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The bell above the door rang softly, the sound blending into the quiet hum of the afternoon. It was also the kind of sound most people ignored.
Routine. Forgettable. Ordinary.
But for some reason, the moment it rang, something inside my chest tightened.
I didn’t look up immediately.
I was too used to people coming and going. Too used to strangers becoming temporary presences in a place I built to survive loneliness.
My hands continued moving automatically, wiping the counter that was already clean. The faint scent of mix nutty aroma and floral with a subtle dark chocolate clung to my skin, familiar and grounding.
“Ali, ito ba ‘yon?”
My hand stopped.
It wasn’t the words… it was the voice.
Four years.
Four years since I last heard it, and somehow, my body recognized it before my mind could catch up.
My fingers tightened around the cloth.
Slowly, carefully, I lifted my head.
And there he was.
Kim Mingyu.
Standing inside my matcha place like he had never left.
The world didn’t stop. The place didn’t fall silent.
Nothing dramatic happened.
But inside me, everything collapsed at once.
He looked older.
Not in a bad way. Heck! No matter what happened, he would never look bad.
Just… lived in.
His shoulders were broader. His posture more grounded. His hair slightly longer than how he used to keep it. He’s wearing neutral colors and clean lines hugging his built perfectly. He always liked things that looked effortless but intentional.
He looked like someone who had built a life without me.
My chest tightened.
I didn’t know what hurt more.
Seeing him again… or realizing he was no longer mine to miss.
He wasn’t alone.
Beside him stood a woman, her arm looped comfortably around his. She was beautiful in a quiet way, her dress soft and flowing, her other hand resting protectively over the curve of her stomach.
She was pregnant.
The realization didn’t hit all at once.
It settled slowly, painfully, like something sinking deep into my bones.
Of course.
Of course he had moved on.
Of course he found someone else.
Of course he built the future we once planned together with someone who wasn’t me.
I didn’t realize I was staring until the woman spoke.
“This is the place I told you about,” she said, looking up at him with a smile that was gentle and certain.
He didn’t answer immediately. He was looking at me.
Not past me. Not around me. At me.
Like he wasn’t expecting me to be real.
Like he had spent years convincing himself I only existed in memory.
My throat felt dry. I forced myself to breathe. I had practiced this.
Not this exact moment, but the idea of it. The idea that one day, he would come back into my life as someone else’s person. I just didn’t expect it to hurt this much.
The woman stepped forward slightly, her smile warm and polite.
“Hi,” she said. “You’re the owner, right?”
My voice almost failed me. “Yes.”
It sounded unfamiliar.
Too formal.
Too distant.
She brightened. “I’ve tried your drink once from a pop up in Podium and I’ve been craving it since then.”
I nodded slowly, my fingers curling against the counter. “Oh wow… thanks.”
My mouth opens, closes, opens again. Like a goldfish lost for words.
She glanced back at him briefly before looking at the menu.
“I really love matcha,” she added, almost shyly.
My chest tightened.
So did he.
Because he knew.
He knew what it meant to me.
The guy beside her didn’t say anything. He just stood there.
Silent.
Watching.
Waiting.
“Can I get the Banana Pudding Matcha?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Of course.”
My hands moved on their own.
I grab the bamboo whisk, felt its smooth wood against my fingers, and dip it into the vibrant green powder. Just a little water… not too hot, not too cold. And then I start the M-W motion. Back and forth, up and down. Movements I had repeated thousands of times.
Movements that had never betrayed me before.
But now, they felt heavier.
Because she was here. Because he was here.
Because this was real.
I handed her the cup carefully.
She accepted it with both hands, smiling, “Thank you.”
She took a sip. Her eyes widened immediately, “This is really good!”
The words should have made me happy. Instead, they made something ache inside my chest. Because once upon a time, he used to say that too… or at least try to say it because we both know he doesn’t like the slight vegetal taste of that drink.
He still hadn’t said anything.
Not a word.
Not my name.
Nothing.
I wondered if he couldn’t or if he wouldn’t.
They sat near the window. He helped her pull out the chair gently, his hand instinctively hovering near her back to steady her.
The gesture was soft.
Careful.
Familiar.
He used to do that for me too.
I looked away. I didn’t have the right to remember anymore.
I focused on cleaning, on breathing, on pretending my heart wasn’t breaking all over again.
