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You had always belonged to each other in the quiet ways.
Same street. Same school. Same worn-down park where the paint on the swings chipped and the ground was permanently indented from years of running in circles. You couldn’t remember a version of your life where San didn’t exist somewhere in the background—laughing too loud, dreaming too big, always looking past the horizon like he was waiting for something to call him.
You loved him for it.
You feared it for the same reason.
You started dating like it was inevitable. Like it had already been written. Hands that knew each other too well to pretend otherwise. A love built on history—on late-night talks and shared futures that felt solid simply because you both said them out loud together.
That was why the text unsettled you.
Can you meet me at the park? I need to tell you something.
San was already there when you arrived, sitting on the swing with his head bowed, fingers white-knuckled around the chains. He didn’t look up right away. The air felt heavier than it should’ve been, like the world was holding its breath.
“Hey,” you said softly.
He flinched. That alone made your chest tighten.
“Y/N,” he began, voice rough. “Promise you won’t hate me.”
Your heart sank. “Why would I hate you?”
San let out a shaky breath, staring at the ground like it might swallow him whole. “Because I’m about to ask you to understand something that might ruin us.”
The words lodged in your throat. You stepped closer, but he stood abruptly, pacing once, twice, before stopping in front of you.
“I got an opportunity,” he said. “An audition. A real one. If I pass, I’d become a trainee.”
Your stomach dropped.
“I want to be an idol,” San continued quickly, like if he didn’t say it all at once, he might lose the courage. “I always have. You know that. It’s my dream. But if I go… I won’t be here. Not really. I’ll be training all the time. I won’t know when I can see you. I don’t even know if I’ll come back the same.”
He finally looked at you, eyes glossy and terrified.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. “But I don’t know how to stay without losing myself.”
The silence between you was unbearable.
You felt tears sting behind your eyes, traitorous and sudden. You had imagined futures with him that didn’t include countdowns or distance or phone calls cut short by schedules you couldn’t control. You had imagined him beside you, not chasing a dream that could take him away piece by piece.
But you had also seen how his eyes lit up when he talked about the stage.
You swallowed hard. “If you don’t go,” you said slowly, “you’ll resent it. And one day you’ll look at me and wonder if I’m the reason you never tried.”
San’s face crumpled.
“I would never blame you,” he said desperately.
“You wouldn’t have to,” you replied, voice breaking. “You’d blame yourself. And that would hurt worse.”
You stepped forward and pressed your forehead to his chest, fingers curling into his jacket like you could anchor him there if you held him tight enough.
“I’m scared,” you admitted. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to watch you leave.”
He wrapped his arms around you immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Then don’t leave me,” you said softly. “Leave the place. Take the chance. Become who you’re meant to be.”
He shook against you, breath hitching. “What if I fail?”
“Then you come home,” you whispered. “And I’ll still be here.”
“And if I succeed?”
Your chest ached, but you forced yourself to say it anyway. “Then I’ll learn how to miss you.”
San pulled back just enough to look at you, tears finally falling. “I love you.”
You smiled through your own. “I know. That’s why you have to go.”
You both stood there until the sun disappeared completely, holding each other like you could memorize the feeling—neither of you saying goodbye, because neither of you were ready to admit that this was the moment everything began to fall apart.
At first, nothing really changed.
You still texted every morning. Still fell asleep on calls when you could. San sent voice notes from practice rooms with bad acoustics and worse lighting, whispering I miss you like it was something fragile. You replied with photos of the street, the park, the sky—proof that home was still waiting.
But time stretched.
San’s replies came later. Shorter. Not because he cared less—because he was exhausted in ways he didn’t know how to explain. Twelve-hour days. Bruised feet. Vocal cords burning. Constant evaluations. Cameras even when there weren’t cameras.
You learned his schedule better than he did. Learned when not to call. Learned how to smile through it’s fine even when it wasn’t.
You stopped falling asleep on the phone.
Then you stopped calling altogether.
Weeks passed where everything you were was compressed into a few lines of text:
I’m proud of you.
Eat well.
Don’t get hurt.
You reread old messages late at night, fingers hovering over the screen, wondering if you were allowed to ask for more. Wondering if wanting him close was selfish when he was finally chasing everything he’d ever wanted.
San started apologizing for things you never complained about.
“I’m sorry I missed your birthday.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call back.”
“I’m sorry I’m so tired all the time.”
You told him it was okay.
You meant it.
It still hurt.
Sometimes you caught yourself hesitating before texting, afraid of being a distraction. Afraid of becoming a burden. Afraid of being the one thing in his life that didn’t fit anymore.
And sometimes—when he talked about debut showcases and evaluations and the other trainees—you felt like you were listening to a story you no longer belonged to.
You loved each other.
You just existed in different worlds now.
And love, you were learning, didn’t stop distance from doing what distance does best: eroding things slowly enough that you don’t notice until there’s almost nothing left to hold onto.
—
San’s dorm room was smaller than he expected.
Bare walls. Two beds. A single flickering light. His suitcase sat unopened on the floor like he hadn’t fully committed to being there yet. His roommate was already asleep, back turned, breathing even and unfamiliar.
For the first time since he’d arrived, there was silence.
No instructors. No music. No mirrors judging him.
Just him.
San sat on the edge of the bed and finally let his shoulders slump, exhaustion crashing into him all at once. His hands were shaking—not from nerves, but from how tightly he’d been holding everything in all day.
He pulled out his phone.
One new message.
Did you get there safely?
You.
