Seoul, 5:43 p.m., rain falling in thick, continuous curtains, cold, heavy, turning the streets into black mirrors and making clothes stick to the skin like a second layer of wet silence, and Han Nari walks fast, the collar of her coat raised to her ears, her hands buried in her pockets, her breath coming out in white clouds in front of her mouth, her hair already soaked at the tips, clinging to her cheeks, and she thinks of nothing, absolutely nothing, only moving forward, reaching somewhere she can sit and wait for the day to finally die, for time to pass without touching her, for the emptiness to remain still.
She pushes open the door of the café "L'Insomnie," an ordinary place on the ground floor of a too-tall building, the smell of over-roasted coffee beans, burnt milk, cheap perfumes mixing in the warm air, soft syrupy music coming from invisible speakers, and she chooses the table right next to the window, where the fog draws anonymous fingerprints, she places her notebook in front of her, orders an americano she will not drink, she opens her pen, pretends to work, but her eyes keep sliding toward the street, toward the colorful umbrellas passing by, toward the hurried silhouettes running under the rain.
And then there is one who does not run.
A man.
Standing on the sidewalk across the street.
Without an umbrella.
Rain dripping down his black hair, his soaked shirt clinging to his broad chest.
He had done nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
But his presence…
his presence tore through the landscape like a rip.
His hair streamed down, plastered to his forehead, some strands sliding along his angular cheek.
His jaw, square, carved like a blade.
His shoulders broad, rigid, too disproportionate for a simple passerby.
He lifted a hand.
Pushed back a wet strand.
Then lit a cigarette.
The flame illuminated his face for a single second.
And that second was enough to steal her breath.
Nari feels her heart strike once.
Hard.
Too hard.
A blow in her chest that takes her breath away, that makes her fingers tremble around the pen, that sends a brutal heat rising through her throat.
She no longer breathes.
He slowly turns his head.
Their eyes meet through the window, through the rain, through twenty meters of wet asphalt and neon lights screaming.
One second.
A single one.
But that second is endless, unbearable, unsustainable.
The dark pupils of the man — Jeon Sion — crossed Nari's like an icy blade.
He didn't look at her.
He pierced her.
She stayed frozen, the cup between her hands, unable to swallow, unable to breathe.
And then he looks away.
He crushes his cigarette with his fingers, without flinching, and he walks off, calm, slow, as if the world didn't exist.
As if she didn't exist.
Nari lowered her eyes.
Her coffee was cold.
She let out a nervous laugh.
A laugh that already didn't sound like hers anymore.
Her heart was pounding too hard.
Too fast.
And she didn't understand why.
She sits there, frozen, the pen suspended above the notebook, her heart pounding so loudly she hears it in her ears, in her temples, in her throat, a heavy, regular, painful beat, as if someone were knocking from the inside to get out, and she doesn't understand why those golden eyes are still stuck in her head, why her hands tremble on the table, why she feels hot and cold at the same time.
She stands up suddenly.
The chair scrapes the floor, the waiter jumps, she doesn't hear him, she doesn't see anything anymore, she pushes the door, the rain slaps her immediately, icy, violent, soaking her hair, running down her face, drenching her coat in a second, but she runs, she runs without an umbrella, her shoes slipping on the wet sidewalk, her lungs burning, her heart exploding, she sees him again, there, thirty meters ahead, that massive silhouette walking as if the world belonged to him.
— Excuse me!
Her voice comes out hoarse, broken, soaked with rain and something she doesn't understand yet.
He stops.
He turns around slowly.
Time freezes.
Under the gray neon light, he stands there, motionless, water streaming down his perfect face, his square jaw, his full lips, his dark golden eyes now fixed on her, piercing her, pinning her in place, and she feels her legs trembling, her fingers sliding along her soaked coat, her breath blocking in her throat.
His face was brutally beautiful.
He says nothing at first.
He looks at her.
Just that.
A cold stare, absolute, without emotion, without curiosity.
His voice dropped like a blade:
— Yes?
She opens her mouth.
Nothing comes out.
She trembles.
She is soaked.
She is lost.
He slightly furrows his brows, a discreet fold at the corner of his mouth, a tiny smile, sufficient, cruel.
— Yes? he repeats, sharper, almost annoyed, as if she had interrupted something more important than life itself.
She feels shame burn her cheeks, the rain sliding down her neck, the cold biting her skin.
— I… I'm sorry… I mistook you for someone…
She bows awkwardly, hair stuck to her face, hands trembling, and she turns around, almost running, she goes back inside the café, pushes the door, collapses onto her chair, her heart exploding, her breath short.
The waiter looks at her, worried.
She shakes her head.
She wipes her trembling hands with a paper napkin that falls apart.
— What did you just do, Nari…? she whispered into her shaking hands.
She had no explanation.
No logic.
No excuse.
Why had she run toward him?
Why had she humiliated herself in front of a stranger?
Why had a single look shattered her from the inside?
Outside, the rain kept falling.
And he was already gone.