They began meeting regularly, though never at the same time two days in a row.
Sometimes it was the bridge. Sometimes a bus stop at the edge of the city. Once, a stairwell in an office building scheduled for demolition.
Transitional places.
Hiyoon stayed longer each time.
With that came consequences.
Mira started misplacing hours. Conversations repeated themselves. A patient asked her a question she was certain she'd already answered—on a day that hadn't happened yet.
"You're anchoring me," Hiyoon said one night, concern threading through his voice.
"And you're disrupting me," she replied.
They stood too close. Not touching—never touching—but aware of the narrow space that held them apart.
"If I ask you to stop coming," he said, "would you?"
Mira didn't answer right away.
"No," she said finally. "But I'd hate myself for it."
He nodded, accepting the cost.