His chest tightened painfully. He typed, erased, typed again.
Yeah. I’m here.
Three words. It felt criminal how small they were compared to everything he wanted to say.
He stared at the screen, thumb hovering, then added:
I miss you.
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
I miss you too.
That was it. No call. No voice. Just text on a screen.
San laid back on the unfamiliar bed, arm thrown over his eyes, and felt something inside him fracture quietly. He’d wanted this his whole life. The training. The chance. The beginning of something bigger than him.
But the cost hit harder now, alone in the dark.
He wondered what you were doing. If you were lying awake like him. If you were staring at the same ceiling you always had. If you felt the same hollow ache in your chest, like something essential had been left behind.
“I’ll make it worth it,” he whispered to no one. “I promise.”
But promises felt thin out here.
San turned onto his side, clutching his phone like it was the only piece of home he’d been allowed to bring with him, and let the quiet settle in—suffocating, heavy, permanent.
Tomorrow, training would start.
Tomorrow, he’d be strong again.
Tonight, though, he missed you so badly it hurt to breathe.
—
San got his schedule the next morning.
It was printed neatly on white paper, clipped to a board with dozens of others just like it. Wake-up times. Training blocks. Evaluations circled in red. Days blurred together until they became numbers instead of moments.
At the bottom, almost as an afterthought, were two words that felt unreal.
Day off.
Singular.
Once every few weeks.
San stared at it longer than he should’ve, heart pounding like he’d just been given something fragile. Something he could lose if he wasn’t careful.
The first day of training nearly broke him.
His muscles were screaming by noon. Sweat soaked through his clothes until he couldn’t remember what dry felt like. Instructors barked corrections without names attached, mirrors reflected every flaw he’d never allowed himself to see before.
By the time he collapsed onto his bed that night, his hands were shaking again.
Still, he reached for his phone.
I got my schedule today, he typed.
I have a day off.
The reply came slower this time.
Really?
He swallowed, thumb hovering.
I want to see you.
If you want to.
There was a pause long enough for doubt to sink in, heavy and cold.
Then:
Of course I want to.
San let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding all day
Your first meeting felt unreal.
You stood at the station, hands tucked into your sleeves, scanning every face like you might miss him if you blinked. When you finally saw him, your chest tightened so hard it hurt.
He looked thinner. Tired. Still unmistakably San.
Neither of you didn’t say anything at first.
He dropped his bag, and you stepped into him like gravity had finally won. His arms wrapped around you instantly, strong despite the exhaustion, holding you like you might disappear if he let go.
“I missed you,” you whispered.
“So much,” he murmured into your hair.
When he pulled back, his hands framed your face without thinking, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes like he needed to reassure himself you were real. The kiss was soft, almost hesitant—then deeper, desperate in the way only I don’t know when I’ll see you again kisses could be.
“I miss you so much,” he whispered against your lips.
You nodded, forehead resting against his. “Me too.”
You met like that whenever you
could.
Quick meals. Long walks. Sitting side by side on benches with shoulders touching because it felt safer than standing apart. San talked about training in half-finished sentences, careful not to overwhelm you. You listened like every word mattered, like you were still part of that world if you tried hard enough.
Every goodbye hurt worse than the last.
You both always lingered too long, fingers intertwined, neither of you wanting to be the one to pull away first. The kisses became your language—slow, aching, whispered promises pressed into skin.
“I miss you so much,” you would always say, lips brushing his jaw.
“I know,” he’d reply softly. “I’m trying. I swear.”
And then he’d leave again.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
The meetings became less frequent, but never less intense. Every time felt like a reunion. Every time felt like a goodbye disguised as hope.
And somewhere between schedules and stolen moments, they both began to understand the same terrifying truth:
Love could survive distance.
But it would never come out unscarred.
San texted you late at night.
Can we talk?
Really talk.
Your heart sank immediately, the words familiar in the worst way. Still, you answered.
Yeah. When?
There was a pause.
My next day off.
It’s… Valentine’s Day.
You stared at the screen for a long moment, emotions tangling together—fear, hope, longing. Then you typed back what you always did when it came to him.
Okay. I’ll be there.
—
Valentine’s Day was cold, the kind that bit through layers.
You spotted him before he saw you, standing just a few feet away from the bench in the park you used to sit at years ago. San looked nervous—hands in his pockets, shoulders tense, eyes scanning the street like he was bracing for impact.
“San,” you said softly.
He turned, and whatever he’d been holding back shattered instantly. He crossed the distance in three quick steps and kissed you without hesitation.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was desperate. Full. His hands cupped your face as his mouth moved against yours, like he was trying to say everything he didn’t know how to put into words. You melted into it, fingers gripping his jacket, kissing him back just as fiercely—tongue brushing his in a way that made your chest ache with how much you had missed him.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, his forehead rested against yours.
“I needed to see you,” he murmured. “I needed this.”
You nodded, eyes already glassy. “Me too.”
San took a shaky breath and reached into his coat pocket. “I—um. I got you something.”
He pulled out a small box, simple and worn at the edges like he’d opened it a hundred times already. Your hands trembled as you took it, glancing up at him once before lifting the lid.
Inside was a locket.
You opened it slowly—and froze.
A tiny photo sat inside: the two of you on your first date, awkward smiles and tangled hands, caught in a moment neither of you had known would mean everything someday.
“Oh,” you breathed, tears spilling over instantly. “San…”
“I know I’m not here,” he said quickly, voice thick. “And I know I miss things. But I wanted you to have something that reminds you I’m still yours. That we’re still us.”
