I met yesterday.

summary: after mysteriously traveling to the past, y/n meets yeonjun—a boy she was never meant to love. bound by time and torn by fate, they fall for each other knowing their days are numbered.

pairing: choi yeonjun x fem!reader

tags: time travel, angst, slow burn, romance, emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet ending (turned sweet).

warnings: grief, trauma, memory loss, mentions of death, emotional distress, hospital scenes, crying, found family, soulmates au.

notes: i recently watched the girl who leapt through time and, as someone who’s always been obsessed with the idea of time travel, i couldn’t stop thinking about it. it left me with that nostalgic ache only stories like that give. so i decided to write my own version of a time-travel romance, loosely inspired by the movie’s premise. i’ve also always had a soft spot for stories set in the late 80s or 90s—there’s something so emotionally raw about that era, so this felt like the perfect blend of everything i love. this fic is very dear to me. i hope it makes your heart ache in the best way.

wc: 19,6k💀💀💀

seoul, 2017.

your last year of high school. new city. new house. same mother.

you spend the entire afternoon unpacking. the house smells like fresh paint and floor polish. the sound of cars and distant sirens floats through the open window as you fold clothes into drawers and pull books out of boxes with quiet precision. your mother’s already out—work, of course.

it’s always work.

you’re halfway through arranging your bookshelf when you notice the small box, shoved at the very back of your closet.

it’s dusty, floral, and closed with a delicate pink ribbon, now faded and fraying at the edges. you pause, frown. you don’t remember packing anything like this.

you hesitate.

but curiosity wins.

you open it slowly, careful not to rip the ribbon. Inside: old letters, photos, movie tickets, and folded stationery that still smells faintly of perfume. you realize this isn’t yours. these are your mother’s things.

you sit down on the floor, cross-legged, and let yourself explore.

among the old documents, tucked inside a faded envelope yellowed by time, you found something unexpected—a marriage certificate.

the paper was brittle, edges frayed and stained with age, but the writing was still legible in parts. your mother’s name was printed clearly: choi nari, written in graceful hangul beside the box labeled bride. but your eyes were drawn to the space marked groom. the name there had been violently scratched out, covered in thick black ink, as if someone had been desperate to erase it.

you remembered, vaguely, a moment from your childhood—your mother once muttering that your father had changed his name to sever ties with his family, something about an inheritance, disapproval, a scandal she never fully explained. the only clue left on the torn paper was a partial surname at the bottom—just enough to read: “...bin.” the rest was lost. after his death, your mother had legally reclaimed her maiden name, kim, burying his memory under years of silence. but now, holding this document in your hands, the pieces began to tremble in your chest—uncertain, unresolved.

the letters are written in your mother’s neat cursive, signed with hearts. there are photos, grainy and sun-kissed, showing young faces in school uniforms laughing in courtyards, holding umbrellas in the rain, posing with peace signs.

you start flipping them, one by one. no names. just dates on the back.

until you find the last one.

it’s your mom. her hair is longer, parted and soft around her face. she’s wearing a high school uniform, standing with a boy slightly taller than her. his hands are clasped behind his back. they aren’t touching—but the tension between them feels real. tender. almost sacred.

you turn the photo over.

March 15th, 1991 – my first love, Choi Soobin.

your breath catches.

you read the name again.

choi soobin?

you’ve never heard that name before. not once. and your mother doesn’t just forget names—she erases them. just like your father. just like everything else.

you slide the picture back into the box, hands slightly trembling, and stash the whole thing deep in the back of your closet. you don’t throw it away. no—you’re not ready for that.

you want to ask her.

but you’ll wait for the right time.

one week later...

that night, you come home late from another day of school. it wasn’t terrible, just... lonely. your new classmates were polite but distant. you introduced yourself with a fake smile, laughed at the right moments. you’re good at pretending.

the place is quiet. too quiet.

dinner is quiet.

you sit at the kitchen island in an oversized hoodie, legs tucked up on the stool, hair still damp from the shower. a reheated bowl of rice and kimchi stew steams in front of you, but you’re not really hungry. you scoop at it absentmindedly as the soft glow of the television flickers across the small living room.

the news is on.

the anchor’s voice is calm, too calm for the words she’s saying.

"today marks the 25th anniversary of one of the country’s most devastating railway accidents... the train, traveling from seoul to incheon, derailed shortly in the afternoon, resulting in the death of all passengers aboard. rescue efforts lasted several days. one individual was never found."

your chopsticks freeze mid-air.

the image that flashes on screen—a twisted rail line, charred metal, grieving families—makes your stomach twist. you swallow hard, suddenly nauseous.

"how awful…" you whisper to yourself.

etched in the corner of the grainy footage was the date of the tragedy: november 12th, 1992.

a strange, unexplainable ache blooms in your chest. It lingers for a second too long.

you grab the remote.

click.

click again.

cartoons fill the screen—bright, loud, ridiculous. a character falls face-first into a pie. you force a laugh and shove a spoonful of rice into your mouth, but the food tastes like paper.

you pretend it’s fine.

you pretend everything is fine.

the door clicks open.

you turn your head.

your mother walks in, heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor, blouse crisp, makeup untouched despite the hour. she always looks like she’s heading into court—even at 9 p.m.

she doesn’t say hello.

she walks straight to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and pulls out the container of stew. you watch her in silence as she spoons food into a bowl and places it in the microwave, her back turned to you.

when she finally faces you, she raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

"what’s with the face?" she asks, blunt as always.

you blink, then smile nervously.

"i found something today. while unpacking."

her hands stop. just for a second.

"it was this box. really cute. floral. tied with a ribbon. it was buried in my stuff, but it wasn’t mine. i think it was yours."

you pause.

"there were letters… photos. one of them caught my eye. you were in your school uniform, next to this guy. you looked… happy. it had a date on the back. march 15th, 1991."

you smile, hesitant.

"it said… ‘my first love.’”

your mother straightens up slowly, staring at you with an expression you can’t read.

"you went through my things?"

"it was in my things. i thought it was mine at first, i just—"

"you shouldn't go through what isn't yours."

her voice is ice.

"you had no right to open that."

"it was in my room!"

"it wasn’t yours!"

"how was i supposed to know that?! i thought maybe it was something you left for me—god knows you never leave anything else.”

her expression hardens.

"don’t turn this into something it’s not."

"something it’s not?!" your voice breaks, raw and high. "you never talk about anything. not about your life. not about him. not about dad!"

that name hits like a bullet.

she turns her back to you, but it’s too late.

"i don’t remember him," you say, quieter now, but trembling. "i don’t remember his voice, his hands, his laugh. i don’t even know what it felt like to be held by him."

she doesn’t turn. she doesn’t move.

"i had to memorize his face from one picture—one, mom—before you threw it out like garbage!"

her fists clench on the counter, knuckles white.

"i did what i had to do."

"no. you did what was easier for you. you pushed everything down and shut me out with it."

she spins to face you, eyes wild now, cracking.

"what do you want me to say?! that i was broken?! that every day i woke up alone, wondering how to feed you, how to work, how to breathe while everything i loved was gone?!"

you flinch.

but you don’t back down.

"i didn’t ask you to be perfect. i just wanted a mother. not a robot. not a cold wall. just someone who gave a damn."

her lip trembles. she hides it behind a scoff.

"you think i don’t care?"

"you don’t act like it!"

the words cut, sharp and true.

"i needed you, mom. all these years, i needed someone to tell me it was okay to miss him. to miss you."

her eyes shine with something unsaid. something heavy. but she swallows it back down.

she always does.

"you shouldn’t have opened that box."

her voice is flat again. walls up. steel drawn.

you laugh bitterly.

"right. god forbid i see even a glimpse of who you used to be before you turned to stone."

you push the stool back with a screech and storm off toward your room, throat burning, chest hollow.

behind you, your mother stands frozen in the kitchen, bowl untouched, stew long gone cold.

the door slams shut behind you, the sound dull but heavy, like a sentence being passed.

you stand still for a moment, your hands still trembling, your heart in shambles after the fight with your mother. the entire house feels like it’s holding its breath, as if it too sensed that something inside you just broke… again.

you walk slowly to your room, dragging your feet, your chest aching with a pain that’s too familiar. you collapse onto your bed, not even crying at first—just lying there, staring at the ceiling, as if the cracks in the paint might give you some kind of answer.

why can’t she just talk to me? why does it feel like she hates me?

the questions pile up, pressing down on your chest until that lump in your throat finally bursts. the first tears fall quietly, warm against your cheeks. then more come, and more, until you're curled in on yourself, sobbing with that kind of grief that comes from years of swallowing it down.

you hear your own voice echoing back at you:

"i had to memorize his face from one picture—one, mom—before you threw it out like garbage!"

it still hurts. and it’s true. your father died shortly after you were born. you don’t remember him—his voice, his scent, the way he held you. nothing. your mother never wanted to talk about him, as if erasing him would protect her from the pain.

but it left you with an emptiness.

you wipe your face with your sleeve, eyes puffy, nose red, and sit up slowly. still shaking, you walk to your closet.

it’s there.

the box.

that wooden box with the delicate, girlish design, half-hidden among your things, like it’s been waiting for this very moment.

you hold it in your hands. It’s heavier than it looks. the surface is slightly warm, as if someone had touched it recently—like it has a heartbeat.

you kneel in front of the open closet. your clothes sway lightly on their hangers, as if a breeze had passed through… but there are no windows open.

then you feel it.

the air shifts.

it starts as a soft vibration, barely there, like the whisper of a memory. then the scent hits you: something floral, old, like perfume soaked into love letters tucked away for decades. goosebumps rise instantly across your skin.

you squint into the closet, through the folds of hanging fabric, and you see it.

light.

a faint golden shimmer, pulsing gently, like someone lit a candle behind the wall.

you step forward, the box still in your hands. your fingers, trembling, press against the doorframe. just as you open your mouth to speak—maybe to ask what’s happening—

a single tear falls from your cheek and lands on the box.

there’s no explosion. no lightning.

just a heartbeat.

loud.

deep.

like the whole world exhaling through your chest.

the air grows heavy. your vision warps, the room tilting, folding in on itself. the walls ripple like water disturbed. you grab the edge of the closet for balance, but your knees buckle. everything spins. the sound of your breath is swallowed by something bigger.

and then—

darkness.

the spring air carried that distinct scent of dust, freshly sharpened pencils, and the faint trace of someone’s perfume lingering in the hallways. the school buzzed with life—lockers slamming shut, giggles echoing down the corridor, chalk scraping across boards in classrooms behind closed doors.

you walked slowly, your fingers tightening around the straps of your bag. your school uniform felt unfamiliar against the skin, the pleated skirt too stiff, the blouse too crisp. you kept your head low, eyes scanning faces that looked like they belonged in old photo albums. everything around your screamed nostalgia—except it wasn’t nostalgic to you.

because somehow...

you were actually here.

in 1991.

the bell rang, signaling the end of second period. students poured out into the hallway, some dragging their friends by the arm, others glued to books or snacks from their lockers. you leaned against a wall, trying to breathe, trying to blend in—trying not to freak out.

that’s when you saw him.

he moved through the crowd like he wasn’t part of it. calm. unbothered. a little detached. he wore the same school uniform, but his shirt was slightly untucked, and the headphones resting around his neck gave him this effortless, rebel-cool aura. a soft beat leaked from his walkman. his features were sharp, perfectly carved, lips full and eyes that looked like they knew things they weren’t supposed to.

he stopped in front of you, holding a thick envelope in one hand.

"y/n, right?" he asked, voice low and smooth.

you blinked, nodding slowly, your brain still trying to keep up.

