The evening breeze carried the smell of cold river water and roasted street corn as Ha Jun and Ji Hye walked side by side toward the bus stop. Their shoulders were close enough that they kept brushing, light and accidental each time, but neither of them moved away. The world felt strangely calmer than before, as if the city itself had softened around them.
A part of Ha Jun kept checking the sky, maybe out of habit, maybe out of the strange wonder he still felt from the morning. He kept thinking about how easy it had been to walk with his head lifted. How natural it felt now, even if it still made him nervous.
Ji Hye noticed.
She always did.
"You keep looking up," she said with a small smile.
He hesitated. "I think I am trying to remind myself that the world is bigger than my fear."
"That is a good reason," she said. "Better than trying to avoid eye contact with people."
He huffed, half amused, half embarrassed. "Do not remind me."
They stopped at the corner where the streetlights began to glow against the darkening sky. Ji Hye waited for the light to change, her gaze calm, her posture relaxed. Ha Jun watched her from the side. There was something grounding about her presence. Something that told him he did not have to rush, did not have to brace for disappointment.
"You look peaceful," he said quietly.
She turned her head a little, surprised by his honesty. "Do I?"
He nodded. "Being with you… it does not make my chest tight."
Ji Hye slowly exhaled, as if his words pressed gently against her heart. "I am glad," she whispered.
The light changed. They crossed the street.
"Where are you going now?" she asked.
"Home," he answered. "I promised myself I would rest tonight."
"And will you?"
"I am trying," he said with a faint smile. "That is something, right?"
"It is more than something," she said. "It means you are learning your limits. That matters."
Her voice held a softness that made his steps slow, almost hesitant, as if he did not want the walk to end. When they reached the bus stop, the road glowed with steady streams of headlights. Ji Hye stood close enough that he could feel the familiar warmth radiating from her.
She noticed his silence.
She always did.
"What is on your mind?" she asked gently.
"Today felt different," he said. "Not easier, but different."
She waited.
"I kept expecting the fear to come back," he continued. "The kind that squeezes my ribs and makes my hands cold. But it did not come. Or maybe it did, but it did not take over."
Ji Hye looked at him as if he had just said something important.
"That is what healing feels like," she said. "Not the disappearance of fear. Just the shrinking of it."
He let the words settle. They felt real. They felt true.
"And what if it comes back strong?" he asked.
"Then you tell me," she answered. "Or you tell someone. You are not supposed to carry everything alone."
His throat tightened at that.
Not painfully.
Just with the realization that he had never once expected help to be available.
He looked down at his hands.
Then back at her.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
"Anything."
"Why do you care so much? You barely knew me when you started noticing I was not okay."
Ji Hye's expression softened slowly, the way dawn eases into morning.
"Because I saw myself in you," she said. "And because someone once cared about me before I believed I deserved it. I am just passing that forward."
He blinked.
He looked at her fully, without looking away.
It felt like standing bare in a quiet room, not exposed, not ashamed, just seen.
A bus approached from the distance, headlights reflecting over the wet road.
"I think I want to trust you," he said quietly.
Ji Hye's breath caught. "You already do."
He nodded once.
Small, but real.
The bus slowed to a stop in front of them.
He stepped forward.
Then paused.
He turned back to her.
His voice was steady.
"Thank you for today."
"You do not have to thank me," she said.
"I do," he insisted gently. "Because you stayed."
Ji Hye's eyes softened again, warmer this time.
"I will keep staying."
The bus door opened with a soft mechanical sigh.
Ha Jun stepped inside.
He chose a seat by the window and watched her as the doors closed.
She lifted her hand in a small wave.
He lifted his hand back.
As the bus pulled away, he felt something in his chest shift.
Not the familiar tightness.
Not the familiar dread.
Something softer.
Something like the beginning of wanting to live without apologizing for existing.
He leaned his head against the window, watching the city blur past.
Tonight, the weight inside him did not feel like a prison.
It felt like a story he was finally ready to tell.