You broke then, crying openly, clutching the locket to your chest like it was keeping you together. San pulled you into him immediately, arms tight and protective, rocking you gently.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, pressing kisses into your hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
After a few moments, your breathing slowed. You wiped at your eyes, letting out a shaky laugh. “I’m sorry. I just—this means so much.”
He smiled softly. “You don’t ever have to apologize with me.”
You pulled back slightly, lashes wet with tears. “I got you something too.”
You picked up the bag you had set down, fingers fumbling with nerves of your own, and handed it to him with a shy smile. “Open it.”
San peeked inside—and froze.
A familiar plush stared back at him.
“Shiber?” he said softly, lifting the stuffed animal out like it was something precious.
“And,” you added, pulling out a small, carefully sealed vial, “my perfume. The full one. So you don’t have to ration the sample anymore.”
His throat worked as he stared at it, eyes shining.
“So… when it gets hard,” you said gently, “you can hug him. And spray this. And remember that I’m waiting for you. Okay?”
San didn’t trust himself to speak.
He just pulled you into another embrace, burying his face in your hair, holding you like this moment might be the only one that could keep him standing.
“I love you,” he whispered. “More than I know how to say.”
You hugged him back just as tightly. “Then hang on,” you said. “I am.”
And for just a little while, on Valentine’s Day, it felt like love might actually be enough.
You both stayed like that for a while—wrapped around each other, breathing in familiarity, pretending the world wasn’t waiting to pull him away again.
Eventually, you pulled back just enough to look at him.
“San,” you said quietly. “You said you wanted to talk.” Your voice wavered. “You sounded… serious.”
His jaw tightened immediately.
For a second, you thought he might dodge it. Kiss you again. Smile it away. But instead, he exhaled slowly, like he was bracing himself.
“I didn’t want to tell you over text,” he said. “I didn’t want you to be alone when you heard it.”
Your stomach twisted. “Tell me what?”
He swallowed hard.
“I’m debuting.”
The word landed between them like a fracture.
“I don’t know when exactly,” he rushed on, eyes shining now. “They haven’t given us a date. And I don’t know what the schedules will look like, or if I’ll be allowed days off, or—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know when I’ll get to see you again. Or if I even will.”
You stared at him, the edges of your vision blurring.
“Oh,” you whispered.
That was all you managed before it hit you fully—before the reality finally caught up to all the waiting and hoping and hanging on. Your hands came up to cover your face as a sob broke out of your chest, sharp and uncontrollable.
“I knew this was coming,” you cried. “I knew it, but—God, San, I didn’t think it would hurt like this.”
He was on you instantly.
His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against him as you shook, your forehead pressed into his shoulder. He held you like he was afraid you would collapse if he loosened his grip even a little.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted this to cost us this much.”
Your fingers clenched in his shirt, knuckles white. “I don’t want to lose you,” you sobbed. “I don’t want to become a memory you only carry in a locket.”
“You won’t,” he said quickly—but his voice betrayed him.
It cracked.
You had felt it then—the way his chest hitched beneath your cheek, the way his breath stuttered. When you pulled back slightly, you saw tears streaming down his face too, silent and devastating.
“I’m scared,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’m finally getting everything I dreamed of, and all I can think about is how far away you’ll be.”
You reached up, wiping his tears with trembling fingers. “You’re allowed to want this,” you breathed. “I just wish it didn’t mean losing us piece by piece.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m trying to hold on to you as long as I can.”
“I know,” you said, crying softly now. “I know you are.”
You both sat there, both of you breaking in quiet ways, clinging to each other in the middle of a city park that didn’t pause for heartbreak. San pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering like he was memorizing the shape of you.
“I love you,” he whispered, voice raw.
You nodded against him, tears slipping free again. “I love you too.”
And neither of you said what you were both thinking—that love might not be enough this time—because neither of you were ready to let that be true.
You both stayed like that for a long time.
No words. No fixing. Just arms wrapped tight, foreheads pressed together, tears soaking into familiar fabric. You cried until it dulled into quiet shudders. San held you like muscle memory, like this was something his body knew how to do even as his heart split open.
An hour passed without either of you noticing.
The world kept moving around you—cars, voices, laughter somewhere too close—but inside that small space, time felt suspended. Like if you stayed still enough, nothing else could reach either of you.
San’s phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
He ignored it at first, jaw tightening, fingers curling harder at your back. Then it rang again, sharp and insistent. Reality clawing its way in.
Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled the phone from his pocket.
“Hello?” His voice was hoarse.
You felt his body stiffen.
“Yes… yes, I understand.” A pause. “I’ll be there.”
He hung up.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stood there, eyes unfocused, thumb still hovering over the dark screen.
Then, quietly: “I have to go back to the studio.”
Your breath hitched like you had been punched.
“Now?” you asked, even though you already knew the answer.
He nodded once. “They need me.”
The silence that followed was unbearable.
San cupped your face gently, like you were something precious, something breakable. His eyes searched yours, desperate, imprinting every detail like he was afraid this might be the last time.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
You shook your head, tears spilling again. “I know. I know.”
He kissed you then.
Longer than he ever had before.
Not rushed. Not hesitant. It was deep and aching, full of everything he couldn’t give you and everything he wished he could promise. His hands held you like he was trying to pour himself into the moment—like if he kissed you hard enough, long enough, the distance wouldn’t dare touch them.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath shaking.
“I love you,” he said. “I won’t ever forget you. Not a single day.”
