The quiet apartment that evening felt heavier than usual. Kim Dan sat cross-legged on the floor beside the window, a mug of tea growing cold beside him. Outside, the city lights flickered like distant stars, but his gaze remained fixed on the darkened streets below.
His mind kept circling back to the few moments in the courtyard—the way Soo-jin's eyes had searched his face, the softness hidden beneath restraint. It was as if time itself had folded, bringing back every laugh, every promise, every argument they'd shared in college.
Unable to hold it in any longer, his thoughts slipped into the past, pulling him back to a different world—the world they once built together.
It was during their second semester that they first spoke.
The lecture hall had been half-empty, the late afternoon sun streaming in through tall windows. Students shuffled in lazily, some already scrolling through their phones, others setting notebooks aside with boredom.
Kim Dan had taken a seat by the aisle, his notes already spread out. A few minutes later, a young woman in a soft beige sweater entered, balancing a stack of books. Her dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and without thinking, he stood to give up his seat.
"Are you alright?" she asked, glancing at him with a smile that reached her eyes.
"I—yes. Please," he stammered.
She sat down, brushing her hair aside.
"Thanks," she said. "I'm Han Soo-jin."
"Kim Dan," he replied, suddenly self-conscious.
They exchanged polite smiles, but that small moment remained with him longer than he expected.
Their friendship bloomed quickly.
Within a week, they began studying together in the library. What started as occasional help with lecture notes turned into shared lunches, then weekend coffee outings near campus.
Soo-jin was vibrant, curious, and filled with ideas. She laughed easily, talked passionately about books, research, and dreams of traveling abroad.
"I want to apply for graduate school next year," she once told him over a late coffee, stirring her cappuccino absentmindedly.
Dan, listening intently, nodded. "That's amazing. You should definitely go."
"But what about… relationships?" she asked with a half-smile.
He hesitated. "Relationships… I guess we figure it out."
She tilted her head. "You're always so serious."
"I just… want to be prepared," he said quietly.
She laughed softly. "Prepared? You're already charming enough."
His ears flushed red, and he quickly looked away.
It wasn't long before he asked her out on a proper date.
They spent an entire afternoon wandering the old streets of the city, stopping at bookstores, watching the sunset by the river, and sharing fried snacks from street vendors. As night fell, they sat by a park bench, the air crisp with autumn's chill.
"Do you think we'll always be like this?" she asked, tracing patterns on the bench with her finger.
Dan smiled. "If we try hard enough."
She turned toward him, her eyes shining. "Then let's promise each other—we'll never let life pull us apart."
He reached for her hand, holding it gently.
"I promise," he whispered.
For the first time, she leaned closer.
The weeks that followed were filled with stolen glances, late-night study sessions, and messages exchanged past midnight.
They would share their fears, ambitions, and silly dreams about future adventures. She would call him in the middle of the night just to talk about how nervous she felt before exams, and he would listen patiently until she fell asleep.
During exam season, they sat side by side in libraries, occasionally stealing glances that made them smile in silence. They learned each other's rhythms, preferences, and quirks—the way she chewed on pens when anxious, or how he avoided confrontation but cared deeply.
It wasn't a perfect romance, but it was real.
But love, even at its brightest, can be fragile when dreams begin to pull two people in different directions.
One evening, after class, they sat on the steps outside the campus gates, wrapped in scarves.
"I've been thinking…" Soo-jin began hesitantly.
"Hmm?" Dan asked.
"I want to apply for graduate school in Europe," she blurted.
His smile faltered. "Europe?"
"I've always wanted to study abroad. The research opportunities, the environment—it's everything I dreamed of."
"That's… great," he said quickly, forcing cheerfulness.
"But it's far," she added, looking at him carefully.
His heart sank.
"Yeah," he muttered. "It's far."
She reached out to touch his hand. "I want you to support me."
He wanted to. He really did. But fear knotted his stomach.
"If you go, how… how will we… I mean—will it work?" he stumbled.
Her eyes clouded. "Are you saying you're scared I'll leave?"
"I'm saying…" He stopped. "I don't want to lose you."
She sighed, withdrawing her hand.
"Dan," she whispered, "I'm not trying to leave you. I'm trying to follow my dream."
But the words, though true, fell heavy between them.
The following months were strained.
They tried to talk about the future, but every conversation seemed to circle back to uncertainty, distance, and fear.
Dan buried himself in academics and part-time work, convincing himself that if he ignored the problem long enough, it would resolve itself.
Soo-jin kept her distance, focusing on preparing her applications. Her smile faded, replaced by quiet determination.
The day she received her acceptance letter, she called him with trembling hands.
"I got in," she whispered.
Dan smiled weakly. "That's… amazing."
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"I know," he said softly.
But in that moment, neither could bridge the gap between love and ambition.
Days later, they sat across from each other in a small café.
"I think… it's better if we… end this before it gets harder," she said, eyes filled with unshed tears.
His heart twisted painfully. "You mean… break up?"
She nodded.
"I don't want to lose you," he whispered, his voice breaking.
"I don't want to hurt you," she replied.
They sat in silence, tears glistening at the edges of their eyes.
Without a proper goodbye, without drama, they parted.
The memory faded slowly, as if dissolving into the quiet hum of his apartment.
Kim Dan's eyes glistened, but he blinked the tears away.
That chapter of his life had closed years ago, or so he thought. Yet, seeing her now—tired, vulnerable, carrying the weight of grief and responsibility—stirred something deeper than nostalgia. It awakened compassion, regret, and a longing to right what had once gone wrong.
His mug sat untouched beside him, the tea now cold and bitter.
He whispered to the empty room, "I failed you back then."
Outside, the city lights flickered once more, as if urging him forward.
Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would face her with honesty—not as the boy afraid of losing love, but as the man ready to stand beside it.