"this came from the main office," he said, offering her the envelope. "you're transfer paperwork, apparently."

before you could even respond, you blurted out:

"wait—do you know someone named choi soobin?"

his eyes twitched. his expression shifted—barely—but it was there. a flicker of something.

then, with the most unimpressed smirk, he rolled his eyes.

"oh great," he muttered under his breath. "another one of my cousin's admirers. they just keep coming."

and just like that, he turned and walked away, sliding the headphones back over his ears, music rising in volume as he vanished into the tide of students.

you clutched the envelope to you chest, heart pounding. you looked around, dazed, but no one was paying you any mind.

once you found an empty bench behind the old gym building, you sat and opened the envelope with trembling fingers. inside was more than just a transfer form.

there was a letter.

it was handwritten. neatly. carefully. and it read:

"if you’re reading this, it means you made it. welcome to 1991. you’ll need to be careful from here on out. you cannot draw attention to yourself. do not talk about the future. do not ask too many questions. blend in. play your part. Go to the boarding house owned by mrs. son after school. she’s expecting a new girl. room 3 is yours." this is not random. you’re here for a reason. i will send more instructions soon. don’t trust just anyone. and above all… be ready to make difficult choices. some things in the past are meant to stay broken. others… need to be fixed. —a friend".

you stared at the letter, hands trembling.

what the hell was this?

why you?

what were you meant to fix?

you leaned back against the wall, looking up at the sky, your thoughts a chaotic mess.

your mind drifted to the photograph.

to her mother’s smile.

to the name: choi soobin.

and then… you eyes fell back on the letter.

was this real?

was this destiny?

your fingers brushed over the ink once more, and you whispered, almost to yourself:

"what am i supposed to change…?"

the final bell rings, and you stumble out of your last class like your brain’s just gone through a blender.

your head spins.

not just from the math formulas on the chalkboard or the endless chatter of your new classmates—but from the reality you still haven’t quite processed.

you’re in incheon. in 1991. in your mother’s freaking hometown.

the streets outside the school are buzzing with students. some run toward the corner shops for snacks, others grab their bikes, wave at friends, shout and laugh like nothing in the world has changed.

you, on the other hand, can barely keep your balance.

you blink slowly, your body moving on autopilot, trying to look casual, like you belong. but everything around you feels… off.

the way they talk.

the way they think.

the weird obsession with cassette tapes and soda in glass bottles.

even the smell in the air is different—less metal, more earth.

you’re overwhelmed. but you can’t fall apart yet.

you’ve got instructions. a destination.

you're still holding that damn envelope like it’s your last lifeline.

you turn a corner, heart pounding, and almost crash straight into someone.

“woah, again?”

it’s him.

the boy from earlier.

same walkman around his neck, same flawless face, same i-don’t-care energy wrapped in a school uniform that somehow fits him too well.

he eyes you with amused disbelief.

“are you seriously still carrying that?” he says, pointing to the envelope in your hands. “you’ve had that thing all day.”

you blink at him, still disoriented.

you have had it all day.

“i—i was going to read it again,” you mumble. “there’s an address. i’m supposed to go there but i don’t know how—”

“ugh,” he interrupts, sighing dramatically. “fine. lemme see it.”

you hand him the letter, fingers brushing his just for a second. his eyes skim the address, then glance back at you.

“i’ll take you. that place isn’t far.”

you exhale in relief, muttering a soft thank you.

you start walking together.

at first, it’s silent.

then the boy starts talking, throwing random comments into the air like confetti.

“you talk kinda weird, you know that?” you look at him. he’s not wrong.

you’ve spent all day trying not to sound futuristic. no slang. no weird expressions. no “lol”.

you force a smile.

“i’m not from here.”

“no kidding.”

“i mean—not from incheon.”

he raises a brow.

“then where?”

you scramble for a name and blurt out the most far-off place you can think of.

“ulleungdo.”

he stops walking and turns to look at you, blinking.

“ulleungdo? that island barely has electricity.”

you nod slowly, then force a cough like it explains everything.

“exactly. we’re... still catching up.”

he stares at you like you’re a walking mystery, then shakes his head and chuckles.

“makes sense. that explains why you look like you’ve never seen a vending machine before.”

you both keep walking.

for a second, the air is easier to breathe. almost normal.

but then, your mind slips—just for a second—and you ask:

“hey… who’s your cousin?”

he squints.

“what?”

“earlier. You said i was ‘another one in love with your cousin.’ who is he?”

he rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed.

“ugh. choi soobin. everyone’s obsessed with him. he’s perfect this, perfect that—blah blah blah.”

your heart stops.

soobin.

your mother’s first love.

you freeze mid-step. he walks two paces ahead before realizing you’re no longer beside him.

he turns around, eyes narrowing.

“why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

you force a shaky laugh.

“no reason. just… remembering something.”

he looks at you for a long moment, then shrugs.

“whatever. just don’t ask me where he is. i’m not your tour guide to the ‘soobin fanclub.’”

you say nothing.

the letter in your hand suddenly feels heavier. like it’s burning.

you wonder what’s waiting for you in that house.

you wonder who wrote the letter.

you wonder if fate is playing games with you—or if this has always been the plan.

you walk the rest of the way in silence, the streets of incheon glowing in the golden haze of dusk.

and somewhere, deep down, something tells you: this is only the beginning.

the street narrows as you follow him down an alley of uneven cobblestones, the golden dusk pouring through the lattice of tangled telephone wires above. the neighborhood is quiet—older, slower than the city blocks around your school. the homes here wear age like a badge, wooden gates slightly weathered, tiled roofs sagging slightly under the weight of time. you pause outside a low two-story house with faded red shutters and a blue mailbox shaped like a cat.

the boy nods toward it.

“this is the place.”

you look at it, blinking in disbelief.

it’s not just any house.

it feels like a storybook. like someone reached into your memories and tried to replicate what “home” should’ve looked like.

the wooden gate creaks when he pushes it open, and before either of you can step forward, the front door swings wide with surprising force.

an old woman, short and sturdy with perfectly permed gray curls and dressed in a floral hanbok apron, stands in the doorway.

her face lights up when she sees you.

“ah! you must be mr. hong’s niece, where are you from, little girl?”

you freeze. then bow quickly, hands by your sides, trying to remember every etiquette lesson your mom ever mentioned about greeting elders in korea.

“yes, ma’am. that’s me, i am from ulleungdo"

mrs. son eyes you up and down, then lets out a soft chuckle.

“you’re awfully pretty for a country girl. and different. too polished. hm.” her eyes narrow. “still, you look good. very lovely, actually.”

you’re not sure whether to smile or feel insulted. was that a compliment? or just passive-aggressive commentary wrapped in lace?

you smile awkwardly and bow again.

“thank you…”

“anyway,” she continues, waving her hand, “someone dropped off your belongings this morning. they’re in your room already.”

your heart skips.

“my belongings?”

you glance at the boy, confused. he just shrugs, completely uninterested in the mystery.

but your mind races.

what belongings?

when you arrived here—wherever here even is—you had nothing. not even the clothes on your back, which had changed without you realizing.

before you can ask more, yeonjun steps back, hands shoved in his blazer pockets.

“well, i got you here. i’m out.”

“wait—!” you call out, stepping toward him.

he’s already at the gate, lifting it slightly so it doesn’t scrape. you rush after him, your shoes crunching on the gravel path.

“you never told me your name.”

he stops mid-step and turns, looking slightly amused.

“I didn’t?”

“no.” you reach for his arm gently, fingers brushing against his wrist. his skin is warm, his pulse quick beneath your fingertips.

yeonjun looks down at where you’re touching him. his eyebrows lift. a tiny smirk threatens the corner of his mouth, like he’s not used to girls being this forward—and definitely not ones who stare at him like you do.

“yeonjun” he said. “choi yeonjun"

you meet his eyes.

“thank you, yeonjun.”

it’s the way you say it. soft. sincere. like it matters.

he’s caught off guard, the confident, untouchable energy around him faltering for just a second. his mouth opens slightly, like he wants to say something, but then he shuts it again and just gives you a small nod.

“don’t get lost.”

and with that, he slips out the gate, turning the corner and disappearing into the fading light.

you’re left standing in the path, the sky streaked with orange and plum above you, a dusty breeze rustling the loose ends of your borrowed school uniform.

behind you, the house waits.

inside it, a room with your things. dropped off by someone who knows exactly where—and when—you are.

and somewhere, tucked inside your thoughts like a whisper you haven’t heard yet, a name echoes.

soobin.

the boy your mother once loved.

you exhale slowly and turn back toward the house.

the room is small but cozy, with warm wooden walls and a low ceiling that creaks softly under your footsteps. you close the door behind you, leaning against it for a second, your heart pounding—still not from the walk, but from everything. the entire day. the time jump. the unfamiliar warmth in yeonjun’s voice when he said your name. the letter burning a silent promise in your hands.

you glance at the small suitcase perched neatly at the foot of the futon bed. It looks old-fashioned—stitched leather with tarnished brass buckles and a handle that has seen better days. kneeling before it, you slowly open the latches, the sound loud in the quiet of the room.

inside, folded with surgical precision, are several sets of clothes.

your fingertips run across the fabrics: simple blouses, high-waisted pleated skirts, a pastel pink cardigan, a cream-colored sailor-style school uniform that looks almost identical to the ones you saw the other girls wearing today. everything smells faintly of lavender and time.

at the very bottom, nestled between a pair of plain flats and a pair of canvas shoes, you find a small envelope with your name written in neat, slanted hangul. you lift it gently, your breath hitching.

you sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress dip beneath your weight, and unfold the letter.

the handwriting is delicate, old-fashioned. like someone took the time to write it with an ink pen, letting every word sink into the fibers of the paper.

"y/n, you must be confused. stay calm. there is a reason you are here. follow the instructions i send you. you are in the year 1991, in incheon—the city where your mother grew up. things are not as simple as they seem, but you mustn’t let anyone know the truth. you will blend in. your belongings have been provided. more will come. every step you take will be guided. do not ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to. there are things in the past that need your presence. be patient. be brave. soon, i will ask you to change something. until then… wait." -H.

your hands tremble slightly as you finish reading.

a chill runs down your spine.

who wrote this? how did they know where you’d arrive? why do they speak like they’ve done this before?

you fold the letter slowly, slipping it back into the envelope. your mind reels, swimming with questions that claw at you from every direction. there’s no logic, no explanation. one moment you were crying in your closet, and the next… here. in a world you’ve only heard about from your mother’s fading stories, wrapped in decades-old nostalgia and distant memories.

you don’t realize how long you’ve sat there, dazed, until a voice calls out from downstairs.

“dinner time, girl! come eat before it gets cold!”

mrs. son’s voice, clear and commanding, startles you into motion. you rise, smoothing your borrowed skirt, tucking the letter under your pillow like a secret you’re not ready to share with even the walls.

When you step into the kitchen, you’re met with the scent of something savory, thick and warm and unfamiliar. the room is bathed in soft golden light from a low-hanging bulb, casting everything in a nostalgic glow. mrs. son stands behind a small wooden table, setting down bowls and plates with practiced ease.

you stare at the food, recognizing almost nothing but finding it all intoxicatingly fragrant. there’s bubbling jjigae, a perfectly round plate of jeon with scallions poking through the golden batter, neatly arranged namul side dishes, and a mound of rice that glistens as if each grain were kissed by steam.

“don’t just stand there like a scarecrow,” she chuckles, motioning for you to sit. “eat, girl. you need energy. you’re too pale.”

you sit slowly, murmuring a thank you, and begin to eat. the first spoonful of stew burns your tongue but floods your chest with warmth. each bite is an exploration, a memory you never lived tasting its way into your bloodstream.

between spoonfuls, mrs. son starts talking—not directly to you, but more like letting the stories she’s carried her whole life spill into the air.