Your voice barely worked. “Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t forget me.”
He swallowed hard. “I never could.”
San picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. Then he hesitated, reaching down to grab the gift bag too—the one with Shiber and your perfume inside. He held it like it was something sacred.
“One more thing,” he said softly.
You looked up.
“Hang on to us,” he murmured. “Until I can come back.”
You nodded through tears. “I will.”
And then he turned away.
You watched him walk down the street, watched the familiar shape of him get smaller and smaller, watched him disappear into a world that no longer had room for you beside him.
The moment he was gone, your legs gave out.
You sank to your knees on the cold pavement, sobbing openly now, clutching the locket at your chest like it was the only thing keeping you from breaking completely.
San didn’t look back.
And you understood why—because if he did, neither of you would survive it.
So he didn’t.
And life, relentless and indifferent, kept moving.
—
The first few months were the hardest.
You both still texted sometimes—careful messages sent in the middle of the night or early mornings when loneliness was loudest. Nothing heavy. Nothing that asked for too much.
Did you eat?
I saw this and thought of you.
Good luck today.
San sent a photo once, accidentally or maybe not: a mirror selfie from a practice room. Shiber sat on the bench behind him, slightly worn already. You stared at it until your chest hurt.
You never replied to that one.
You learned quickly which songs to skip on the radio. Which streets to avoid. Which cafés felt too haunted to step into. Home became a museum of memories you hadn’t asked to curate.
Every corner held him.
The park. The station. The café where he’d kissed you like goodbye wasn’t enough.
So when the job offer came—unexpected, overseas, terrifying—you said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.
Leaving felt like betrayal.
Staying felt unbearable.
—
A year passed.
San fully debuted.
You watched it alone in a small apartment thousands of miles away, the stream buffering as his name appeared on screen for the first time. Your hands shook as you covered your mouth, tears blurring everything.
He looked different. Sharper. Brighter.
Still him.
You didn’t message him.
He didn’t message you either.
But that night, San laid in his dorm bed, staring at the ceiling, Shiber tucked under his arm, the faint scent of your perfume still clinging to the fabric after all this time.
“I made it,” he whispered to the dark.
He didn’t know who he was saying it for.
Time kept doing what it always does—softening some things, sharpening others.
You both stopped texting entirely.
Birthdays came and went unacknowledged. Anniversaries passed unnoticed except in the quiet tightening of a chest or the sudden need to step outside and breathe.
You learned the rhythm of a new city. New streets. New languages. New people who didn’t know the shape of your grief. You smiled more easily there. Slept better. Started believing you could be someone beyond the girl who waited.
Still, some days caught you off guard.
A familiar laugh on the train.
A song drifting out of a store.
The smell of your own perfume on a scarf you’d forgotten to wash.
San lived in fragments now—reflections in glass, echoes in sound.
And for San, reminders were everywhere.
Stage lights that burned too bright. Crowds chanting his name. Quiet hotel rooms after concerts where the silence felt heavier than the noise ever had.
Sometimes he caught himself reaching for his phone after something good happened—an award, a compliment, a small victory—before remembering there was no one left to send it to.
He watched couples in airports and wondered if you still cried the way you used to. If you still tucked your hair behind your ear when you were nervous. If you were happy.
He hoped you were.
Two years passed.
You stood in a different country, a different version of yourself, staring at a skyline that felt earned. You had built a life brick by brick, careful and deliberate. Some days, you barely thought of him at all.
Other days, everything reminded you.
San stood on a stage halfway across the world, bowing to fans who loved him fiercely and completely. He smiled because that was his job now. Because he had made it.
And somewhere deep inside, in a place success never quite reached, you carried each other quietly—no longer holding on, no longer reaching back, just existing as something soft and permanent.
A first love.
A goodbye that never really ended.
Another year passed.
Three, now.
Time didn’t heal so much as it rearranged the pain—tucked it into quieter corners, made it easier to live around. You had settled into your job, your routines, your new country. You laughed more easily. You had friends who only knew you now, not as someone’s before.
Most days, San existed as a distant fact. A name that trended. A face on billboards you scrolled past without stopping.
Most days.
Then one night, jet-lagged and restless, you opened your phone and saw the notification.
San is live.
You hesitated with your thumb hovering over the screen. Told yourself you didn’t need this. That you were fine.
You clicked anyway.
He was sitting casually, hair a little damp, hoodie loose around his shoulders. Comfortable. Real. The chat moved too fast to read, hearts flooding the screen. Shiber sat beside him, slightly faded, one ear bent in a way you recognized immediately.
Your chest tightened.
Someone in the comments asked about it.
Who’s the plush from?
You always keep it with you 🥺
San glanced sideways, smiling softly as he picked Shiber up, fingers brushing the worn fabric like it mattered.
“This?” he said. “Ah… he’s really important to me.”
You stopped breathing.
“He’s from someone I loved,” San continued, voice gentle but steady. “My first love.”
The chat exploded.
San laughed quietly, but it didn’t sound light. “Yeah. First love.”
He looked down for a moment, gathering himself, then back at the camera.
“She gave him to me when I left to train,” he said. “Along with her perfume, so I wouldn’t forget what home smelled like.”
Your hand flew to your mouth.
“I ran out of perfume and looked everywhere, only to find it had been discontinued. I only have him now,” he admitted. “And I always will.”
The chat slowed, sensing something real.
San swallowed. “I don’t talk about her much. I didn’t think it was fair. But…” He exhaled, shoulders dropping. “I miss her. A lot. I haven’t stopped thinking about her.”