They didn’t stay long. She finished her drink slowly, savoring it. Before they left, she approached the counter again. Her smile was sincere.
“I’ll definitely come back.”
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
She hesitated briefly before adding, “This might be my favorite matcha place.”
Favorite.
The word lingered in the air.
She turned and walked toward the door.
He stayed behind. Just for a second. Just long enough for silence to wrap around us. He looked at me like he wanted to say something. Like there were years of words trapped somewhere between us.
But he didn’t speak. He just nodded once.
Small.
Careful.
Respectful.
Like I was no longer someone he could reach. Then he turned. And left.
The bell rang again.
And just like that, he was gone.
Again.
I stood there long after the door closed.
Long after their footsteps faded. Long after the air stopped feeling like him.
I thought I was prepared. I thought four years was enough time to turn love into memory.
I was wrong.
Because seeing him again didn’t feel like remembering. It felt like losing him all over again.
I first saw him when I was seventeen and too serious for my own good. It was senior high school orientation, the kind where everyone pretends to be confident, and not scared because of the new environment.
I was sitting near the back of the auditorium, already planning how to survive the next two years unnoticed, when someone dropped into the seat beside me like the world had personally invited him.
“May nakaupo ba dito?”
I glanced at the empty chair he was already sitting on.
“Wala, at nakaupo ka na rin naman d’yan.”
“Good,” he grinned, without hesitation, he introduced his name, “Kim Mingyu.”
I stared at him for half a second too long before telling my name back. “Jeon Wonwoo.”
He smiled like he had just discovered something interesting.
“You look like you don’t like people.”
“I don’t,” I answered honestly.
He laughed. Loud. Unapologetic.
“Okay. I’ll sit here then.”
I didn’t ask why. He didn’t explain.
But from that day forward, he never sat anywhere else.
Mingyu was the type of person who filled a room without trying. Teachers liked him. Classmates gravitated toward him. Even the strictest professors softened when he smiled at them.
And for some reason, he always chose to walk beside me.
At first, I thought it was temporary. A phase. Something that would fade once he found someone more interesting.
He never did.
He would wait for me after class even when his friends, Cheol and Hao, were calling him over. He would steal half of my lunch without asking. He would complain about Math like it’s the bane of his existence (not, he’s actually good at it).
“You’re too quiet,” he told me one afternoon as we walked home.
“You’re just too loud,” I replied.
He grinned. “Kaya nga parang bagay tayo.”
It was ridiculous.
It was just a silly joke, but to me it was everything.
By the time we graduated senior high, loving him felt less like a choice and more like something that had always existed. We didn’t confess dramatically. There was no grand moment.
It happened one rainy evening, stuck under the waiting shed because neither of us brought umbrellas.
He was unusually quiet.
“You ever think about the future?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Do you see someone?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“In it,” he clarified. “When you think about it. Do you see someone beside you?”
I looked at him then. Really looked at him. And suddenly, the answer felt obvious.
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
“…Who?”
“You.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was electric.
He laughed softly, almost disbelieving.
“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t see anyone else either.”
That was how it began. No labels at first.
Just us.
College came and went. He pursued Architecture with relentless determination. I chose Accountancy because it was stable, practical, safe.
He would stay up late sketching building designs, papers scattered across the floor. I would sit beside him reviewing numbers, occasionally glancing at the crease between his brows when he concentrated.
We grew up together.
We learned adulthood together.
We made mistakes together.
Eleven years passed like that.
Birthdays and holidays celebrated in small restaurants or at home with our both families.
Arguments about who forgot to buy detergent. Long bus rides holding hands like we were still seventeen.
Everyone assumed we would get married eventually.
We thought so too.
But assumption is dangerous. Because when something feels guaranteed, you stop protecting it.
The fights started small.
He would come home late from site visits, exhausted and irritable.
I would snap about dishes left in the sink.
He would say I was too critical.
I would say he wasn’t listening.
It wasn’t explosive. It was constant.
A quiet friction that never fully disappeared.
“I feel like we’re just… existing,” I admitted one night.
He rubbed his face tiredly. “We’re adults, Wonwoo. This is what it’s like.”
I nodded.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe love just becomes quieter over time.
But quiet doesn’t have to mean empty.
