The city looked different at night.
Not just darker—but quieter. Softer.
The blaring horns, the screech of tires, the blur of people always moving—Seoul by day was a rhythm of urgency. But Seoul by night? It slowed down. It breathed. It shimmered in half-silence, as if the whole world had exhaled at once and finally allowed itself to rest.
Saanvi stood still on the sidewalk outside the school gates, phone clutched in her hand like it might vanish if she loosened her grip. The glow of the screen cast pale light across her fingers. She reread the message for the fifteenth time.
[Meet me at the rooftop. Tonight. 11 PM. – J]
Short. No emojis. No explanation. No context.
And yet, it felt like the most important sentence she'd ever read.
She glanced at the time—10:58 PM. Her heart thudded like a soft drum against her ribs. She didn't know what made her come. She'd told herself all day that she wouldn't. That it was a bad idea. That he didn't deserve another midnight meeting. Not after disappearing for weeks without so much as a single word.
But her feet didn't listen.
Maybe it was curiosity.
Maybe it was closure.
Maybe… maybe it was something else.
Something she didn't want to name.
The school building loomed ahead—tall, familiar, eerie in the moonlight. Most of the windows were dark. The janitor's room downstairs had a single light glowing behind its frosted glass, and a mop rested lazily by the door.
The rooftop stairs creaked with every step she took, like the building itself didn't approve of late-night meetings. When she reached the final door, her hand paused on the handle. For just a second. One breath. One heartbeat. One memory.
Then she pushed it open.
The rooftop greeted her with wind. Soft, cool, brushing her cheeks like an old friend.
And there he was.
Sitting on the edge of the railing, back to her, legs swinging carelessly into the void, skateboard resting by his side. His hoodie fluttered gently, the same dark gray one he always wore—hood up, but not fully covering his messy black hair.
He didn't turn around. But he spoke.
"I thought you'd ignore it."
His voice—calm, low, familiar. Like no time had passed. Like the silence between them never stretched into weeks.
Saanvi crossed her arms. "I almost did."
He finally turned. Slowly. As if the world might break if he moved too fast. The city lights painted his face in silver and shadow.
"But you didn't."
The silence between them wasn't heavy—it was expectant. Like a book left open between chapters.
"Why did you call me here?" she asked.
Jisoo stood up without answering. He picked up his skateboard and let it roll under his fingers. "You said you never learned how to skate. Remember?"
Saanvi blinked. "That was a throwaway comment. Months ago."
He shrugged. "I remember throwaway things."
She raised an eyebrow. "So you dragged me here at 11 PM… to teach me skating?"
"Less people around," he said, stepping onto the open part of the rooftop. "Fewer eyes. Fewer chances for you to fall flat on your face."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're really bad at giving compliments."
Jisoo gave a faint, one-sided smirk. "And you're here anyway."
---
At first, she said no. Flat out. Arms crossed, tone firm.
"I'm not about to break my tailbone just because you decided to get sentimental at midnight."
But five minutes later, she was wobbling awkwardly on the skateboard, trying not to fall while he held her hands.
The board wobbled under her weight as if unsure what to make of her.
"Don't stiffen up," Jisoo said, steadying her by the elbows. "Bend your knees a little. Relax. Trust the board."
She shot him a look. "Trust the board? It has wheels, Jisoo. Wheels."
He laughed. And it wasn't the sarcastic laugh she'd heard before—it was soft. Real. Like the version of him that existed only in rare moments.
"So do cars," he said.
"Cars have brakes."
"You have me."
The words fell so easily from his lips, she almost didn't notice them. Almost. But they landed. Somewhere deep. She blinked, suddenly forgetting how to breathe.
Her eyes drifted to his face—the way the moonlight outlined his jaw, the flutter of his lashes when he looked down. His hoodie had slipped a little to one side, and for the first time, she noticed a faint scar just below his neck. A thin white line. Old.
How did I never see that before?
He looked… softer.
Less like the cold boy who skated through silence and earbuds.
More like the boy who once held her pinky beneath the cherry blossoms.
And that's when it happened.
She fell.
Not on purpose—but somehow, it felt… poetic.
The board slipped out from under her and clattered across the rooftop. She landed on her side with a surprised grunt.
"Ow."
Jisoo crouched instantly, offering a hand. "You okay?"
She glared up at him, mostly for show. "My pride's broken."
"That's always been fragile."
She grabbed his hand. And when she did, he didn't let go.
Not immediately. Not even after she was on her feet. His grip was warm. Gentle. And firm, like he was afraid to lose something again.
"Sorry," he said after a beat. His voice was quieter now. "I don't always know how to say things right."
Saanvi bit her lip. Her fingers still tingled from his touch. "Then show me."
There was a pause. The city around them held its breath.
He gently rolled the skateboard aside, as if clearing the space between them.
Then he stepped closer.
Not dramatically. Not with movie magic or background music. Just… naturally. Quietly. Like two steps forward were the most honest thing in the world.
He didn't touch her. Didn't pull her into a hug or kiss her. He simply leaned close—just enough. Just so she could hear the whisper he breathed into her hair.
"I didn't forget you. Not even once."
The words curled around her heart like vines. Her throat closed. Her lips parted—but nothing came out.
And maybe that was okay.
Because some things didn't need to be answered.
Some silences spoke louder.
She didn't step back.
Didn't run.
Didn't cry.
She just stood there, beside him, eyes half-closed, heart loud in her chest.
And in that moment, under the Seoul night, under the moon and the stars and the faint shimmer of a forgotten rooftop, Saanvi realized something simple and terrifying:
They weren't standing in the past anymore.
They weren't pretending nothing happened.
They weren't skating around each other.
They were skating into something new.
Together.