You felt tears spill before you could stop them.
“She supported my dream when it cost her everything,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t be here without her. And sometimes I wish—” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I wish I could see her again. Even once.”
For a second, he looked like the boy you’d grown up with. Not an idol. Not untouchable.
Just San.
“I hope she’s happy,” he finished. “Wherever she is.”
The live ended minutes later.
You didn’t remember closing the app.
You sat there shaking, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. Three years of restraint, of learning how not to reach, collapsed in an instant.
He hadn’t forgotten you.
He was still holding on too.
By morning, you had made your decision.
You submitted your vacation request with steady hands. Booked the flight before fear could talk you out of it. Packed light—like you might not stay long, like you might break if you thought too hard about what you were doing.
When the plane lifted off, you pressed your forehead to the window, tears slipping free again—this time not from grief, but from something fragile and terrifying.
Hope.
Home still hurt.
But this time, it was calling you back.
And you were finally ready to answer.
You didn’t let yourself think on the flight.
If you did, fear would win. Doubt would creep in. You’d turn back before your feet ever touched the ground. So you focused on small, manageable things instead—the hum of the engine, the seatbelt sign, the way your hands shook no matter how tightly you clenched them.
When the plane landed, it felt unreal.
Home smelled the same. Sounded the same. Hurt the same.
You took a cab straight to the hotel, checked in on autopilot, dropped your suitcase at the foot of the bed without even opening it. You barely glanced at your reflection in the mirror—older, steadier, still unmistakably yourself.
Then you left again.
The company building was bigger than you remembered from photos. Glass and steel and security everywhere. It looked untouchable. Like a place where real life didn’t belong.
Your heart pounded as you approached the front desk.
“Hi,” you said, voice tight but polite. “I’m here to see Choi San.”
The receptionist’s smile flickered into something apologetic almost immediately. “Do you have an appointment?”
You shook your head. “No. But—I know him. I just need a minute.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said gently, already shaking her head. “Visitors aren’t allowed to see artists without prior approval. Especially without notice.”
The word artists felt like a wall slamming down.
“Oh,” you whispered. Your hands curled at your sides. “Right. Okay. Thank you.”
You turned away slowly, chest aching, trying to swallow the disappointment before it spilled over. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Of course you couldn’t just walk back into his life.
The elevator dinged behind you.
You didn’t turn at first.
Then you heard the sound of something hitting the floor.
A cup rolling. Liquid spilling.
“Y/N?”
The voice made you freeze in place.
You turned.
San stood just outside the elevator, eyes wide, color draining from his face as if he were staring at a ghost. His drink lay forgotten at his feet, dark liquid spreading across the marble floor.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Then San broke.
“Y/N—”
He crossed the lobby in seconds, ignoring the startled receptionist, ignoring the staff calling his name. His arms wrapped around you tightly—desperately—pulling you into him like he’d been afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t.
You gasped as the air left your lungs, then melted into him instantly, arms locking around his waist, face pressed into his chest.
“Oh my god,” he breathed, voice shaking against your hair. “You’re real. You’re really here.”
“I’m here,” you breathed, already crying. “I came back.”
His hands trembled as they held you, fingers digging in like he needed to anchor himself. You felt him shaking too—felt the way his breath hitched, the way his chest rose and fell too fast.
“I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, tears streaming freely now. “I heard you,” you said softly. “On your live. I heard everything.”
His eyes filled instantly.
“I meant every word,” he said, barely holding himself together. “I never stopped missing you. Not for a single day.”
He pulled you back into his arms, tighter than before, forehead resting against yours as if the world around you didn’t exist. The lobby had gone quiet. People stared. San didn’t care.
Neither did you.
You didn’t give yourself time to think. If you did, fear would rush in and ruin everything. So you did the only thing that felt true.
You kissed him.
It was instinctive—your hands sliding up to his shoulders, his breath catching sharply before he kissed you back just as hard. The world dissolved around them. The years, the distance, the silence—all of it collapsed into that single moment where you finally fit together again.
San’s hands cradled your face like he’d done it a thousand times in his dreams, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if to reassure himself you weren’t going anywhere. The kiss was deep, familiar, aching with everything you both had held back. You both melted into it, hearts pounding, breaths uneven, like your bodies remembered before your minds could catch up.
When you finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, both of you were shaking.
“I—” you laughed softly through tears. “I have something for you.”
San blinked, still breathless. “What?”
You stepped back just enough to reach into your bag, fingers fumbling slightly before you pulled out a small, familiar vial.
His breath hitched.
“It’s my perfume,” you said quietly. “The one you got for me. On our first date.” You swallowed. “I couldn’t use it anymore. Every time I tried, it just… reminded me of you too much.”
San stared at it like it was something sacred.
“So I kept it,” you continued softly. “Full. Almost untouched. I guess some part of me always thought—if I ever saw you again, I’d want you to have it.”
His eyes burned as he took it from you, hands careful, reverent. He lifted it slightly, breathing in as if the scent might still be there, like memory alone could bring it back to life.
“You kept this?” he whispered.
“I kept you,” you corrected gently.
San let out a broken laugh, pulling you back into his arms, pressing his face into you hair like he used to. “You have no idea,” he murmured. “How many nights this smell was the only thing that got me through.”
You closed your eyes, holding him just as tightly. “Then don’t let go this time.”
He didn’t answer with words.
He just held you—like he finally knew how close he’d come to losing you, and like he had no intention of ever making that mistake again.
San didn’t pull away this time.
