The office air still carried the faint scent of fresh paint from the renovation, but Kim Dan hardly noticed it. His eyes were fixed on the screen in front of him, where congratulatory emails from colleagues and corporate newsletters glowed like small victories. He leaned back in his chair, the hard leather adjusting softly to his posture as he let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.
Promotion confirmed.
The words still echoed in his mind like a distant applause.
At twenty-six, Kim Dan had finally stepped into a new phase of his life. The promotion came not from favoritism or charm, but from long hours, relentless effort, and a quiet persistence that had become his identity. There was satisfaction in being recognized, a warmth that spread across his chest—not pride exactly, but something softer, more grounded. He had been working toward this milestone for years, and now that it was here, he felt strangely empty.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. His coworkers, some still buzzing with excitement, were typing reports or whispering about weekend plans. But Dan sat still, palms resting loosely on the desk, staring at his reflection in the darkened screen.
So this is it, he thought, this is what it feels like when you reach where you thought you wanted to be.
His phone buzzed quietly on the desk. A message from his mother popped up:
"Proud of you, son. Let's celebrate soon."
He smiled faintly. She always knew how to say the right thing. He typed a quick reply and set the phone back on silent.
Just then, his eyes drifted toward the window by the corner of the office. Beyond the parking lot, a moving truck was unloading boxes at the neighboring building. Curious, he stood and walked toward the window, the cool air brushing against his neck.
The movers were unpacking household items: suitcases, small furniture, plants wrapped in newspaper, children's toys, a stroller.
Then he saw her.
His breath hitched.
For a moment, his eyes refused to believe what they were seeing. The sunlight caught the outline of her profile—soft jawline, slightly tired eyes—but unmistakably hers.
Han Soo-jin.
The woman he hadn't seen in years. His college love, the one he had sworn he would never forget. The one he had lost—not to distance or betrayal, but to fear, ambition, and cowardice. They had parted ways abruptly, quietly, like two ships drifting apart in a fog without sound.
His stomach tightened.
Soo-jin bent down to lift a small girl from the stroller. The child's soft hands grabbed at her hair as she laughed. Soo-jin smiled, though the smile did not quite reach her eyes.
Kim Dan's heart skipped. The years fell away in an instant.
He stood frozen, watching as movers carried in the last of the boxes.
For several seconds, time seemed to stretch. His mind raced through memories—coffee dates in quiet cafés, long walks under university arches, whispered arguments about career paths and life choices, nights spent pouring dreams into each other's hands, and then the cold, suffocating silence after they broke up.
His eyes followed every movement. She placed the child gently on the floor, adjusting her coat as she glanced around the new apartment. She looked exhausted. Older. Softer.
Then, to his disbelief, she glanced up—and their eyes locked.
The world around him fell silent. The office buzz disappeared. His pulse pounded in his ears.
Soo-jin's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a flash of surprise mixed with guarded restraint. She didn't smile, didn't wave, didn't pretend she hadn't seen him. Instead, her eyes froze, searching his face like an old photograph come to life.
Kim Dan's mouth went dry.
He wanted to look away, to pretend that he hadn't noticed, that this was merely a passing resemblance. But his gaze wouldn't shift. A strange pull rooted him to the spot.
Soo-jin turned away first, gathering the child's small jacket before entering the apartment. For a moment, she hesitated by the doorway, as if considering whether to come back. But then she disappeared inside.
Dan exhaled, his chest tight.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the window pane.
Of all the buildings… of all the possible places she could live, he whispered to himself.
He closed his eyes briefly. The silence in the office returned, but his world had already changed.
A Walk Back to His Desk
Kim Dan sat at his desk, but the chair felt strange beneath him. His fingers tapped nervously against the polished surface. The congratulatory messages felt distant. His colleagues' laughter, once friendly, now grated against his nerves.
He opened a drawer, took out his planner, and absentmindedly traced the embossed lines with his fingertip.
Why now?
What is she doing here?
Does she… know I'm here? Does she care?
He tried to push the thoughts aside, but they returned in waves. His eyes darted toward the window repeatedly.
Then a soft voice at his desk pulled him out of his spiral.
"Dan, everything alright?" It was Min-ho, his closest coworker, leaning over the partition.
He forced a smile. "Yeah. Just… thinking."
Min-ho chuckled. "Promotion thinking or life thinking?"
Dan didn't answer. He wasn't sure himself.
That evening, Kim Dan returned to his apartment with a distracted mind. The elevator ride felt unusually long. He placed his briefcase by the door and stood staring at the hallway leading to his apartment.
From the window, he could see the lights flicker on in the building next door. Children's laughter echoed faintly, mingling with the occasional creak of unpacked furniture.
He sat by the window and allowed the past to flood him.
College days. Dreams. The sweetness of love before it turned into fear.
He remembered how she had wanted to pursue graduate school abroad, how he had hesitated to follow, worried about uncertain prospects. He had been proud, protective—and perhaps controlling. She had withdrawn quietly, and one day, without confrontation, she was gone.
He hadn't seen her since.
Now she was here again. With a child.
His jaw tightened.
He rubbed his temples. "What am I supposed to do now?" he whispered.
But the child's laughter from next door broke through the walls of his solitude. It was clear that her life had changed dramatically. She carried grief silently, and yet she stood strong. He felt both guilt and compassion wash over him.
For the first time in years, he felt not only longing but responsibility.
As he lay awake that night, Kim Dan stared at the ceiling. The familiar ache stirred inside him—the ache of love lost, of choices regretted, of loneliness that had slowly become normal.
But tonight, normal no longer felt safe.
Tomorrow, he told himself.
Tomorrow, he would face her.
No matter how hard it was.
No matter how much it hurt.
No matter what memories resurfaced.
For in life, beginnings often come dressed as endings.
And for Kim Dan, this new beginning next door was about to change everything.