It wasn't supposed to happen again.
Not intentionally.
Not with the same breathless weight that followed the first time—when everything had gone too still, too quiet, like the air itself had folded in on them.
But here they were again, pulled back into each other's orbit by something neither could name. The bookstore was quieter today.
The late afternoon haze filtered through the high windows, dust motes drifting between beams of light. It was the sort of day that made the world feel paper-thin, the edges blurred, the lines between reality and memory fading.
Ji-ho didn't look surprised to see her.
He didn't look anything.
His eyes flicked up when her boots crossed the rug, a quiet blink.
The smallest nod.
"Oh," he said. A flat syllable.
Nothing behind it. Just a placeholder for a reaction he chose not to give.
Seo Yoon felt her voice hesitate at the edge of her mouth.
"Annyeonghaseyo (Hello)," she replied, too softly. It made her sound unsure.
He didn't smile. Didn't frown.
He turned his attention back to the book in his hands.
A collection of essays.
The title faded in gold on the spine.
It didn't matter what it was.
The silence stretched. Comfortable for no one.
But she didn't leave.
Ji-ho noticed. He didn't ask her why she was there. Of course he didn't. He wasn't that type of person. The kind who made room for questions he didn't want answered. He glanced up again, eyes sharp but not unkind.
"You're here for something?" he asked. Not irritated. Just neutral.
Seo Yoon swallowed, her fingers brushing a spine on the shelf next to her. A tactile reflex, grounding her to the space.
"I... yeah. I thought maybe you'd be here today."
Ji-ho didn't move. His eyes didn't widen. But she saw it. The pause. A twitch in his grip on the book.
"You remembered my shift times?"
His voice was light, but not amused.
She gave a small, nervous shrug. "Rough guess."
Ji-ho hummed—barely audible. His fingers flicked a page. She watched them. There was something about his hands that felt familiar. She hated how often that thought came up around him.
He closed the book and turned slightly, not facing her directly, but enough to make her feel acknowledged.
"Why?"
The question sat between them like fog, a barrier of unspoken truths.
She didn't answer right away. She looked at the book he was holding instead.
"I just... I don't know. You really just..feel familiar."
He looked at her now. Really looked. Not startled. Not dismissive. Just still.
"And I needed to know if you felt it too."
There it was. That odd, disjointed silence again. Not tense, not thick. Just... suspended.
Ji-ho's eyes dropped to the floor, then traced the grooves in the shelf beside him. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful.
"I don't believe in fate."
"I don't either," she said.
He looked at her. "But you came looking for me anyway."
Seo Yoon nodded once.
Ji-ho exhaled through his nose. "People don't usually do that."
She gave a small laugh. "I'm not people."
He didn't laugh with her. But he didn't walk away. Instead, he gestured to the table behind them. The small reading space tucked in the quiet corner of the store. Two chairs. A lamp. A worn copy of something old folded on the edge.
"Five minutes," he said. "I'm still on shift."
Seo Yoon nodded and followed him.
They sat with a metre of air between them. He didn't ask how she'd been. She didn't ask what he'd been reading.
Ji-ho watched a thread on the table. Pulled at it gently.
"You said I feel familiar."
She nodded.
"Do you think you've met me before?"
"No," she said. Then, quieter, "Yes."
He looked up.
She clarified. "I don't know. Maybe not in the way you mean. It's not recognition. It's more like... a muscle memory."
Ji-ho leaned back slightly. "Like déjà vu."
"No. Not even that." She struggled for the right words. "It's more like... I know how you think. I know how you breathe. And I don't know why."
He said nothing. But she saw his fingers still.
"You don't have to respond," she added quickly. "I just needed to say it."
He was silent for a long moment. Then, finally:
"You're not the first person who's said something like that to me."
Seo Yoon blinked. "Really?"
"A man," Ji-ho said. "He comes here sometimes. Always ends up near me. Never intrusive. But consistent."
Her brow furrowed. "And?"
"I let him sit with me for lunch a few times. I don't know why."
He didn't sound bothered by it. But not comfortable either.
"Do you feel that with him too?" she asked.
Ji-ho was quiet again.
"Maybe," he said at last.
Their eyes met. That subtle, terrifying realisation—maybe they weren't strangers at all.
He stood abruptly. Not harsh. Just done.
"I need to get back."
Seo Yoon nodded and stood too.
"I'll go."
They didn't say goodbye. As she walked away, Ji-ho's voice stopped her.
"Have you ever read The City & The City?"
She turned slowly. "No. Should I?"
He shrugged. "It's about people who live in the same place, but are taught never to see each other."
Something about it made her chest hurt. A pang of recognition, a chilling echo of her own experience.
She didn't reply. Just nodded and left.
Ji-ho stood in the aisle for a long time. The book in his hand felt heavy. And in the distance—almost too soft to notice—he thought he heard someone humming.
Kkogkkog sumeora.
Meolikarag boila.
He pressed the book to his chest.
And the quiet pulled at him like hands that would not let go.
The air felt thick with unspoken questions, the silence echoing with the ghost of a song.
The bookstore was still, the world outside blurring, the lines between reality and memory fading. He was drawn to her, to the unsettling familiarity that clung to her like a phantom limb.
It was a feeling he couldn't ignore, a feeling that whispered of a truth he couldn't quite grasp. He didn't know what it meant, but he knew he couldn't escape it.
He couldn't escape the feeling of being pulled towards her, towards the unknown, towards a truth that was both terrifying and strangely right.
The song, Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila, echoed in his mind, a haunting melody that mirrored the storm raging within his heart, a storm of unspoken feelings, unanswered questions, and the lingering sense of something missing, something he both feared and craved.
He didn't know what it meant, but he knew he couldn't escape it.
He couldn't escape the feeling of being pulled towards her, towards the unknown, towards a truth that was both terrifying and strangely right.
The song,
Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila,
Echoed in his mind, a haunting melody that mirrored the storm raging within his heart, a storm of unspoken feelings, unanswered questions, and the lingering sense of something missing, something he both feared and craved.