“you remind me of someone, you know. a woman who stayed in this house years ago. pretty thing. big eyes like yours. she was in love.”

you look up, surprised.

“she fell for a sailor,” she continues, “a local boy with a wild laugh and a heart full of the sea. he promised her the world. even got her a ring. but…”

she pauses to sip her barley tea.

“…before they could marry, his boat went down. storm off the coast. they say he drowned. some say he never wanted to return and used the sea as an excuse.”

she smiles sadly.

“but i saw her every night on that porch, waiting. right up until winter took her away too.”

you set down your chopsticks, the story making your chest feel tight.

a part of you aches for this woman you’ve never met.

a part of you wonders if the sea has a habit of stealing men who promise forever.

you stare down at your bowl, your appetite gone.

nothing makes sense.

not the past.

not the stories.

not your own existence in this strange, beautiful fragment of time.

the only thing you know for sure is this:

you’re not here by accident.

and someone, somewhere, is watching.

the day was already strange enough.

the 90s school uniform felt tight in places it shouldn’t, your socks kept sliding down no matter how many times you pulled them up, and your ponytail was starting to come loose from all the running around trying to figure out where your classroom was. you were still trying to adjust to the rhythm of this strange new world — a world that smelled like chalk dust, cassette tapes, and kimchi stew floating through the hallways.

you were walking through the back courtyard of the school, holding a borrowed notebook to your chest, when you missed the curb.

you fell.

it wasn’t elegant.

you hit the concrete hard, knees and elbows scraping against the rough ground. your notebook flew a meter ahead, your bag tipped over, and just as you tried to push yourself up, a sudden gust of wind blew from behind. and just your luck — you were wearing the uniform skirt that flared out slightly when you walked.

now, it flared up.

wide. high. completely.

right in front of a boy.

not just any boy.

his eyes widened comically as he froze mid-step, staring for a split second — a dangerous, deadly split second — before whipping his head to the side, red creeping across his neck all the way to his ears. He stumbled back with his arms up as if you were pointing a gun at him.

you screamed.

“YAH! don’t just stand there like a pervert — HELP ME!”

your voice cracked from the sudden mix of pain, panic, and fury. the boy flinched as if slapped, then scrambled forward, offering a trembling hand.

“i–i wasn’t trying to see anything!” he stammered, clearly about to pass out from sheer embarrassment. “the wind—! it just—! i didn’t—!”

you ignored his babbling, more concerned with your burning face and aching knees. but as he helped you stand, you got a good look at his face. that face.

the perfectly shaped lips, the soft, clean skin, the dark brows, the long lashes casting shadows across his cheeks... and those eyes.

those exact eyes from the photo.

your mother’s photo.

it was him. choi soobin.

in the flesh. younger, alive, real.

you gasped.

he tilted his head. “are you okay? you look pale—”

before you could respond, a loud thud interrupted the moment.

a soccer ball came flying out of nowhere and hit soobin square in the face.

he made a startled sound before falling flat on his back.

you stared at his sprawled form on the ground. “what the hell—?!”

moments later, both of you sat side by side in the school infirmary. the scent of alcohol pads and ointment filled the air. you were perched on the edge of a stiff bed, rubbing antiseptic into your scraped knees, wincing each time it stung. beside you, soobin sat with tissues crammed up his nostrils, his head tilted back and a faint blush still clinging to his cheeks.

the nurse — a woman with overly plucked, razor-thin brows, blunt bangs curled under with all the strength of a hot iron, and lips lined in dark brown pencil — shook her head.

“thank goodness it’s not broken,” she sighed, inspecting soobin’s nose. “you boys with your sports… always causing accidents. and you”—she turned to you—“keep your skirt down next time, young lady. what do you think this is, a fashion show?”

you blinked, mouth falling open in disbelief.

this place… this time… these people.

it was like you had fallen into a very vivid, sometimes painful, sometimes embarrassing dream. and now, the boy from your mother’s past was sitting beside you, sniffling through a nosebleed.

and you still had no idea what you were doing here.

soobin blinked at you, still slightly dazed from the hit. his nose was no longer bleeding, but the tissue stuffed under his nostrils made him look even more like the schoolboy he was. you were about to say something—maybe thank him, maybe apologize, maybe ask if he was okay—when the infirmary door creaked open.

“bin!” came a familiar voice, far too loud for the sterile silence of the room.

yeonjun.

he stepped in with an armful of paper bags and small boxes—colorful wrappings, handwritten notes, tiny trinkets peeking through. gifts. you watched as he strutted over to soobin’s bed with an exasperated groan.

"seriously? you just got here and you’re already collecting fans again?” he teased, tossing one of the bags onto soobin’s lap. “what is it this time—handmade chocolates or love letters?”

soobin groaned and rolled his eyes, muttering something about it being a misunderstanding, but you weren’t listening anymore.

yeonjun had looked up. His eyes landed on yours. recognition flashed across his face like lightning.

“you—”

he didn’t finish. he just stood there, blinking, mouth slightly parted like the pieces of his memory were trying to click together.

you didn’t think. you just acted.

ignoring the sting of your scraped knees, you jumped off the bed. the linoleum was cold beneath your socks, but your voice came out warm, too bright, too casual.

"hey, um… yeonjun, right?” you said quickly, your cheeks heating under his stare. “do you want to grab something to eat or… i mean, you helped me earlier and i—well, i don’t know anyone else here.”

he looked confused at first, almost suspicious. then a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “you sure? you're not gonna faint on me or something?”

you laughed, awkward and real. “i’ll try not to.”

he shrugged. “fine. you’re lucky i’m hungry too.”

so the two of you walked out of the infirmary side by side. the late afternoon light spilled down the corridor in golden streaks, warming the tile beneath your feet. the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and school uniforms.

you were just about to ask him where he thought you could find something sweet from a local bakery when—

click. click. click.

footsteps. fast. familiar.

you turned at the sound, heart stuttering. your eyes caught a silhouette at the end of the hallway, the light from the windows casting her in soft profile.

it was her.

your mother.

but not as you knew her.

she was younger. smaller. her hair was long and tied half-up with a little bow. she wore the school uniform, the same one you had seen in the photograph. she didn’t look like a stern, cold lawyer. she looked like a girl.

she giggled. and then you heard his laugh.

soobin’s.

they stepped into the infirmary together, talking—laughing. you couldn’t hear the words, just the sounds, but it was enough to send a strange ache through your chest.

you had never heard her laugh like that before.

not in your life.

not once.

and in that moment, as yeonjun rambled beside you about the best tteokbokki stand near the school gates, you couldn't even process a word.

your stomach twisted.

your mother. soobin. that laugh. that moment.

and you—

you were caught between two worlds.

the red broth bubbled quietly in the small metal pot between you. the scent of chili, garlic, and sweetness filled the air as you leaned over the table, watching the glistening rice cakes dance in the simmering sauce. yeonjun, sitting across from you in his white school shirt with the sleeves rolled up, poked at one of them with a wooden skewer and raised his brow at you.

“you ever tried tteokbokki before?” he asked, eyes flickering with curiosity as he blew softly on the piece.

you shook your head, almost too eagerly. “not like this,” you murmured after the first bite, eyes widening. the heat was perfect, the chewiness addictive, and the flavor—intense but somehow comforting. “god… it's actually good. like really good. everything back in my—” you caught yourself, heartbeat spiking, “—my time is just so artificial and bland. like, processed. rancid, almost.”

yeonjun tilted his head, mouth halfway open with the next bite. “your time?” he echoed, blinking slowly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

your breath caught in your throat. shit.

“i mean—my town! my town,” you laughed, too quickly, waving your hands. “back in my town. it's really rural and… old-fashioned, i guess? i’ve been studying a lot of history too for exams. i read so much about the different historical eras, i think the word ‘time’ just slipped in.” you forced another laugh and stuffed your mouth with a rice cake, cheeks burning.

yeonjun stared for a second longer than was comfortable, and then snorted. “you’re weird,” he muttered around his own bite, though his lips curled into a faint smile. “but you’ve got a point. food tastes better before the big corporations mess it up.”

you nodded quickly, relieved at the shift. the tension melted a bit between the spice and the conversation, the kind that warms not just your stomach but something deeper—something that makes the loneliness of waking up in the wrong decade feel just a little less heavy.

as you sat across from yeonjun, the last few pieces of tteokbokki slowly disappeared from the pot. the spicy warmth lingered on your lips, but your mind was far from the food. you couldn’t stop replaying that scene in your head—your mother’s laughter, sweet and girlish, echoing behind the infirmary doors. and beside her, soobin, smiling back like they were already familiar with each other.

you chewed slowly, lost in thought, until the question slipped out before you could stop it.

“what’s soobin like?”

yeonjun looked up sharply, brow raised, a teasing smirk forming on his lips. “oh? so now we’re talking about him?”

you blinked. “no, no—it’s not like that.”

“right,” he said, drawing the word out, clearly not believing you. “let me guess—you’re using me to get close to him?”

your jaw dropped. “what? no! It’s not even for me.” you scrambled for an excuse, mind racing. “it’s for… my friend. she’s interested in him. but she doesn’t really know how to approach him. so i was just curious. you know… to help her.”

yeonjun leaned back, arms crossed, clearly amused. “a friend, huh?”

you nodded quickly, trying to keep your face neutral. “yeah. she’s… shy.”

he squinted, eyes narrowing like he was trying to read through your soul. “well, if you want the truth… he’s a total playboy,” he said with a completely serious expression.

your heart dropped. “really?”

yeonjun burst out laughing, almost choking on his soda. “god, you’re so gullible.”

you glared at him, cheeks heating up. “you’re such a jerk.”

he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still grinning. “no, seriously. he’s just a normal guy. chill, kind of awkward sometimes, but popular. everyone likes him. probably because of his face,” he added with a playful grimace. “also… his parents are loaded. like, seriously old money. but he doesn’t act stuck up about it or anything.”

you nodded slowly, absorbing every word. soobin… a boy born in privilege, admired by many, and yet—somehow—your mother had laughed beside him like they shared something deeper. you stared down at your drink, the fizz catching the light.

if soobin was already so adored… did that mean your mother had been one of his admirers too?

a strange ache bloomed in your chest, something between curiosity and dread.

you twirled a piece of tteokbokki with your chopsticks, still digesting everything yeonjun had said about soobin. the conversation had taken a strange turn, light and teasing at first—but your mind couldn’t let go of something he’d just casually mentioned.

“if soobin’s parents are rich,” you started, voice careful, “and they’re your uncles… then your parents must be rich too, right?”

the moment the question left your mouth, you felt the air shift. yeonjun's expression changed—subtle, but impossible to miss. his gaze dropped to the table, and he took a deep breath, the usual spark in his eyes dimming.

you opened your mouth, instantly regretting it, but he spoke first. “i live with my grandmother.”

that wasn’t what you expected.

you blinked. “with your parents too?”

he shook his head slowly. “no. just her.”

you rushed to fix your words, hands slightly raised. “i mean, that’s not weird or anything. a lot of families live with their grandparents. it just makes the family bigger, right? i only live with my mom and—”

he interrupted, voice calm, but distant. “my parents died.”

the words hit like a brick wall. your breath caught in your throat.

“it was a plane crash. when i was ten. they were coming back from the u.s.,” he continued, his voice softer now. “they’d been checking out places to live because we were supposed to move there together. but the plane… didn’t make it.”

silence blanketed the table like a thick fog. even the sounds of the street outside—distant laughter, scooters, the clink of bowls—felt suddenly muted.

you looked down at your lap, unsure what to say, but before you could even mutter an apology, yeonjun smiled. not forced, not bitter—just… gentle.