Somewhere along the way, we stopped trying to surprise each other. Stopped asking deeper questions. Stopped choosing.
We were still together. But it felt like we were moving in parallel lines instead of holding hands.
Then Japan happened.
He came home one evening with an expression I hadn’t seen in a while.
Excited. Alive.
“I got offered a project abroad,” he said.
“Where?”
“Tokyo.”
My chest tightened, but I forced a smile. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s huge, Wonwoo. International firm. Big projects.”
I nodded.
I was proud. Of course I was proud. “How long?”
He hesitated.
“Two years. Maybe longer.”
There it was. The unspoken question.
“Are you going?” I asked.
He looked at me carefully. “Yes.”
Not “Do you want me to?”. Not “Should I?”
Just yes.
We didn’t scream. We didn’t accuse. We just slowly realized we wanted different things at the same time.
He wanted expansion. I wanted stability.
He wanted movement. I wanted roots.
“I don’t want you to stay for me,” I told him one night, sitting on the edge of our bed.
“And I don’t want you to give up your life for mine.”
He looked at me like he wanted to argue.
But he didn’t.
Because deep down, we both knew this wasn’t just about Japan and his career. It was about the routine we couldn’t escape. About loving each other but no longer knowing how.
The night we decided to end it didn’t feel like an ending.
It felt like exhaustion.
“We’ve been together eleven years,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“Maybe we just need space.”
“Maybe.”
He reached for my hand.
“Maybe we’ll get married one day.”
I smiled, even though tears blurred my vision.
“Or maybe I’ll just be the owner of your partner’s favorite matcha place.”
He shook his head, laughing weakly.
“That’s stupid.”
“Maybe.”
But the thought stayed with me.
He left three weeks later. The apartment felt bigger.
Quieter.
Empty.
I threw myself into work. Spreadsheets. Audits. Deadlines.
But numbers didn’t fill silence, they just measured it.
One afternoon, after staring at a screen for hours, I realized something terrifying. I was living a life I chose for safety, not happiness.
So I quit.
It wasn’t impulsive. It was inevitable.
Making drinks had always been my comfort.
Something steady. Something patient.
So I opened a matcha place with my savings and whatever courage heartbreak left me.
It started small. Joined a few pop ups here and there. And it grew slowly, organically and people came back. They said it felt peaceful. I didn’t tell them it was built from grief.
Years passed.
I heard about him occasionally through mutual friends. He was doing well winning awards, leading project, and living the dream.
I told myself that was enough. Until he walked into my matcha place again. And everything I thought I had healed split open.
The day after he came with the pregnant woman, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the way he looked at me.
Not distant.
Not indifferent.
Just… careful.
The next afternoon, the bell rang again. I didn’t expect him. But there he was. Alone.
He stood awkwardly near the counter.
“She’s not my wife,” he said immediately.
I blinked. “What?”
“My cousin’s wife,” he clarified. “She’s obsessed with your matcha. I didn’t know this was your place.”
Relief hit me so fast it almost made me dizzy.
“And the baby?”
He smiled faintly. “Definitely not mine.”
I exhaled slowly.
“Oh.”
He studied my expression.
“You thought—”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer.
“I never got married.”
Neither did I.
Silence stretched between us, but it felt different now. Less painful. More honest.
“I thought you hated me,” he admitted quietly.
I frowned.
“I never hated you.”
“I thought leaving meant losing you completely.”
“It did,” I said softly. “For a while.”
He nodded.
“I wasn’t ready then.”
“For what?”
“For us.”
The honesty in his voice made my chest tighten.
“I was chasing something. I thought success would make everything clearer. But no matter where I went… it always felt like I left something unfinished.”
My hands rested on the counter between us.
“You did.”
He swallowed.
“Do we get to finish it?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
Because love the second time around isn’t about intensity. It’s about intention.
“Only if we choose to,” I said finally.
He reached across the counter slowly. His fingers brushed mine. I could feel the warmth of his skin through mine, steady and calming, and for a second, all the doubts swirling in my head just… stopped. My heart thumped in a way that was both quiet and loud all at once, because who knew a simple touch could mean so much?
“I’m choosing,” he whispered.
And for the first time in years, I believed him.
He started visiting often.
At first for the matcha.
Then to help close.
Then to stay.
