The next few days passed like scenes on mute.
Soundless. Distant. Like watching her own life through frosted glass.
Saanvi sat in class. Took notes automatically.
She answered questions with polite nods. Smiled when others smiled at her. Ate lunch as if her appetite hadn't been replaced by a thousand fluttering questions.
But inside—she wasn't fine.
Not even close.
That voice—those six words—looped in her mind like a broken song:
"You don't remember me, do you?"
---
She had barely spoken to Jung Jisoo before that day.
Barely noticed him, even.
Until now.
Now she noticed everything.
The way he entered homeroom—quiet, head down, hoodie half-zipped like armor.
The way he chose the seat near the window, third row from the back, and stared out into the clouds like he didn't belong on Earth at all.
How he never raised his hand, even when the teacher called on him directly.
How his voice barely rose above a whisper when forced to speak.
He was there. Physically.
But it felt like his spirit hovered one step behind him, like a shadow that hadn't caught up.
No one seemed to question it.
No one, except her.
---
At night, Saanvi couldn't sleep.
Seoul's city sounds bled through the window—honking cars, neon signs buzzing, distant laughter from students outside dorms. But inside her apartment, the silence was deep. Heavy.
She pulled out the old cardboard box from her closet—the one marked "Busan Days" in her mother's neat handwriting.
She hadn't touched it in years.
Inside were pieces of a forgotten version of herself.
School notebooks with colorful scribbles.
A cracked keychain shaped like a peach.
Faded stickers. Wrinkled postcards. Candy wrappers she once thought were too pretty to throw away.
And photos.
Some blurred. Some bent. Some stuck to each other from old glue. She peeled them apart carefully.
Then, she found it.
One photo.
A cherry blossom tree in bloom.
A little girl in a yellow hoodie.
And next to her—barely visible—a boy with a skateboard.
His face wasn't clear. Just a silhouette, dark against the pink of the blossoms.
But the posture—tilted to one side, one hand in his pocket, the board slung under his arm…
It pulled something deep from her memory.
Something achingly familiar.
She turned the photo over.
On the back, in her childish scrawl, a sentence:
"The boy who didn't say goodbye."
Her hands trembled.
But it wasn't him who didn't say goodbye.
It was her.
---
The next day, she climbed the rooftop steps again.
No excuses this time.
No pretending.
Her steps were slow, deliberate.
She didn't feel like an intruder anymore.
She felt like someone returning to a story left unfinished.
The door groaned open.
He was there.
As always.
Skating.
---
But this time, she didn't sit. Didn't hide. Didn't wait behind the wall or pretend to watch the clouds.
She stood by the door.
Still.
Visible.
Waiting.
Jisoo noticed her instantly.
He slowed down—his wheels scratching against the concrete like a vinyl record losing speed—and coasted to a stop.
He didn't look surprised.
Only… expectant.
"Why do you keep coming up here?" he asked.
His voice was quiet. Calm.
Not accusing.
Just curious.
But underneath it… something else.
Guarded hope.
Bitterness, too. The soft kind. The kind that sits in the chest for years without leaving.
Saanvi took a step forward.
"I think we met before," she said.
Her voice cracked just slightly.
He blinked. No reaction. No denial.
"In Busan," she added, softer now. "When I was ten. Cherry blossoms. You had a red skateboard. We sat under a tree."
The words hung between them, suspended in wind.
Jisoo stared at her—expression unreadable.
The silence stretched long and taut.
And then—
He looked away.
"So you do remember."
---
Saanvi exhaled, tension breaking inside her.
She took another step. "Why didn't you say anything before?"
He chuckled, low and hollow.
Not because something was funny.
Because something had hurt.
"Because I remembered first," he said. "And I thought you didn't."
He glanced at her, eyes steady.
"That's worse than forgetting someone, you know?"
Saanvi winced. The words hit like a cold gust.
"I didn't forget," she murmured. "I just… didn't remember right away."
He looked away again.
The rooftop felt colder.
"I waited under that tree," he said after a pause. "You said you'd come back the next day."
He wasn't accusing.
But the sadness in his voice was louder than any blame.
Saanvi's throat tightened.
"I moved away that night," she whispered. "Suddenly. I didn't even get to say goodbye."
---
They stood in stillness.
The rooftop, once noisy with wheels and wind, felt like a place between worlds now.
A space carved out of time.
Cherry blossoms fluttered overhead again, carried by a soft breeze.
Some landed on her shoulder. One brushed against his hoodie before floating to the ground.
It felt like déjà vu.
Or maybe fate.
Time didn't erase this.
It just… paused it.
"I'm sorry," she said again.
Barely a whisper.
He didn't respond.
But he didn't walk away either.
And in that silence—gentle and heavy—something shifted.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But something like understanding.
A wound, long closed, now breathing fresh air.
---
That evening, as the sun dipped behind Seoul's skyline, painting the sky in streaks of orange and lavender, Saanvi walked home.
Her backpack felt heavy.
But her heart?
Heavier still.
She stopped at the convenience store near her building. Bought a drink. Stared at the reflection of her face in the glass cooler for longer than necessary.
So much had changed.
So much hadn't.
She didn't know what would happen next with Jisoo.
She didn't know if that rooftop would welcome them both again, or if this moment had been a one-time echo of something unfinished.
But she did know something had reopened.
Something important.
---
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
A single notification.
She pulled it out.
One Plus Notification
____________•••____________
You are one plus away from healing something that time tried to hide.
____________•••____________
She stared at the screen.
Then slowly, she smiled.
Soft. Sad. But real.
Maybe fate didn't forget after all.
Maybe it just waited.