“it’s okay,” he said, looking up again. “i’m happy. my grandma takes good care of me. she runs a barbecue restaurant nearby. you should come by sometime. i’ll sneak you extra meat.”

your heart ached a little at his warmth. he was so open, so strong, despite everything.

you forced a small smile, eyes searching his face. “how old are you?”

“i’ll be eighteen soon,” he said, straightening a little with pride. “last year of high school. next year, i’m taking the csat. gonna try for a university in seoul.”

“that’s impressive,” you said genuinely.

“yeah, well… someone’s gotta get out of incheon,” he grinned, and the mood lightened just a bit again.

you didn’t know what to say after that, so you just kept eating, the tteokbokki no longer hot but still comforting. and all the while, your thoughts wandered—about soobin, about your mother, about how the hell you'd ended up here. but more than anything… you found yourself wondering just who choi yeonjun really was underneath all those layers.

that night, the air in incheon was unusually still.

you walked slowly down the quiet streets, your belly full of spicy tteokbokki and your mind spinning from yeonjun’s unexpected vulnerability. it had left a mark on you—how easily he smiled through pain. and the way he talked about soobin, half mocking, half affectionate… it made your chest tighten again. your mother’s laughter echoed in your ears, youthful and bright like wind chimes, paired with soobin’s soft chuckle. a sound you never imagined you’d hear.

you paused just outside the small gate of the son house, your temporary home in the past. the night air carried scents of distant grilling meat and flowers you couldn’t name. everything felt unfamiliar and familiar all at once. stepping inside, you slid the door shut gently behind you and walked up to your room.

but the moment you pushed open the door, your breath hitched.

there, neatly placed on your pillow, was another envelope. cream-colored, slightly yellowed like old parchment. your fingers trembled a little as you picked it up, the weight of the paper oddly heavy in your hands.

you sat on the floor, your back to the wall, and opened it slowly.

inside was a single folded sheet. elegant, slanted handwriting greeted you.

"there are things that must happen in their rightful time, and you are here to ensure they do. do not underestimate the importance of choi soobin. the first love always leaves the deepest mark." — H.

you stared at the letter for a long time.

your heart thudded violently in your chest.

choi soobin. the name might as well have been carved into your skin at this point.

was this… was he the reason you were sent here?

the connection to your mother felt too strong to ignore. her maiden name. that tragic love story mrs. son had told you earlier—the one about the sailor and the girl he never got to marry. was that somehow related?

was soobin him?

you reached for the tattered marriage certificate you'd found hidden in your mother’s things earlier. the ink-smudged name of the groom was still unreadable. all you had was a surname—choi. and now, soobin. was it all falling into place? or was your mind inventing connections where none existed?

you pressed your head back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed. “this can’t be real…” you whispered.

you hadn’t even had time to question how you ended up here. one moment you were in your mother’s room, digging through old boxes of memories, and the next… thrown into a version of korea you’d only read about in textbooks. no explanation. no instructions. Just instincts and heartbeats.

and now letters?

your thoughts swirled in chaos, and for the first time since arriving, your resolve faltered.

what if messing with the past had consequences?

what if you were the reason your mother’s love story ended in heartbreak?

what if you were supposed to stop something… or start it?

you pulled your knees to your chest, pressing the letter against your mouth to stifle the rising panic. the room was dark, quiet, humming with a kind of stillness that only came before storms.

and somewhere deep down, you knew:

whatever mission brought you here... it was only beginning.

time moved differently here.

days passed like water slipping through your fingers—slow and heavy, yet gone before you could truly grasp them. you’d started to adapt. your accent had softened, your posture adjusted. you walked with your hands folded in front of you like the other girls. you learned to bow at the right angle, to accept the stares without flinching, and to hide the flicker of your modern instincts when someone used a phrase you’d only seen in dusty textbooks.

in a way, you became someone new. but you never stopped looking over your shoulder, never stopped clutching the growing stack of letters from mr. hong like lifelines.

the latest one arrived tucked between the pages of a history book in the school library, hidden where only you would look. the handwriting, as always, was precise and calm—like a teacher’s, or perhaps a soldier’s.

“it is time to begin. you must guide your mother. help her open her heart to choi soobin. but beware—any alteration of their bond may cause irreversible changes to the future." H.

you read the letter three times, the words branded into your thoughts.

it made your heart ache with confusion.

soobin. always soobin.

you hadn’t seen much of him. he was in a different class, and so was your mother. both of them seemed to float in and out of your orbit like stars you couldn’t quite reach. you’d catch glimpses in the hallway—soobin, surrounded by classmates, a quiet but steady force of gravity. your mother, younger and nothing like the sharp, tired woman you grew up with. she was shy, always fidgeting with her sleeves, eyes lowered, cheeks turning pink when someone said her name.

and yeonjun… yeonjun had become your anchor.

you still didn’t know how it had happened, but one day, you were laughing at his terrible drawing of a teacher during lunch break, and the next, you couldn’t imagine surviving this world without him. he was the only one who could pull you back from the anxiety of feeling like you didn’t belong. the only one who let you be your strange, out-of-place self and still grinned like he was lucky to know you.

but that letter.

that letter twisted your insides.

because if you helped your mother fall in love with soobin… what would that mean for you?

would you vanish?

would your entire existence be erased?

you didn’t want to think about it. not now. not when your life here had finally started to feel like something real.

still, the next day, you found her.

she was standing behind the old school building, near the edge of the soccer field, half-hidden behind a low tree. the spring breeze tugged at her cardigan and sent petals fluttering to the ground. you followed her gaze and, unsurprisingly, found soobin on the field, laughing with a group of boys, his shirt a little untucked, his smile careless and devastating.

you stepped beside her slowly. she flinched when she noticed you.

“oh! you scared me,” she said softly, her voice barely audible.

You smiled. “sorry. i didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

she looked down, embarrassed, brushing hair behind her ear. “i was just… watching.”

you waited a moment, then leaned in closer. “do you like him?”

she went still. Her face turned crimson. “n-no! i mean… maybe. he’s… kind.”

you tilted your head. “do you want help?”

her eyes met yours—young, hopeful, unsure. “with what?”

“to… get closer to him,” you said, forcing a calm tone even as your stomach coiled with doubt. “maybe i can help.”

you didn’t know why you offered. maybe because the letter told you to. maybe because there was something sweet about her innocence, about the way she twisted her fingers together like love was something too big for her to hold.

or maybe you just wanted to understand.

to see what could have been.

to believe that everything wasn’t just coincidence.

as she nodded shyly, hope blooming across her face, you felt something cold drip down your spine.

what if she really did fall for him?

what if he loved her back?

what if they married—and you… never existed?

but the letter burned in your pocket like a second heartbeat. you had to trust it. trust that whoever—or whatever—had sent you here knew more than you did.

you forced a smile and said softly, “let’s start with a smile. next time he walks by.”

she looked at you with wide eyes. “just that?”

You nodded. “you’d be surprised what a smile can do.”

but you weren’t thinking of her when you said it.

you were thinking of soobin.

of the moment his eyes met yours for the first time.

and of how your whole world had started to change since.

the evening had that golden hue, the one you only get when the sun starts to sink behind the old buildings, casting everything in a nostalgic warmth. you’d organized the dinner with care. a simple yet modern spot: a small restaurant that served american-style burgers, with metal tables, hanging lights, and a jukebox playing soft romantic ballads in the background.

you thought it would be the perfect setting.

they just needed to coexist, relax, laugh a little. if your mom and soobin could spend time together, maybe you'd fulfill the letter’s request. maybe you could keep moving the pieces without altering the whole game.

yeonjun arrived first, greeting you with his trademark crooked smile and a pack of gum in hand. then came your mom’s friends, followed by soobin, and lastly, your mother, who looked absolutely lovely without realizing it—her hair loose, a navy blue dress with a white collar, and her cheeks flushed, as though simply being here made her nervous.

everything seemed fine… at first.

they all took their seats at a round table. you were between soobin and one of your mom’s friends. your plan was clear: give them space. let them talk, let something spark between them. but it didn’t go as planned.

the friends started whispering among themselves, yeonjun was animatedly talking about a movie he wanted to watch, and somehow, you ended up talking to soobin. again.

it was easy to talk to him. too easy.

both of you ordered the same burger, without even knowing it. you both took the pickles out at the same time and set them aside. at the first bite, you both chewed in sync, making a little involuntary sound of pleasure.

“mmm…”

“mm-hmm…”

you exchanged glances and chuckled. without realizing it, you both reached for napkins to wipe the same spot on your right cheeks at the exact same moment.

“what the hell?” one of your mom’s friends exclaimed, pointing at you both with a smile. “you two choreographed this or what? you look like twins! no, wait—clones!”

everyone laughed, except your mom.

“yeah,” yeonjun murmured, leaning on his elbows, watching you both closely. “even now, you’ve both got food on your cheeks... like two little rabbits.”

the laughter died down. you quickly wiped your mouth and glanced over at your mom.

that look.

you knew it too well. furrowed brows, clenched jaw, eyes cold and full of something between anger and discomfort. you’d seen it a thousand times, when you were younger, when you came home late, when you did something “out of line,” when you weren’t the daughter she needed you to be.

you knew what was coming.

and it came.

she stood up from the table without a word, grabbing her purse with force and walking out of the restaurant hurriedly. the others stared after her, soobin looked around confused, and yeonjun sat up in his seat, about to stand.

you reacted first.

you bolted after her, pushing the restaurant door open, the cold evening air hitting your face. you caught up to her on the sidewalk, calling her name. it felt strange to say her name out loud, like it wasn’t even the right name for her anymore.

she turned to face you abruptly, her eyes wet.

“are you mocking me?” she hissed, her voice shaking with anger. “did you really think i wouldn’t notice? you used me. you just wanted to get closer to soobin, didn’t you? used me to play your game.”

you froze, your heart pounding in your chest.

“n-no… it’s not like that,” you stammered, looking down at the ground as if you were twelve again and she had just caught you breaking something. “i don’t care about soobin, i swear. i just… wanted to help you.”

she didn’t answer, just stood there, eyes drilling into you with that piercing gaze.

you swallowed hard and said the first thing that came to your mind.

“it’s yeonjun.”

her expression softened slightly. barely noticeable.

“what?”

“i… i like yeonjun.”

she blinked, clearly caught off guard. you could feel the air change.

“what?”

“i... i like yeonjun.” you bit your lip nervously, not entirely sure of what you were saying, but the words felt right somehow. “not soobin. it’s yeonjun.”

you could feel your chest tighten as your mother processed your words. she blinked in surprise, before letting out a small, incredulous laugh.

“yeonjun?” she repeated, eyes widening. “you like yeonjun?”

you nodded sheepishly, the words coming out in a rush. “yeah, i mean… i think i do. but i’m not sure. i’ve just… been thinking about him a lot. you know, he’s kind of—well—different. i feel comfortable around him, i guess.”

you didn’t even realize yeonjun had been listening in from behind a nearby wall. he had been standing there, eavesdropping quietly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

your mother looked at you, and for a brief moment, her anger softened. “i thought you liked soobin…”

you quickly shook your head. “no, not at all. i don’t even see him like that. you know, like how people do with someone famous or something. it’s just not the same…”

suddenly, there was a rustling noise behind you. you turned around to see yeonjun step out from behind the wall, his expression unreadable. you didn’t know if he had heard everything, but from the way his eyes locked with yours, you could tell he had. your cheeks burned.

“i, uh...” yeonjun scratched his head awkwardly. “you didn’t have to tell her that, you know.”

you opened your mouth to respond, but your mother didn’t wait for you to speak. she turned away, the tension still thick in the air.