He kept one arm wrapped around your waist, the other still holding the small vial of perfume like it was proof you had really come back.
He looked at you carefully—like he was studying you, memorizing the changes, the strength in your posture, the way your eyes still softened when they met his.
“Y/N,” he said quietly, voice unsteady in a way the world rarely got to see. “If I ask you something… will you answer honestly?”
You nodded. “Always.”
He swallowed, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Would you… would you want to try again? With me.”
Your breath caught in the back of your throat.
“After everything,” he continued, words tumbling out now, urgent. “After the distance. The silence. The years. I know I don’t deserve that kind of grace from you, but—” His voice cracked. “I don’t want to keep living like you’re just a memory I’m not allowed to touch.”
Your eyes filled instantly.
“San…” you breathed.
“I still love you,” he said, steady now. “I never stopped. And I don’t want to miss you from afar anymore.”
You searched his face, hope rising and fear right behind it.
“Are you allowed?” you asked softly. “Your company… your image… everything.”
For the first time since you’d known him, San didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll fight for it,” he said. “I’ll fight for you. I did everything they asked of me to get here. I gave up enough.” His hand tightened around yours. “If I have to fight to have you by my side again, I will.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks, but this time they felt different.
Not like goodbye.
Like possibility.
“You’d really do that?” you asked.
“I already am,” he answered.
You let out a shaky laugh through your tears. “You’re still dramatic.”
“And you still love me,” he said gently.
You stepped closer, closing the tiny space between you both. “Yeah,” you admitted. “I do.”
His breath hitched.
“So yes,” you said, voice firm despite the emotion. “I want to try again. I want us.”
For a split second, he just stared at you—like he needed to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.
Then he kissed you again.
This one wasn’t desperate like before. It wasn’t goodbye. It was warm, certain, full of the kind of relief that only comes after years of holding your breath. His hands rested securely on your waist, your hands sliding up to cup his jaw as you melted into each other like no time had passed at all.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling through tears.
“Hi,” he murmured softly, forehead resting against yours.
You laughed quietly. “Hi.”
And this time, when he held you, it didn’t feel like something he was about to lose.
It felt like something he had finally found again.
San didn’t let go of your hand as the lobby slowly returned to motion around them. Staff whispered, phones buzzed, someone quietly cleaned up the spilled drink—but he stayed anchored to you, like if he loosened his grip even a little, the universe might try to take you back.
“Stay with me today,” he said suddenly, almost shy. “Please. I don’t want to lose you again—not even for a few hours.”
You blinked. “I—are you sure?”
“I’ll handle it,” he said immediately. “I promise.”
He turned to the nearest manager, voice calm but unyielding. There was surprise at first, then recognition, then something softer. Words were exchanged in low tones, glances flicking between the two of them. Three years of silence hung heavy in the air.
Finally, the manager sighed. “For today,” they said. “We’ll allow it. Stay discreet.”
San exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.
He spent the day with you tucked quietly into the edges of his world.
You sat in the corner of a practice room, legs folded beneath yourself, watching him rehearse—really watching this time. He glanced at you constantly, grounding himself with the sight of you sitting there. During breaks, you shared coffee, shoulders brushing, conversations soft and amazed.
“You’re really here,” he kept murmuring, like a refrain.
“And you’re really you,” you’d reply, smiling.
At sunset, he walked you back to your hotel.
You stopped just outside the entrance, neither of you ready to say goodnight. The city hummed around you, unaware of how fragile and precious the moment was.
San cupped your face gently. “Thank you for coming back.”
You leaned into his touch. “Thank you for waiting.”
He kissed you then—slow, tender, full of promise rather than desperation. When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours.
“Sleep well,” he whispered. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here,” you promised.
—
When San returned to the dorms, reality hit hard.
One of the senior staff was waiting.
“We need to talk,” they said.
He knew what was coming.
“You can’t be with her,” they continued firmly. “You’re an idol now. Public relationships are—”
“No,” San interrupted, voice steady but fierce. “I won’t hear that.”
Hours passed.
Voices rose and fell. San paced. Argued. Refused to back down. He spoke about boundaries, about honesty, about what he had already sacrificed. About how loving someone didn’t make him reckless—it made him human.
“She’s not a distraction,” he said hoarsely at one point. “She’s the reason I survived getting here.”
Silence followed.
Eventually, compromise came—not gentle, but real.
“You can be together,” the staff said at last. “But not publicly. If she’s around you, she needs a role. Something believable.”
San didn’t hesitate. “She can do that.”
“She’ll have to pretend to be staff,” they added. “Styling assistant. Coordinator. Something that makes sense.”
He nodded. “She’ll be perfect.”
When he finally laid down that night, exhausted but resolute, San stared at the ceiling with a small, disbelieving smile.
They hadn’t made it easy.
But they hadn’t made it impossible either.
And for the first time in years, San fell asleep knowing you weren’t just a memory anymore.
You were his present.
And—if he had anything to say about it—his future.
San barely slept.
When he did, it was shallow and restless, dreams looping between the past and the present until morning finally dragged him back into reality. The first thing he did when he woke up was reach for his phone.
Are you awake?
The reply came almost instantly.
Yeah.
He didn’t waste time.
Can I come see you? We need to talk.
—
You sat together in the quiet corner of the hotel lounge, early enough that no one paid much attention. San kept his cap low, but his eyes never left yours.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, fingers lacing with yours under the table. “If we’re going to make this work.”
You squeezed his hand. “Okay.”