We talked. About everything we used to avoid. About the fears we buried deep, the expectations we never said out loud. About how truly loving someone long-term wasn’t about assuming things would just work. It was about effort.
Constant, messy, honest effort.
He didn’t pull back immediately. He didn’t rush me, and neither did I rush him. We took our time. Slow, careful, like learning to walk together again after falling.
And then… we dated again. Not like before. Better. Wiser. Hopeful. And I realized, maybe this is what love was supposed to feel like all along.
One evening, as we stood behind the counter together, he looked around the place.
“You built this,” he said softly.
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful.”
I glanced at him.
“You were wrong, you know.”
“About what?”
“That maybe you would be the owner of my partner’s favorite matcha place.”
I smiled.
“And?”
He stepped closer, his hand sliding into mine.
“Good thing I never got another partner,” he said, calm, almost casual, but the words hit me harder than anything I’d expected.
I laughed, shaky and breathless. For the first time in years, it didn’t hurt. Not really.
We didn’t fix everything overnight. There were quiet nights that stretched too long, little fights, moments when doubt whispered in our ears. And yet… we chose each other. Every single day. Not because sparks flew constantly. Not because it was perfect.
Love is choosing to stay, even when your heart isn’t exploding every second.
And real love is staying when it’s hard, holding on when it’s easier to walk away.
No assumptions. No drifting apart without notice.
Just effort. Just hands that find each other again, and hearts that refuse to let go.
This time, it wasn’t built on routine. It was built on understanding, patience, and the courage to try again.
Years ago, I thought losing him was the end. But it wasn’t. It was just a pause. A chance to learn how to love properly, fully, and without fear.
Our love doesn’t fail. It waits. And when the time came, we realized that love is about choosing each other, every single day, no matter what. It waits until we’re ready to do it right.
The bell rang again one day.
I didn’t look up immediately. Not because I didn’t hear it, but because I already knew.
There was a specific hesitation in the way he opened doors. Careful, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to enter. Like he was afraid the space would reject him. It never did.
I finished pouring the matcha into a cup before lifting my gaze.
Mingyu stood near the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes scanning the place like he was memorizing it.
Memorizing me.
“You’re early,” I said.
He blinked slightly, surprised.
“For what?”
“You don’t usually come until afternoon. Walang site visit?”
A slow smile spread across his face.
“You noticed.”
I regretted it immediately. He stepped closer, resting his elbows lightly on the counter.
“You always notice things,” he said while grinning. Ang gwapo huhu.
I didn’t respond. I focused on adjusting the lid of the cup in my hand. He watched every movement I’m making.
“You’re staring,” I said without looking up.
“I know.”
“…Why?”
He tilted his head slightly. “Making up for lost time.”
My chest tightened, but I refused to let it show. He glanced at the menu, even though we both knew he wasn’t really reading it.
“One Matcha Latte,” he said. His lips twitched.
“…The grass-flavored one.”
I froze.
Grass-flavored.
Years passed, and he still remembered exactly how to provoke me. I looked up slowly.
“You don’t have to order it.”
“I know.”
He leaned slightly closer. “I want to.”
I sighed, reaching for the matcha tin can. “You always said it tasted like grass.”
He shrugged.
“I was immature.”
“Trentahin ka na.”
“Still immature.”
I tried not to smile.
He watched as I whisked the matcha carefully, his eyes following every precise movement.
“You make it look easy,” he said quietly.
“It isn’t.”
He nodded. “I figured.”
I handed him the cup.
He took it, his fingers brushing mine briefly. Neither of us pulled away immediately. He took a sip. His expression didn’t change.
“Well?”
He swallowed. “…Still tastes like grass.”
I scoffed. “Then stop ordering it.”
He smiled softly. “No.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. That day, he stayed longer. Not saying much. Just sitting near the counter, occasionally watching me when he thought I wouldn’t notice. But I always noticed.
That became his routine. He came in almost every day. Sometimes he ordered matcha. Sometimes he ordered nothing at all, just helping me with whatever I need to run my business.
One evening, after closing, I found him waiting outside.
“You’re like a stalker, Min.” I joked.
He grinned. “Maybe.”
I locked the door of the matcha place.
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to walk you home.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know, but I want to”
He said it simply.
Like it wasn’t obligation. Like it was choice.
We walked in silence at first. The air between us wasn’t heavy anymore. Just uncertain.