“i don’t know what’s going on between you two, but... if you really like him, then go for it. i won’t stop you.” her voice was cold, the finality of it stinging. “but don’t use me for your own plans.”

you reached out instinctively, but she was already walking off, her steps quick and purposeful.

you felt a sharp pang in your chest. you hadn’t meant to hurt her.

but in that moment, yeonjun stood beside you, his presence oddly comforting despite the awkwardness of the situation.

the days blurred by as you found yourself caught in the web of your own actions. you had committed to this, to helping your mother—nari—conquer soobin, following the exact instructions hong had given you in that letter. you didn’t dare stray from the plan; it was your duty, a responsibility you couldn’t afford to fail. so, day by day, you found yourself subtly maneuvering your mother closer to Soobin in every possible way.

you'd suggest small moments where they could talk, push nari into soobin’s orbit, casually organizing group hangouts, dinners, or even study sessions. every time they spoke, you’d make sure there were just enough quiet moments where they were alone, hoping for that spark to ignite.

but as the days passed, yeonjun grew suspicious. he was noticing things, and it wasn’t hard to tell. there was something off about the way you acted, like you were always just a little too eager to get your mom and soobin together, like you were pulling invisible strings behind the scenes.

“why do you always look so nervous when i ask about you and soobin?” yeonjun had asked one evening, his eyes narrowing as he watched you carefully.

you froze, unsure of how to answer. you didn’t want to tell him the truth—not yet. it felt impossible to explain, and you certainly couldn’t let him in on the secret. not when it was still so fragile, so delicate.

“i—” you hesitated, then quickly changed the subject. “it’s nothing. just… weird timing, i guess.”

yeonjun wasn’t convinced. “no, it’s not nothing. you’re acting strange, and i don’t buy your story.”

his suspicion lingered, and his questions began to cut a little too close to the truth. you knew you couldn’t keep this up forever. and yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him. not yet.

“i'm just… doing what I have to do,” you said quietly, your voice barely a whisper. “it’s... a duty, yeonjun. a matter of life or death.”

he blinked in confusion. “a duty? what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

you sighed, rubbing your forehead in frustration. “i’ll tell you everything. just not now. i’m not ready yet. but i promise i’ll explain. saturday night, at your grandmother’s restaurant. we’ll talk then.”

yeonjun hesitated but nodded, as if he could sense the gravity of what you weren’t saying.

saturday night arrived quickly. you walked into the cozy, warm restaurant, the smell of grilled meats and spices thick in the air. yeonjun’s grandmother greeted you with a kind smile, and yeonjun led you to a quiet corner. he could tell you were nervous—hell, you were practically shaking with anticipation as you prepared to share your secret.

the moment the door closed behind you, you took a deep breath.

“so,” yeonjun started, leaning forward. “you said you were going to tell me everything. i'm listening.”

sou swallowed hard. there was no turning back now. you couldn’t run from this anymore.

“i—uh... i’ll start from the beginning,” you said, your voice wavering slightly. “a while ago, i found a photo between some old boxes when we were moving. it was a picture of a guy. he looked like he belonged in the past, like he didn’t fit in with the time i'm from.”

yeonjun furrowed his brows. “a guy?”

“yeah,” you nodded, the memories flooding back. “he’s… soobin. and my mom—she’s been acting weird, too. i started paying attention. i mean, she’s not like herself. she’s not the same person i remember. and it’s not just her attitude—there’s something deeper, like a whole other life she’s hiding. but it wasn’t until i found that picture that everything started making sense.”

yeonjun’s eyes widened as he leaned forward. “so, this guy, soobin... he’s important, right? but why are you involved? you’re talking about your mom like she’s not... your mom.”

you froze. his question hung in the air, thick and heavy. did he really get it? could he possibly know?

“i—i’m not from here, yeonjun,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “i’m not from this time. i’m not even from this place.”

he blinked, a frown spreading across his face. “what do you mean? are you—”

“i’m from the future,” you interrupted, your words tumbling out in a rush. “from 2017. i was sent back here, to help my mom, nari. you see, in the future, things went wrong. a lot of things. i was... i was told that if i didn’t do this, something would happen that could ruin everything.”

yeonjun stared at you in disbelief, his face pale as he tried to process what you had just said. “you’re from the future? like, actually? you’re not joking right now?”

you shook your head, watching his expression change from skepticism to pure confusion.

“i’m not joking. i know it sounds insane, but it’s true. and soobin… he’s connected to it all. i think he’s the key to everything.”

“soobin?” yeonjun’s voice was barely a whisper. “is he your—your father?”

the question hit you like a punch in the chest. you had thought about it, briefly, in your mind, but hearing him ask the question was different. it felt real, like it was something that needed an answer.

you opened your mouth, but the words stuck in your throat. “i—i don’t know,” you admitted, the words trembling. “my dad... he was choi taesang. i found papers—an old marriage certificate. i even found a small part of his name, ‘bin,’ that matched soobin’s. my mom told me my dad changed his name because of some family issues, inheritance problems... but he died when i was little. i never knew him.”

you stared down at your hands, the weight of the past pressing down on you. “i’m not sure if soobin is my father, but i need to figure this out. i have to help my mom... i have to make sure things happen the way they’re supposed to.”

yeonjun sat back, his expression unreadable as he processed everything you had just told him. the silence stretched between you both, thick with uncertainty.

finally, he exhaled sharply. “so... what happens if you don’t do this? what happens if you fail?”

“i don’t know,” you whispered. “but i can’t take that chance. my existence depends on it.”

yeonjun stayed silent for a long moment, staring directly into your eyes. the disbelief that had once filled his expression seemed to melt away, replaced by something else. it wasn’t confusion anymore. there was a sense of determination now.

“i’ll help you,” he said, his voice confident, almost defiant, as if nothing could stop him. “i won’t let you disappear. i won’t let you face this alone.”

the declaration took you by surprise, and for a moment, you felt the weight on your shoulders lighten slightly. but at the same time, deep inside, something else stirred—sadness. because the simple fact that he was willing to stand by you in all of this meant one thing: sooner or later, you’d have to part ways. If this whole thing worked out, if your mission was fulfilled, your return to the future would be inevitable, and that would mean disappearing from his life, like you’d never been there.

yeonjun looked at you, a playful gleam lighting up his eyes. “in 26 years, i’ll be an old man, and you’ll still be a little kid. just imagining myself as an old man is enough to depress me.” he chuckled lightly. “26 years sounds so far away, but that’s when i’ll need to have everything figured out, right? i need to be satisfied with my life by then.”

you let out a light laugh, the weight of the conversation easing just a little. he was right, though. twenty-six years were a long time in the future, and that was when all of this would come to a head. but he was right. he had to fulfill his dreams and live his life, just as you had to. it made the whole situation feel... less heavy, for a moment.

yeonjun’s tone softened again as he looked at you. “i don’t fully understand your situation, but i know you’re under a lot of pressure. your life depends on this, doesn’t it?”

you nodded, a deep sigh escaping your lips. “it does. i don’t know what’s going to happen, but it feels like i’m running out of time. i... i don’t even know how to explain it.”

you looked at him, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “i’ll tell you everything,” you said softly. “come with me to the house where mrs. son is. i’ll show you all the letters. i’ve been keeping everything hidden, but i can’t keep this secret anymore. i’m sorry, mr. hong, for telling you all this... but i just couldn’t anymore.”

later that evening, you and yeonjun found yourselves sitting at the small kitchen table in mrs. son’s house. the air was thick with the weight of the truth you had just revealed, and it was starting to settle in for both of you. the letters, the photo of soobin, the strange messages from hong, and the terrifying idea that you could disappear from the timeline—it was a lot to process. but now, you were facing it all with yeonjun at your side.

yeonjun, still looking a little incredulous but trying his best to absorb everything, leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching yours for more clarity. "so, if you really are from the future, then... what happens there? what’s it like? What should i be worried about?"

you sighed deeply. the weight of the situation pressed down on you, but you could tell yeonjun was trying to understand, and that made it a little easier to talk. “the future is... weird. so much has changed, and so many things that we take for granted here—like technology—just didn’t exist when i was growing up. it’s all connected. everything is connected.”

yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “connected how?”

you shifted in your seat, gathering your thoughts before continuing. “like, some major things happen in history, things that change the way the world works. like... 9/11.

yeonjun looked confused. “9/11? is that... some sports event?”

you shook your head with a small, sad smile. “no. it was a huge terrorist attack in the united states, and it affected people all over the world. it’s something that... well, it's just a big moment in history. but, for you, it doesn’t really matter. it didn’t affect your life here. in fact, a lot of the things that matter there... just don’t affect you yet.”

yeonjun scratched his head. “that’s... strange. i don’t know much about world events like that.”

“yeah, i guess it’s not on your radar yet,” you replied, “but there are other things, too. football—soccer, i mean—becomes a huge deal in the future. International matches, world cups, they get so much attention. some players... they make history, you know?”

yeonjun perked up, leaning forward now. "wait, really? like who? who makes history?"

you looked at him, a bit taken aback by his sudden interest. “well, in 2002, south korea made it to the semifinals of the world cup. it was a huge deal. the entire country was celebrating. people were so proud of their team.”

yeonjun’s eyes widened, and he grinned. “wait, seriously? south korea in the semifinals? that’s insane!”

you laughed, feeling the warmth of his enthusiasm. “yeah. It’s like one of the proudest moments in sports history here.”

yeonjun’s face lit up even more as he absorbed the significance. "i can't wait to see that happen in the future. when it does, you’ll have to remind me, okay? i’ll throw a big celebration for it! just wait, i’m going to be ready to party!"

it was an unexpected reaction, but it made you smile. despite all the heavy stuff you were dealing with, yeonjun’s excitement about something so simple—celebrating a victory in a future that hadn't even happened yet—felt comforting. for a moment, it was like things weren’t so complicated. like he was still just a normal guy with normal dreams.

you could tell that, despite his earlier confusion, yeonjun was beginning to feel more at ease with the whole situation. “it’s going to happen, just not right now. but hey,” you said, “maybe we can actually watch it together. i mean... if i’m still around.”

yeonjun nodded, a teasing smile pulling at his lips. “we will. and i won’t let you disappear. not on my watch.”

it was said half-jokingly, but the sincerity behind his words was clear. you both sat there for a moment, allowing the silence to settle, but it wasn’t awkward. it felt... comfortable, like the weight of the truth was finally beginning to feel a little more bearable. yeonjun, despite all the confusion, was on your side. and that meant more to you than you realized.