He took a breath. “The company agreed to let us be together. But… not publicly. If you’re around me, you’d have to pretend to be staff. Something believable. Someone who belongs there.”
You blinked once, absorbing it.
“Staff,” you repeated softly.
“I know it’s not ideal,” he rushed. “And I hate that it even has to be like this. But it’s the only way they’ll allow it right now.”
You looked down at your joined hands, thinking. Then you looked back up at him.
“I can do that,” you said simply. “If it means being with you.”
Relief flooded his face so fast it almost hurt to look at. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead lightly to yours.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
After a moment, you pulled back slightly. “But… San,” you said carefully. “How does this work long-term? I have to go back. My job is still overseas.”
The smile faded from his face.
He’d been thinking about that all night.
“What if you didn’t?” he said quietly.
You stilled. “What?”
“What if you quit,” he continued, voice steady despite how much this mattered. “And we find a place here. Somewhere private. Not the dorms. Somewhere that’s just ours.”
Your breath caught. “San—”
“I know it’s a lot,” he said quickly. “I know I’m asking you to uproot everything again. But I don’t want stolen hours anymore. I don’t want to love you in pieces.” His eyes shone. “I want to come home to you.”
The words settled between you, heavy and terrifying and full of hope.
Your heart thundered as you imagined it—no goodbyes at airport gates, no watching him disappear down streets alone. A life that wasn’t built around waiting.
“I left because staying hurt too much,” you said quietly . “I didn’t leave because I wanted to be gone forever.”
San reached up, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Then stay. With me.”
You searched his face for doubt, for hesitation.
There was none.
You let out a shaky laugh, tears gathering again. “Okay,” you said. “I’ll quit. We’ll figure it out together.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for three years straight, then pulled you into his arms, laughing softly into your hair.
“Really?” he murmured.
“Really,” you said, hugging him just as tightly. “I’m not running away again.”
San kissed your temple, then your forehead, then finally your lips—gentle but full, like a promise sealed.
“Then we’ll build something real,” he said. “Quiet. Ours.”
And for the first time since you were kids dreaming on cracked pavement, the future didn’t feel like something waiting to take him away.
It felt like something you were choosing—together.
The days that followed were strange and wonderful in equal measure, like living inside a secret neither of you wanted to wake up from.
Apartment hunting became your first shared mission.
You slipped through quiet neighborhoods and toured places tucked away from main roads—buildings with coded doors, underground parking, landlords who valued discretion. San kept his cap low, mask pulled up, while you asked the practical questions, clipboard borrowed from a real estate agent tucked under your arm like you already belonged in this world.
“This one has good soundproofing,” San murmured in one place, knocking lightly on a wall.
You smiled. “Of course that’s what you notice first.”
“And this,” he added, tugging you gently toward a window, “gets good light in the morning. You always liked that.”
You froze for half a second, then softened. “You remembered.”
“I remembered everything,” he said quietly.
When you finally found it—a modest apartment with a private entrance, neutral walls, and just enough space to feel like a beginning—you both stood in the empty living room holding hands, imagining furniture, routines, mornings that didn’t end in goodbye.
“This could be home,” you whispered.
San squeezed your fingers. “It will be.”
On his days off, they went on dates that didn’t look like dates to anyone else.
Coffee shops where he sat in the corner and you stood nearby, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like you were on duty. Late walks at night with hoodies pulled tight, shoulders brushing, laughter muffled into sleeves. Quiet dinners ordered in, eaten cross-legged on the floor of the half-furnished apartment.
Sometimes, when they thought no one was watching, he’d lean in and murmur, “You’re doing great, bodyguard.”
You’d roll your eyes. “Behave, client.”
People noticed you quickly.
Fans pointed you out in photos, in blurry videos taken from afar.
Who’s that new staff member?
Is she his bodyguard?
She’s always with him.
You played the role flawlessly—professional posture, neutral expressions, always half a step behind him in public. You learned schedules, routes, code names. You wore an earpiece you didn’t really need and carried yourself like you’d done this your whole life.
No one suspected a thing.
No one saw the way San’s hand found yours the second doors closed behind you. No one heard the soft come here murmured in elevators. No one noticed the way he relaxed only when you were close.
To the world, you were staff.
To him, you were everything.
Late at night, curled together on the couch, San would press his lips to your temple and whisper, “We’re really doing this.”
You would smile, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. “Yeah. We are.”
And for once, loving him didn’t feel like waiting for the next goodbye.
It felt like living.
You filled your days with small joys—stolen and deliberate.
Morning walks when San had a rare late call time, hats pulled low, fingers brushing but never fully linking in public. Movie nights in nearly empty theaters booked under staff names. Late dinners where you sat across from him, pretending to check schedules while he watched you like you were the only real thing left in the room.
You learned how to date quietly.
You stood beside him at events, posture sharp, expression neutral. He learned not to look for you too long in public, learned how to let the space exist between you without it hurting. It wasn’t easy—but it was yours.
And sometimes, it cracked.
A rumor here.
A slowed glance there.
A fan comment that lingered too long on the bodyguard who never leaves his side.
The company reacted quickly.
Schedules shifted. Separate call times. You were reassigned temporarily. San was sent overseas for a few days longer than planned. Every so often, you were pulled apart just enough to remind them how fragile this balance was.
Those nights were the hardest.
You still came home to each other—late, exhausted, clinging in the quiet of your apartment. San would bury his face into your shoulder, breathing you in like reassurance.
“They think distance will make it easier,” he’d murmur.