“I missed this,” he said eventually.
“What?”
“Walking beside you without pretending you’re just a a person whom I shared my life with in the past.”
I didn’t know how to respond. Because I missed it too. More than I ever admitted.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into something that felt dangerously close to familiarity again.
But it wasn’t routine.
It was intentional.
He asked questions now. Real questions.
“Why matcha?” he asked one night as we sat inside the matcha place after closing.
I considered the answer carefully.
“Because it’s honest.”
He frowned slightly.
“What does that mean?”
“You can’t rush it. You can’t fake it. If you don’t prepare it properly, it shows, it tastes.”
He nodded slowly. “And you like that.”
“Yes.”
He looked at his cup.
“I used to think it was just grass.”
I rolled my eyes. He smiled.
“But I think I understand now.”
I didn’t understand what he meant by what he said. It wasn’t until months later that I found out.
He came in one afternoon holding a huge box.
“I got something,” he said.
I looked up from the counter. “What is it?”
He placed the box carefully in front of me.
“Open it.”
I hesitated before opening.
Inside were small sealed tins, each labeled in Japanese, a chasen, and a cute Calcifer chawan.
I frowned. “…What is this?”
He watched my reaction carefully.
“Uji matcha,” he said while helping me unbox the items inside.
My breath caught. I picked up one of the tins, my fingers trembling slightly.
“This is—”
“From Japan,” he finished.
I looked at him.
“You went there?”
He nodded. “Recently.”
My chest tightened. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I wasn’t sure I was allowed to.”
Allowed. The word hurt more than it should.
“Why?”
He leaned against the counter, his eyes softer than I remembered. “Because I wanted to understand better.”
“Understand what?”
“You.”
Silence filled the space between us. He continued quietly.
“I visited Uji.”
My grip on the tin tightened. He wasn’t joking.
“I went to the farms,” he said. “I watched how they grow it. How they harvest it. How they protect it from sunlight so the flavor develops properly.”
I couldn’t speak.
“I went to Yame too,” he added. “Different soil. Different process. Different taste.”
My throat felt tight.
“Why would you do that?” He smiled faintly.
“Because you loved it.”
The simplicity of his answer broke something inside me.
“I used to tease you,” he continued. “Say it tasted like grass.”
“You did.”
He nodded. “But when I was there… watching the people who spent their entire lives perfecting it…”
He hesitated.
“I realized it was never just grass.” His eyes met mine. “It was passion.”
My chest ached.
“I thought,” he said quietly, “if fate ever let our paths cross again… I wanted to be someone who understood the things you loved. Not someone who dismissed them.”
I couldn’t breathe properly.
“I wanted to match your passion,” he admitted.
The words settled deep inside me. Because this wasn’t routine.
This wasn’t habit.
This was effort.
This was choice.
“I brought those back for you,” he said.
I stared at him.
“Not as a customer,” his voice softened “but as someone who still wants to be part of your world.”
I didn’t realize I was crying until he stepped closer.
His fingers hovered near my face before gently wiping away a tear.
“You don’t have to decide anything,” he said softly.
“I’m not asking you to go back to how we were.” He paused.
“I just want the chance to love you better this time.”
My heart had spent four years learning how to live without him. But it never learned how to stop loving him.
“I was afraid,” I admitted.
“Of what?”
“That we would fall back into routine.”
He shook his head.
“We won’t.”
“How do you know?”
He took my hand carefully.
“Because I know what it feels like to lose you now.” His grip tightened slightly.
“And I’ll never let myself forget that again.”
Love the second time wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t overwhelming.
It was steady.
Intentional. Real.
He didn’t rush me. He didn’t demand anything I wasn’t ready to give. He stayed. Every day. Quietly, patiently, choosing me again and again.
Not because it was familiar. Not because it was easy. But because it was me. Because he saw me, the messy, stubborn, stubbornly guarded me, and he still chose to stay.
As we stood behind the counter together, he took a sip of matcha and made a face, “Still tastes like grass.”
I laughed, shoving his shoulder. “Then stop drinking it.”
He smiled, pulling me closer.
“Never.”
Because this time, it wasn’t about the taste. It was about the person who made it. And this time, he wasn’t leaving.
Not again.
Now, every time he walks in, the world narrows to his hand in mine, my heart in rhythm with his, and I feel home.