“so,” yeonjun started, breaking the silence, “what’s next? what are you going to do with all this?”

you looked at the pile of letters on the table, still half-distracted by everything that had happened. “i don’t know yet. but i think i have to help my mom with soobin. i’m supposed to—well, the letters say it’s important. i just... i don’t know why. it’s all so weird.”

he leaned in closer, his tone serious now. “i don’t understand it all, but i get that you’ve got something you need to do. and i’ll help. whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. together.”

there was a sense of resolve in his voice now, a shift from the playful teasing earlier. he was no longer just a friend caught in the middle of your confusing life. he was someone who genuinely wanted to help you, someone who was willing to dive into the chaos with you and not back down.

and for the first time in a long time, you felt a glimmer of hope—hope that things might actually work out, no matter how strange and twisted your situation seemed.

the days passed, and as you and yeonjun continued to help your mother and soobin grow closer, you found a sense of tranquility in the small moments that blossomed between you both. you had done it. you’d helped them get to this point, this delicate moment where your mom was finally smiling in a way you had never seen before. the bond between her and soobin was undeniable, and watching it grow made your heart swell. it was a feeling you couldn’t quite explain—like a mix of pride and relief that you had completed a part of your task, something that had been weighing on your shoulders from the very beginning. but you weren’t just a passive observer anymore. you had become part of their story.

and on that day, march 15th, when your mom and soobin posed for their first photo together, you couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth settle in your chest. it was a moment you had carefully worked towards, a culmination of your efforts to see them happy, to see them closer. you were the one who took the picture, the one who captured their smiles—their shared joy that lit up the frame. they didn’t know it yet, but this photo would become a symbol of so much more than just a casual memory. it was a milestone, a turning point in all their lives.

you stood behind the camera, the lens capturing the gentle moment between them, and your eyes shifted to yeonjun, who was standing next to you. “you think they’ll be okay?” you whispered, adjusting the focus of the camera.

he looked at you with a soft smile, his voice gentle. “i think so. they’re finally seeing each other for who they really are.” his words were comforting, and you couldn’t help but feel that warmth expand.

but as you stood there, camera in hand, it wasn’t just their happiness that lingered in your heart. yeonjun, who had been standing next to you the entire time, his shoulder brushing against yours as you captured the moment, made the whole day feel like it was meant for the two of you. you had become part of something larger than yourself, something far beyond just the letters and the tasks hong had laid out for you. you had become a part of this world, a world that, in its own way, felt like it belonged to you and yeonjun.

days later, you found yourself sitting in your room, carefully sorting through the photos. there were the ones with your mom and soobin, their smiles as wide as the world itself. but then, there were others—the ones you had taken with yeonjun. the ones that seemed so simple, yet carried so much weight. you had never intended to take those pictures, but in the rush of moments, you had. there was the one where you both were riding his bike down the narrow, windy streets, laughing as he swerved the bike just to hear you squeal in fear. or the one where you were sitting on the school rooftop, your legs dangling over the edge as you whispered things about your time, things that felt like secrets shared between two souls who had no business existing in the same moment. those were the photos you’d kept—hidden in a little corner of your heart, tucked into the back of your mind.

you hesitated before pulling one of the pictures from the pile, the one where you were wrapped in yeonjun’s arms as he rode the bike. his face was full of joy, eyes crinkled in a grin, while you were buried in the back of his jacket, your face flushed from the wind and the thrill. you thought about whether it was allowed, whether it was okay to keep such a thing, but in that moment, you didn’t care. this photo, this simple image of you and yeonjun, held something more. something you didn’t have words for yet.

you tucked it carefully into your bag, your fingers grazing the edges of the photo one last time before you turned your attention back to the other picture—the one of your mom and soobin. you felt your heart tighten as you looked at her face, her expression softer than you had ever seen it. there was a glow there, an undeniable happiness that hadn’t been present before. she looked younger somehow, the years of hardship fading away beneath the tender light of a new love—of the first fluttering steps into something that could only be described as the beginning of something beautiful. you couldn't help but feel a rush of emotion wash over you. the woman who had always been so strong, so independent, was now looking at soobin with a softness that made her seem... fragile in the most endearing way. her cheeks flushed with the warmth of her newfound feelings, and her eyes sparkled with the innocence of someone discovering love for the very first time. it was almost impossible to imagine, but there she was, looking at him with a glow that almost seemed surreal.

you didn’t hesitate. you handed the photo to her, watching her take it with trembling hands, eyes scanning it like it was the most precious thing in the world. she looked at soobin, then back at the photo, and then back at you. for a moment, she didn’t say anything, and you almost wondered if she had even noticed the way her face changed. but then she smiled—a smile that wasn’t forced or polite. it was genuine, a smile that came from deep within her, and you realized, for the first time, that maybe you had finally done the right thing.

as the days passed, the air around your relationship with yeonjun grew lighter. you found yourselves spending more and more time together, and each moment seemed to deepen the connection between you both. It was something unspoken, an invisible thread that kept pulling you toward him, no matter how much you tried to resist it. there were moments when it felt so natural, so easy. riding on his bike—your arms wrapped around his waist, your face pressed against his back, feeling his warmth seep into your skin. he never seemed to mind. and when you helped him out at his grandmother’s restaurant on weekends, scrambling around the kitchen and laughing as you tried to juggle orders, it felt right. it felt like home.

“thanks for helping me today,” yeonjun said, a smile tugging at his lips as you wiped your hands on your apron. he stood next to you, leaning against the counter, his eyes glinting with something you couldn’t quite place.

“of course,” you answered, glancing up at him with a playful smile. “what else are friends for?”

he grinned back, but there was something deeper in his gaze, something you both avoided acknowledging. “friends, huh?” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

“yeah,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you turned back to the counter, not daring to look him in the eye.

and when the two of you snuck away from class to spend a few stolen minutes on the school’s rooftop, your legs dangling over the edge, it was like time stood still. you’d share bits of your world with him—small things, like the way your phone had changed from an old flip model to a sleek, glass-covered touchscreen. or the way people started using the internet for everything, even their grocery shopping. but when you spoke about the past, about the things that would come to pass, there was always that look in his eyes—one that made your heart beat faster, as though he was hanging on to your every word, each story you told drawing him closer.

“so… the first man on the moon, huh?” yeonjun asked, a twinkle in his eye as he leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. “that’s a big deal in your time?”

“it is,” you answered softly, nodding. “it changed the way we see the world. the idea that we could be more than just earth-bound.” you paused, catching your breath before continuing. “it was… a promise. a promise that anything is possible.”

yeonjun’s gaze softened as he absorbed your words, the weight of them hanging in the air between you. there was something unspoken in that moment, something fragile, like the threads of a story yet to be fully told. you were both trapped in this moment, floating in the same strange space, neither of you daring to say what was on your mind, but both of you feeling it all the same.

“maybe one day we’ll go to the moon,” he said quietly, a light laugh escaping his lips. “wouldn’t that be something?”

you smiled, your chest swelling with a feeling you couldn’t name. maybe one day. maybe one day, you and yeonjun would do just that.

under the clear early-winter sky, you and yeonjun lay side by side on the worn-out blanket he had brought to the rooftop of the shared house. It was one of those nights that felt like it belonged in a diary—quiet, cold, intimate, and framed by a dome of stars so dazzling they seemed ready to spill from the heavens.

the night sky was purer than anything you'd seen in your own time. no pollution. no smog. no glowing cities to wash it all out. just the two of you, and a universe that felt infinite.

“the stars…” you whispered, eyes wide, fixed on the constellations. “they’re so beautiful here. so clear. in the future, you can’t see them like this anymore.”

yeonjun turned his head to look at you. his gaze was soft, filled with that quiet curiosity he always seemed to have when it came to you. “really? not even on clear nights?”

you shook your head, a breath slipping from your lips like smoke in the cold. “not even then. the city lights drown everything out. it’s like the stars have disappeared completely.”

he was quiet for a moment, watching the sky as if trying to memorize it for you—like he could bottle the night and give it to you to take home. then his voice dropped low, barely louder than a thought. “what do you think would’ve happened… if you’d never come here? if you hadn’t time-traveled?”

the question caught you off guard. your fingers brushed against his, half-consciously seeking him out on the fabric between you. “i don’t know,” you admitted truthfully. “maybe… we’d have never met.”

yeonjun let out a soft laugh—not teasing, just warm and tinged with something bittersweet. “yeah… i probably would've kept going with my life. not knowing someone like you even existed.”

“that sounds really sad,” you murmured.

he turned onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow to face you fully. the starlight reflected in his eyes, making them shine. “y/n,” he said quietly, “i think i was born just to meet you.”

your heart clenched. the words hit you in a way that felt too big for your chest. cheesy. ridiculous. impossible. but still—so honest it hurt.

you smiled, cheeks flushed pink from more than just the cold. “maybe i was born to travel through time… just to meet you.”

he blinked slowly, then grinned. “so destiny was playing matchmaker, huh?”

“looks like it,” you said, nudging his shoulder.

it wasn’t a confession. not really. but the space between you shifted, electric and fragile. there were no titles, no labels. just the quiet knowledge that you felt the same—unspoken, yet undeniably there.

since your arrival, months had passed. it was now early 1992. your mother and soobin were officially dating, a real couple. it felt surreal. every time you looked at them, you could feel your mission inching closer to its end.

yeonjun was starting to prepare for university applications. his excitement was contagious—he’d talk about moving to seoul, walking through huge lecture halls, making music with other artists. sometimes he’d describe it so vividly you felt like you were already there with him.

“you should come with me,” he said one afternoon while helping you dry bowls at the restaurant. “if you’re still here when school starts.”

you blinked at him. “you mean… to seoul?”

“yeah. why not? you can live in a rooftop apartment next to mine. we’ll eat cheap ramen together. i’ll walk you to your classes.”

your laugh was quiet. “i don’t even know if i’ll still be here. if my mom’s already dating soobin, maybe… maybe it’s almost over. maybe I’ll be sent back soon.”

his smile faltered a little. “right…”

there was a beat of silence before he asked it again—the question that lingered over both of you like a shadow.

“do you think soobin’s your dad?”

you exhaled slowly, eyes falling to the sink. “i don’t know. i wish i did. But i won’t know anything until i go back and… ask her. for real.”

yeonjun nodded, lips pressed tight. you could tell he hated the unknown, hated that all of this—the time you had together—was out of your hands.

still, he leaned in closer, his shoulder bumping yours. “whatever happens… i’m glad we met.”

you tilted your head toward him. “even if i disappear one day without warning?”

he looked at you, eyes unwavering. “even then.”

and in that moment, beneath the stars of a world untouched by time, your hands found each other again. fingers interlaced, quiet and certain. there were no promises. no confessions.

but you both knew the truth.

even without a name, this—whatever it was between you—was real.

though soobin and your mother acted like shy high school sweethearts—barely daring to hold hands in public, cheeks flushed at the simplest touch—you’d heard him once when he thought no one else was listening.

“i want to take you to meet my parents,” soobin had said, voice steady but soft. “i want their blessing. i know we’re young, but i’ve never been so sure about anything.”

your mother had stared at him, eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief. and you… you had frozen behind the door, hand on your chest, trying to breathe quietly.

it wasn’t just puppy love. soobin meant it. he was serious about her. about a future with her.

you swallowed the lump in your throat. was this… really your father?

you didn’t know what to feel. or say. or even think. all you could do was watch. hope. wait for time to untangle itself beneath your anxious feet.

through it all, yeonjun had been patient with you. so sweetly patient it almost hurt. he never rushed you, never asked for more than you were ready to give. he held your hand when you offered it. stayed close when you needed someone to lean on. you were happy—so achingly, dizzyingly happy—but every so often, reality would fall on you like cold water.

you weren’t meant to stay here. not forever.

you didn’t belong in the past.

if you stayed, who knew what chaos you could cause? butterfly wings and hurricanes. your existence here was a ticking bomb—you just didn’t know when it would explode.

letters from mr. hong still came, even after your confession to yeonjun. he didn’t mention what you’d done. he didn’t seem angry or hurt. just distant. polite. almost like a mentor trying to keep things strictly professional now.

but then… in may, a letter came that chilled you to the bone.