You would hold him tighter. “They don’t know about us.”
And you were right.
No one knew about the way he traced your knuckles absentmindedly while listening to music. No one knew about the way you learned his breathing patterns, and could tell when the day had been too much without him saying a word. No one knew about the arguments whispered in the dark, the compromises, the fear—and the way you always chose each other anyway.
Still, you endured.
Until one evening, San told you to dress nicely.
“Why?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.
He smiled in that familiar, unreadable way. “Just trust me.”
—
The rooftop was already glowing when you arrived.
Dim lights were strung overhead, warm and golden, draped from post to post like constellations brought down to earth. A small orchestra—just violins—played softly near the edge, music floating gently through the air instead of demanding attention.
Tables were spaced generously, dressed in white linens and candlelight.
No fans.
No strangers.
Only staff who had known San for years. Friends who’d watched him grow. Family who smiled when they saw you at his side—not as staff, but as you.
Conversations stayed low and respectful, laughter muted, like everyone understood they were witnessing something precious.
You stopped short. “San…”
He took your hand openly here—no pretending, no distance. “I wanted one night,” he said quietly. “One where we don’t hide.”
He pulled out your chair himself, brushing a kiss over your knuckles when you sat. Dinner unfolded slowly—courses paced just right, wine poured carefully, smiles exchanged across candlelight.
At one point, you leaned in and whispered, “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I did,” he replied just as softly. “You waited years for me. You crossed oceans back to me. This is the least I can do.”
The violins swelled slightly as the sun dipped lower, the city lights beginning to sparkle beneath them. San stood, holding out his hand.
“Dance with me.”
Your eyes filled instantly. “Here?”
“Especially here.”
You moved together slowly, surrounded by music and light, his hand warm at your waist, your head resting against his shoulder. Around you, conversations faded further, people giving you space without being asked.
For a moment—just one—the world felt kind.
And as San rested his forehead against yours, smiling softly, you realized something you hadn’t dared to believe before.
This wasn’t borrowed time anymore.
This was a life you were building—quietly, fiercely, and together.
You both sat back down, hands still lingering where the dance had left you. You were smiling, still a little breathless, when you noticed it—San had gone still. Not tense. Focused. Like the world had narrowed to a single point.
Your smile faltered, just slightly. “San…?”
He reached across the table and took both of your hands this time, firm, grounding. His thumb brushed over your knuckles once, twice—like he was steadying himself.
“I need you to listen to me,” he said softly.
The music continued somewhere behind you, violins low and warm, but everything else faded. The clinking of glasses, the quiet conversations—gone. All you could see was him.
“I’ve loved you longer than I knew how to survive loving someone,” San continued, voice steady but thick. “I tried to let you go because I thought it was the kind thing to do. And instead, I lost parts of myself I didn’t even realize you were holding together.”
Your chest tightened.
“When you came back,” he said, swallowing, “it felt like I could breathe again. Like I finally found the version of myself that didn’t feel unfinished.”
Then—before you could say anything—he stood.
Gasps rippled softly through the rooftop as San stepped around the table and dropped to one knee in front of you.
You froze.
“I don’t care how complicated this gets,” he said, looking up at you now, eyes shining. “I don’t care how many rules we have to bend, or how quietly we have to love for a while longer. I just know that every version of my future only makes sense if you’re there.”
He pulled a small box from his jacket, hands barely trembling now.
“Y/N,” he whispered, “will you marry me?”
For half a heartbeat, the world stopped.
Then you yelled.
“Yes—yes, yes, yes!”
You didn’t even wait for him to stand. You surged forward, knocking him back onto the ground with a laugh that sounded like relief and joy all at once. You straddled him, hands framing his face as you peppered kisses over his cheeks, his lips, his jaw.
“I love you,” you breathed between kisses. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
San laughed, full and unguarded, arms wrapping around you as tightly as he could. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmured before pulling you into a kiss that felt like promise.
You stood together moments later—him slipping the ring onto your finger, your hands shaking as you stared at it like it might disappear if you blinked.
Applause broke out around them. Warm. Genuine. Cheers mixed with laughter, staff wiping their eyes, friends clapping openly, family smiling like this was exactly how it was always meant to happen.
San cupped your face and kissed you again—slow this time, reverent.
And for once, there was no fear waiting behind the joy.
Only the sound of clapping hands, soft music under starlight, and the certainty that whatever came next—
They would face it together.
The night ended softly. No headlines, no spectacle—just San and you standing at the edge of the rooftop after everyone had gone, the city lights glowing beneath you both. You leaned into his chest, your fingers tracing the ring like you were still making sure it was real.
“Funny,” you murmured. “We keep finding each other on Valentine’s Day.”
San smiled, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Maybe it’s always been ours.”
Life didn’t suddenly become easy—but it became shared. Early mornings and late nights, disguises and quiet sacrifices. Loving him still meant patience, but it no longer meant waiting alone. At night, when the doors were closed and the world was quiet, they were just two people building a life in small, certain ways.
Years later, on another Valentine’s Day, San came home with tired eyes and a shy smile, holding nothing but your favorite takeout and a single rose.
“No rooftop this year,” he said.
You laughed, pulling him into a kiss. “I don’t need one.”
You ate on the couch, legs tangled, Shiber tucked between them, the old perfume vial still resting on the nightstand—empty now, but never forgotten.
Love didn’t feel like distance anymore.
It felt like coming home.
And every Valentine’s Day after that, no matter where you were, you both made one promise—
to choose each other, again and again.