"this will be the last letter, but it doesn’t mean your mission is over. you may stay in the past for weeks, or months, even after this. but something dark is coming. something that will shake the foundation of everything you’ve protected until now. in august, during the farewell party for the senior students… something will happen. be alert. watch closely. whatever happens, protect them." -H.

your eyes scanned the paper in panic, fingers trembling.

you memorized every word. you carried the letter folded tight in your bag, your pillow, your pockets. you barely slept. you watched your mother like a hawk, stuck to soobin’s side more than ever. you hoped it was paranoia. that maybe nothing would happen.

but august arrived.

and so did the storm.

the night of the farewell party was warm and buzzing, the air thick with the joy of students celebrating the end of a chapter. you wore a borrowed dress, hair tucked up, eyes scanning every face. yeonjun stayed close. you could feel his hand grazing yours whenever you drifted.

then, it happened.

scream. loud. sharp. ripping through the music.

you turned and saw soobin—face twisted in rage—hitting a boy again and again. the boy on the floor was bleeding from the mouth, gasping, trying to block the blows. around them, students scattered, screaming. a teacher tried to pull soobin back, but soobin was gone. blind with fury.

someone yelled your mother’s name.

uou turned and saw her—shaking, pale, clothes torn at the shoulder, crying.

and then the cops arrived.

sirens. chaos. lights blinding.

they took soobin in cuffs. he didn’t fight it. he just turned to look at your mother, blood on his knuckles, and said, “i’m sorry.”

everything spiraled after that.

you learned later what had happened. the boy—older, drunk—had cornered your mother. tried to force himself on her. soobin had found them just in time.

but justice wasn’t simple.

soobin’s father, a well-known senator, came crashing down with fury. his name had been dragged through mud. his son in a scandal. a fight. a girl.

he beat soobin the night he got home. soobin showed up days later at your mom's house, face swollen, lip split. he said nothing. just hugged your mother and cried.

and then came the final blow.

his father announced that after soobin’s brief juvenile sentence, he’d be sent to the u.s. for good. a fresh start. a new life. a university abroad.

he was forbidden from seeing your mother again.

she wore the promise ring on her finger still. tiny, silver, nothing flashy—but it shimmered like a thousand diamonds when the light hit it. soobin had given it to her just weeks ago.

“i’ll marry you one day,” he’d whispered. “i swear.”

now she barely left her room. she stopped eating. stopped smiling. her eyes were always red.

you watched it all unfold. helpless. like your chest was being split open from the inside. you thought this was it. you thought this was the end of your mission—and that you’d failed.

maybe you were supposed to stop it. maybe this was the event. maybe this was what you were meant to prevent.

but now it was done.

and you hadn’t stopped it.

one night, after crying so hard your body physically ached, you found yourself in the backyard, curled up on a bench, arms wrapped around your knees.

yeonjun found you there.

he didn’t say anything. he just sat beside you, then gently pulled you into his chest. his arms wrapped around you like a shield. you buried your face in his sweater and sobbed. he stroked your hair slowly, patiently, as if telling you without words: i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.

“i think i ruined everything,” you whispered, voice raw.

“you didn’t ruin anything,” he said softly.

“i didn’t stop it. i didn’t protect them.”

“you’ve done more than anyone ever could,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "you’ve loved them. that matters. that always matters.”

you closed your eyes.

and for the first time since august began, you let yourself fall apart. safely. in yeonjun’s arms.

even if everything else was crashing down, at least—for now—he was still here.

the months slipped by like smoke between your fingers.

from august to october, the colors around you changed—summer golds fading into autumn reds, then the gray hush of early october. but inside the house, inside your mother's room, it was always winter.

she tried to smile. tried to live. you made her tea, left her notes, held her hand through silences that stretched across entire afternoons. but you couldn’t force her heart to forget.

she had been in love with soobin since the very first day.

it had been fast. intense. a fire that lit her from the inside out—and now, after being torn apart so cruelly, she was trying to breathe through the ashes.

“everything i felt for him was real,” she whispered one night, curled beneath her blanket like a ghost of herself. “i’ve never loved someone like that. and now he’s gone.”

he was gone. living on the other side of the world. his father had made good on his promise—sent him to the u.s., far from everything that made him human. from her. from you.

at first, letters came. they were sweet, hopeful, full of aching promises.

but then they stopped.

you weren’t sure if he was being watched, controlled, or if he’d been forced to forget her by the cold grip of his powerful family. all you knew was that her mailbox stayed empty. and your mother stayed broken.

but in your corner of this spiraling world, there was yeonjun.

yeonjun, who saw you even when you tried to disappear behind your guilt. yeonjun, who didn’t ask for more than what you could give. who held your fears gently in the curve of his palm and waited for you to breathe again.

he was the only one who could calm your unraveling thoughts.

but even that peace became fractured. as october arrived, he pulled away—not emotionally, but physically, lost in piles of paperwork and meetings and test prep for university in seoul.

days would pass without seeing him. you waited, restless. you’d grown addicted to his presence, to the way his voice softened your panic and made the world feel less heavy.

so when he finally said through the phone “let’s have dinner tonight. just us,” your heart skipped like a stone over water.

it was a sunday evening.

the sun had set early, painting the sky in smudges of burnt orange and deep plum. the air was crisp but not cold, the kind that wrapped around your skin like a silk scarf. the streets were quiet, glowing under amber streetlamps, trees shivering slightly in the breeze.

he waited for you at the tteokbokki place—the same spot where you'd first laughed over spicy sauce and nervous glances months ago.

but this time… he looked different.

he’d styled his hair back with gel, revealing the full line of his forehead and the soft arch of his brows. it made him look older, more refined. dangerous, even. the boyish charm hadn’t vanished—it had evolved, carved into something breathtaking.

you blinked, stunned. “you… you look so hot.”

he nearly choked on his water, laughing. “what?”

“i mean it. the hair. it suits you. you look like a model or something.”

his cheeks flushed red. “you can’t just say that and act normal.”

you leaned forward, smug. “i just did.”

the tension melted into warm laughter, echoing between the tiled walls of the tiny restaurant. it felt like you were the only two people in the world.

then, you picked up a piece of tteokbokki, holding it in your chopsticks. “say ‘ahh~’.”

he gave you a playful side-eye. “are we really doing this?”

“yes,” you grinned. “we’re method acting as a couple. you need to commit.”

he opened his mouth with a dramatic sigh. “ahhh—”

you fed him the piece, your fingers brushing his lips by accident, and you both burst out laughing. it was ridiculous. silly. but the way he was looking at you—it wasn’t silly at all.

then he said it.

“i love you.”

the world stopped.

your smile froze on your lips. time seemed to fracture around you, holding its breath.

before you could speak, he continued, voice lower now, almost trembling.

“i know you’ll leave. i know this isn’t your world. but you have something that belongs to you. me.” he reached across the table, took your hand. “even if our time is short… i want to spend it with you. i don’t want to regret not saying it. i don’t want to spend the next 26 years wishing i had.”

your throat tightened. your fingers gripped his.

“i like you, y/n. I like you so much it hurts. and if the universe tears us apart, i’ll be reborn just to find you again. in every timeline, i’ll search for you. always.”

your heart beat so fast it hurt. your mouth was dry. your body frozen.

but he wasn’t waiting for permission anymore.

he stood, leaned over the table, and kissed you.

softly. slowly. like the world didn’t matter.

his lips tasted like tteokbokki and heartbreak, sweet and fiery all at once. your eyes fluttered shut. everything blurred. the restaurant, the lights, the soft chatter of other customers—all vanished.

there was only him. his mouth against yours. his breath brushing your cheek. his hand cradling the side of your neck with delicate reverence.

the world spun.

but for the first time in months, you didn’t care.

you kissed him back. you kissed him like he was the only thing anchoring you to this moment.

because maybe he was.

you started a relationship without labeling it. no one asked, “will you be mine?” they just... were. and that was enough.

no promises, no declarations. only two hearts quietly choosing each other in the midst of borrowed time.

yeonjun didn’t push you. he never asked for forever. he just gave you his time—every second of it. and you, with a heart full of fear and a mind screaming you don’t belong here, you gave him everything you could.

your moments, your awkward laughs, your unsure hands, your kisses that tasted like soft desperation, your half-written thoughts and unfinished dreams.

every date felt like a stolen lifetime.

one warm afternoon, he took you to the park with an old checkered blanket and a thermos full of hot chocolate. he brought his vintage camera and snapped pictures of you while the sun painted you in gold.

“you look like a memory,” he said, looking at you through the lens like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

another night, you strolled through the streets hand in hand, fingers tangled loosely, like a promise never spoken.

you passed by old storefronts and flickering streetlights, until you found a small cinema playing black and white films.

he held your thumb the whole time, tracing slow circles into your skin, and you weren’t even watching the movie— you were memorizing the way his jaw looked in the flickering light, how he leaned close when he laughed.

on a lazy saturday, he took you to a dusty secondhand bookstore tucked between an old pharmacy and a fruit shop.

you two hid between shelves, reading poetry aloud, laughing when he made up the endings, and somewhere between the little prince and a forgotten romance novel, he kissed you again— slow, reverent, like you were made of something holy.

some mornings, you just stayed home.

he made pancakes in a worn apron with a bunny print, and you danced around in oversized socks, hair a mess, and he’d tell you, “you’re my favorite song.” and you’d whisper back, how am i supposed to leave this?

but you didn’t say it out loud. you didn’t have to. you both knew.

and still—he stayed.

and still—you loved him.

while yeonjun became your calm, your anchor, your mother began to slowly stitch herself back together.

not in grand gestures. not overnight. but little by little.

she stopped crying in the mornings. she let you brush her hair again.

she smiled at breakfast, not because she was over soobin, but because she remembered how to feel sunlight on her skin.

you watched her heal. you watched her reread soobin’s old letters with trembling fingers, tears still fresh, but her spine straighter.

“i’ve never loved someone like that before,” she confessed one night while folding laundry, voice soft as dusk. “it all happened so fast… it was real. i know it was.”

and you nodded, because you saw it— the way they looked at each other like time was a thief.

and you were living that same story now. with your own boy. your own impossible love.

except you didn’t know how yours would end.

only that it had already changed you. forever.

it was thursday. early. too early.your eyes were heavy, your limbs sluggish with the weight of not enough sleep.

your mind replayed the night before in soft flashes— you and yeonjun lying side by side, talking about everything and nothing. he told you he'd be leaving at dawn to catch the train to seoul. his csat exam. he had smiled when he said it, eyes wide with excitement and nerves.

“i’ll take the 6 a.m. train,” he whispered. “i want to be early… less stress that way.”

you’d nodded, fingers brushing his. you kissed him—sleepy and slow—and told him good luck. told him you’d buy cake and celebrate when he came back. he grinned, “then now i’m more excited about the cake than the exam.”

your chest ached gently with the memory. how warm his voice had sounded. how real he’d felt.

you went about your morning like any other. brushed your teeth. took a quick shower. you padded downstairs, hair still damp, the floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet.

mrs. son was already up, bustling in the kitchen, apron tied neatly at her waist. the scent of warm broth and toasted rice filled the air. you walked past her to the small calendar on the wall.

she reached it before you. ripped off yesterday’s page in one clean motion. november 12th.

you froze a second. something tugged at your gut. but you shook it off.

“need help?” you asked, voice light.

“set the table, darling,” she said, smiling.

you did. poured the tea. laid out the bowls. and sat down across from her.

she talked casually as you ate. about the weather. the street cats.then she looked up from her spoon and grinned.

“you really won the lottery with that one, huh? so handsome, your yeonjun. if i had met someone like him in my youth…” she sighed dramatically.

you laughed. but there was a tremble in it. because this wasn't your youth. and it wasn't your time.

you were borrowing this moment. and somewhere inside, you knew the clock was ticking.

after breakfast, you stayed in the living room, watching a slow moving drama with mrs. son. she liked to yell at the characters, complain about the villains, cheer for the lovers. you leaned your head against the cushion, letting her voice wash over you, but your mind drifted again.

to his voice. to his train. to his smile as he said “see you tonight.”

and then—

the screen cut to static. just for a second. then the image returned, but it wasn’t the drama anymore.

breaking news.

you sat up.

a smoky image filled the screen. metal twisted into grotesque shapes, a train on its side, the ground scorched and steaming. bodies—blurry—too blurry— sirens. flashing lights.

your blood went ice cold. your lungs forgot how to breathe.

“the train… the train from incheon to seoul has… derailed—”

and you knew. you didn’t need them to say it. you knew.

the flashback hit you like a bullet— “the tragic accident of the incheon-seoul express…” your own voice, from before. before all of this.

“no.” the word spilled from you in a whisper. then louder. “no—no—no—YEONJUN!”

mrs. son barely had time to react before you were on your feet, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted to shatter them, legs moving without direction—without control.

you burst out of the house, wind clawing at your skin, eyes blind with tears.

how could i be so stupid? you knew. YOU KNEW. you had the date. the place. the headline burned into your memory. and you let him go.

your breath tore out of you in gasps as you flagged down the first taxi you saw. the driver looked at you wide-eyed as you shouted,

“the train wreck—take me there. please—now.”

“miss, they won’t let you near it. police closed everything. it’s chaos—”

“my boyfriend is there!” your scream cracked your throat raw. “he’s in there—i have to get to him—i have to—”

he drove.

but you were already breaking. from the inside out. because the pieces were fitting together, one after another like cruel clockwork.

you could save your mom. you could save soobin.

but not him.

yeonjun. your bright light. your stolen season of peace. and you’d let him go with a kiss and the promise of cake.

god, why didn’t you say don’t go? why didn’t you scream the truth

you pressed your forehead to the car window, watching the blur of streets race past, but all you saw were his eyes. his hands. his smile.

the memory of his “i love you” slammed into your chest like a truck.

your vision tunneled. everything felt muffled. your body was still moving, still trying, but some part of you had already shattered.

you felt it. a cold certainty deep in your bones.

he was gone. and you’d known it. and you couldn’t stop it.

the sobs started in your gut—ugly, loud, and you curled into yourself in the back of that taxi, screaming his name as if the wind might carry it back in time and stop him from boarding that train.

but time, as always, didn’t listen.

the taxi barely slowed when you pushed the door open.

"hey! miss! what the hell—!" you didn’t hear the rest. your feet hit the pavement hard and fast. cars honked around you, drivers yelling, but none of it registered.

you ran.

the train station loomed ahead, a warped silhouette behind smoke and flashing lights. traffic had collapsed around it—cars trapped in a gridlock of sirens and screams. people were everywhere, shouting, crying, pacing the sidewalks with phones pressed to their ears, desperate for news.

but you only had one thought. one name.

yeonjun.

your breath tore from you in bursts as you shoved through the crowd, ignoring the sting of elbows and the heat of panic. you had to find him. he was here.

he was—

a loud honk split the air behind you.

you turned your head— just a flicker— and saw it.

a car.

too fast.

too close.

your eyes widened. you didn’t scream. just a choked, helpless whimper as your knees locked in place.

then—

impact.

your world tilted. the sky spun. your body flew—weightless— before slamming into the ground with a sickening crack.

pain.

then nothing.

voices.

screams.

doors slamming.

tires screeching.

everything faded—

the colors, the sounds, the smell of smoke and burning metal. all of it fell away, until even your mind went quiet.

you gasped awake. your scream pierced the sterile silence of the hospital room. your body jolted upright, limbs flailing beneath thin sheets, the ache in your chest unbearable.

"YEON—"

but the name—

the name—

what was the name?

you froze, heart hammering wildly as tears welled in your eyes. there was a face. a smile. soft brown eyes that crinkled when he laughed. warm hands. a voice that said “i love you” in the quiet.

but the name. what was his name?

a soft thud.

your mom—

startled awake from the small couch by the window.

“baby—baby, you're awake! oh my god—" she rushed to your side, holding your trembling hands.

you blinked at her. tried to speak, but your throat burned.

the door burst open. nurses flooded in, followed by a doctor with a clipboard and calm urgency.

“heart rate’s spiking—she’s in shock—prepare a sedative—” no. no. you didn’t want to forget.

you clung to the face in your mind. you bit your tongue to stay conscious. you tried to picture him— his eyes, his laugh, the way he said your name.

but the details blurred. the voice faded. and worst of all— you couldn’t remember what you used to call him. what he used to call you.

your body thrashed on the bed until the needle slid into your arm. warmth spread through your veins, thick and heavy, dragging you down.

you sobbed. not from pain— but from the terrible emptiness blooming inside your chest. something was gone. someone was gone.

when you woke again, it was quiet.your mother sat beside you, stroking your hair with gentle fingers. her eyes were red.

“you scared me,” she whispered. “you passed out two nights ago. i found you by the closet. you wouldn’t wake up.”

two nights?

your lips parted.

your voice came out hoarse.

“two nights…?”

“yeah. the doctor says you were dehydrated. exhausted. they ran some tests, but…” she paused. her brows furrowed. “they think it might have been psychological. you were… crying in your sleep.”

your mind raced. no—no— you were gone for longer than that. you lived another life. with another family. with him.

but the memories were slipping like sand through your fingers.

“i was somewhere else,” you murmured, barely audible. your mother leaned in.

“what, sweetheart?”

you shook your head, tears filling your eyes. “i—I was in the past. i was with… with…”

his face.

for a moment it was there again.

just a flicker.

but when you tried to focus—

when you tried to hold it still—

it scattered like dust.

you choked on a sob.

what kind of cruel joke was this?

you remembered how it felt.

the love.

the joy.

the heartbreak.

but not him.

not even his name.

you wrapped your arms around your knees, curling into yourself on the hospital bed.

“mom…” your voice cracked. “i think i lost someone important.”

she looked at you with quiet confusion, not understanding what you meant. but how could she?

how do you explain losing a person you’re not even sure existed anymore? how do you mourn someone your mind won’t let you remember?

but your heart knew. somewhere deep down, in a place no medicine could reach— it knew.

and it hurt like hell.

a month had passed since you were discharged from the hospital. the doctors said you had collapsed from shock, that maybe it was stress, dehydration, or a neurological response. none of them had a real explanation for why you’d been unconscious for so long, or why, when you finally woke up, you whispered a name you couldn’t remember and cried for someone who didn’t exist.

your body had recovered. you could walk, eat, shower, smile if you really had to. but something inside you felt... disconnected. sometimes you would stare out the window for hours, not even noticing the sun moving across the sky. sometimes you would wake up in the middle of the night with tears on your cheeks and an ache in your chest that wouldn’t let you breathe. other times you felt like a ghost living in your own skin—aware, but not present.

you couldn’t ride the train again. even the sound of one passing in the distance made your knees weak and your hands tremble. it was irrational. you knew that. but every time you tried, something deep inside screamed at you not to go. a primal terror wrapped around your ribs and wouldn’t let go. maybe it was trauma from the collapse. maybe it was something you brought back with you. you weren’t sure anymore.

you tried to convince yourself that none of it had happened. that it was just a vivid dream your brain created while you were unconscious. it had to be, right? people don’t just fall into different timelines. they don’t leap through summers that never existed, meet boys with eyes like galaxies, or change the past. yet, no matter how many times you repeated that logic to yourself, it never stuck. something in you knew it had been real. and that knowing haunted you.

you had changed. you were quieter now, reserved. you spoke only when necessary and often found yourself zoning out in the middle of conversations, eyes unfocused as if you were somewhere else entirely. school felt like noise. people buzzed around you, but you couldn’t keep up. your grades dropped. you didn’t care. you didn’t connect with anyone. making friends felt pointless when your heart still lived in a different time.

your relationship with your mother had shifted too. after your collapse, she was visibly worried, almost overly attentive—but you couldn’t let her in. not after everything. not when you remembered her as the teenage girl you met that summer, crying into your arms, struggling through heartbreak. that memory clashed too harshly with the woman sitting at the dinner table now, asking if you’d done your homework. you had built a wall between the two of you, and she didn’t know how to climb over it.

and then, one evening as you both sat eating dinner in silence, the question escaped your lips before you could stop it.

“is soobin my father?”

the fork in her hand froze mid-air, and her eyes flicked to yours, wide and sharp with alarm. her mouth parted slightly in surprise, brows furrowing in clear discomfort. you regretted asking immediately—until her expression softened. she sighed and set the fork down, folding her hands in her lap as she looked at you with a strange mixture of vulnerability and nostalgia.

“no,” she said quietly. “he’s not.”

your stomach twisted, unsure if the answer brought relief or disappointment. she looked away for a moment, as if remembering something from a dream of her own.

“soobin... was someone i knew in high school,” she continued. “he was sweet. shy, but in a charming way. he helped me get through something really hard. i remember this girl who was there too—she supported me, made me feel less alone—but i can’t remember her name now. it’s strange. i remember her eyes, her voice, but... not her name.”

your throat tightened. that was you. but you said nothing.

“soobin and i dated for a while. we thought we were meant for each other. but life had other plans. he left for the united states. we tried to stay in touch, but... things faded. i fell apart for a while. but eventually, in college, i met someone else. your father. choi wonbin.”

the name hit you like a wave. your eyes widened, heart stuttering in your chest. wonbin. not soobin. and that explained everything. that was why you hadn’t vanished when soobin left. that was why the timeline remained intact. your existence had never depended on him. your mother smiled softly, almost laughing to herself.

“i know, i know. soobin, wonbin—it sounds ridiculous. just a coincidence,” she said. “but sometimes... life is full of coincidences that somehow make sense.”

for the first time in weeks, the tension in your shoulders eased. it was as if a door had opened. as if something that had been stuck finally began to shift. and for the first time since you returned, you felt a sliver of peace.

a week later, a package arrived for you. it was small, lightweight, and addressed in delicate handwriting. your fingers trembled as you opened it. inside, you found a single letter. your breath hitched the moment your eyes recognized the script. it was his.

mr. hong.

“y/n, it wasn’t a dream. you really did travel through time. the reason you’re still alive and well is because you followed the path that was meant to be. everything happened as it had to. even the painful parts. even the losses. you played your part with courage, with love. thank you. now, rest. beautiful things await you. this is my final goodbye. live, y/n. truly live. —hong.”

your vision blurred as hot tears rolled down your cheeks. you clutched the letter to your chest, heart aching with a grief that had no words. you didn’t know why it hurt so much. only that something inside you had broken open. maybe it was because it had been real. maybe because it was over. maybe because someone had finally said thank you.

a few days later, your homeroom teacher called you into his office. you weren’t in the mood for anything. you shuffled into the room with tired steps and blank eyes.

“we have a transfer student,” he said with a warm smile. “i’d like you to show him around. since you’re both new, maybe you can help each other.”

you nodded absently, barely paying attention. your gaze drifted to his desk—a black pen, a leather-bound notebook—and something about the handwriting on the paper caught your eye. your stomach flipped. before you could say anything, he stood up suddenly.

“ah—excuse me, i have to take this call. meet him while i step out, alright?”

and then the door opened.

you turned.

your breath left your body.

there he stood.

tall. familiar. too real to be real.

ear piercings gleaming. airpods in. hands buried in his pockets. that same effortless cool. the exact look you remembered, etched into every corner of your heart.

he smiled at you—soft, warm, and impossibly alive.

“hi,” he said, voice smooth and gentle. “i’m yeonjun. son yeonjun. please take care of me.”

your knees buckled. your lungs stopped working. your heart screamed.

“you’re real,” you whispered.

he stepped closer without hesitation, taking your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

“i told you,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours, “i was born to meet you. and i’d follow you through time. in every line. every world.”

you choked on a sob as the tears spilled over. he wiped them away with quiet tenderness.

“we were meant to find each other. no matter when. no matter where.”

your arms wrapped around him, and he pulled you close—tight, grounding, safe. you buried your face in his chest and breathed him in. he smelled like summer rain and all the moments you thought you’d lost.

he tilted your chin, looked into your eyes with infinite softness, and kissed you. gently. surely. like it was always meant to happen.

and in that kiss, everything returned—every laugh, every memory, every promise unspoken.

outside, the rain began to fall. soft. steady.

but inside the room, wrapped in his arms, you felt the warmth of a hundred summers.

and this time, you knew with your whole heart—

you were home.

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