(Dae-hyun POV)
It was strange how easy it was to sit beside him again.
Not comfortable—no, that would've been too simple. It was more like… familiar. The kind of familiarity that lives in muscle memory, the body remembering what the mind has forgotten.
We walked side by side down the sloping street that led out toward the park. The morning light was soft, pale gold brushing the tops of buildings, catching Woo-jin's pastel hair like sunlight through rose petals.
He was quiet. Not the poised, polished quiet he wore for the public. This was… small. Gentle. The quiet I remembered without remembering why.
"Do you still like parks?" he asked after a while, voice soft, careful.
I looked at him. "Why are you asking like you already know the answer?"
His lips curved, not quite a smile. "Because I do."
The breeze carried the faint scent of pine from the park entrance. I inhaled slowly. Something tugged in my chest. Something old.
We walked under the shade of the tall gingko trees, early leaves still damp with dew. The path curved toward a familiar bench—the wood worn smooth, paint chipped at the edges. I paused.
My heartbeat stuttered.
This place.
The memory didn't come in images, not fully—but in feeling.
A boy.
Pink hair falling into his eyes.
A book held too close to his chest.
Shoulders drawn tight.
Trying not to be seen, but desperately wanting to be found.
I swallowed.
"You used to sit here," I said quietly.
Woo-jin didn't look surprised. "Every afternoon after school."
His voice was soft in the morning stillness.
"You said… it was the only place that didn't feel loud."
I stared at him.
"I said that?"
"You did."
He sat on the bench, hands resting in his lap. Even now, his posture was perfect. Stage-perfect. But I could see the tension in the lines of his shoulders.
Without thinking, I sat beside him. Not too close. Not far.
Just… right.
"I remember you had a book," I said slowly, searching through the fog in my mind. "Always. You never went anywhere without one."
His breath caught. Just for a second. Like that one line meant more than I realized.
"I still do," he murmured. "I brought one today, actually."
He lifted a small, worn paperback from inside his coat. The cover was creased, the spine cracked from being read too many times. I recognized the title.
A novel.
We used to read it together.
The realization hit so hard my breath stilled.
He noticed.
His eyes lifted, bright and trembling. "Dae-hyun…"
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. The memory wasn't clear enough to hold—but the feeling was. A warm summer day. Grass under our legs. His laughter, quiet but real.
I remembered how small he had been back then. How he hid his trembling behind that book. How his world had felt like it was collapsing. How I sat with him anyway.
My throat tightened.
And then—just as quickly—the present returned. The years between us. The distance. The scars. The silence.
Woo-jin closed the book, fingers lingering on the cover.
"Do you want to—" He paused, uncertain. "Come to my place? It's… close."
His voice had changed again. Tight. Guarded.
He didn't want me to see something.
I knew it immediately.
Something cold crawled up my spine. "Why do you sound like that?"
He didn't meet my eyes. "It's just—messy. I haven't… cleaned. It's nothing."
He was lying.
Not out of manipulation.
Out of shame.
Without thinking, I said quietly:
"Let me in."
He froze.
"Dae—"
"You came to my home. Sat with me. Cooked for me. Stayed."
I turned to meet his eyes fully.
"So let me see yours."
His breath trembled. He looked like he wanted to disappear. To shrink. To run.
But he didn't.
He nodded once, shoulders sinking—not in defeat.
In surrender.
"Okay."
We walked in silence again. Not awkward silence. Something heavier. Something that pressed down on the ribs.
His building was nice. Too nice. High-end, discreet, expensive. But the hallway outside his door told a different story—packages left untouched, dust on the floor, a coat left crumpled beside the wall like it fell and never got picked up.
He unlocked the door.
The smell hit first.
Alcohol.
Stale.
Old.
Inside… the apartment looked like a collapsed world.
Empty takeout containers. Bottles. Some shattered. Some lined in neat rows like soldiers. Curtains drawn. Light barely creeped in. A blanket pile on the couch—rumpled, desperate, lived in.
It wasn't dirty.
It was lonely.
Painfully lonely.
Woo-jin's hands shook as he stepped inside, voice barely holding together.
"I told you it was messy," he said softly. "I didn't want you to see me like this."
My chest ached.
I didn't speak.
I just walked forward, stepping over a bottle, and gently took his wrist.
He flinched—but didn't pull away.
"…I see you," I said quietly.
His breath broke.
His eyes filled.
Not dramatic.
Just—devastatingly real.
The kind of crying that has no sound.
He whispered, voice cracking:
"I thought… you'd hate me again."
My grip tightened.
"I don't," I said.
Woo-jin didn't speak after I told him I didn't hate him.
He just stood there, eyes unfocused, hands hanging loosely at his sides, like someone had unplugged him.
I didn't push him. I didn't know how to, not anymore.
So I just slowly started clearing the table—stacking empty takeout bowls, pushing bottles aside, not judging, not asking.
Just… being here.
Until something shifted.
A sound—small. The faintest click.
Woo-jin's hand tightening around the edge of the counter.
His eyes dropping to the floor.
And suddenly—
I remembered.
It didn't come smoothly, didn't come like a movie scene.
It came jagged.
Fast.
Violent.
His father's voice.
Loud. Sharp. Cutting like metal.
"Why did you bring someone into this house? Did you think you had the right? You worthless—"
A hand raised.
A slap—hard, vicious, echoing in a hallway that smelled like cigarettes and floor polish.
Woo-jin's head snapping to the side.
Me—shouting without thinking.
Getting shoved back.
Trying to shield him.
My chest tightened.
My vision blurred.
And then—
Pain.
Not physical.
Like something inside me cracked open.
My heart was pounding too fast.
My breathing turned shallow, clipped, like I was choking on air that wasn't there.
The room tilted.
My fingers went numb.
I couldn't breathe.
Not just panic.
My brain had remembered trauma before I was ready.
Woo-jin's voice came through the fog—distant, warped, like I was underwater.
"Dae-hyun? Dae—hey—look at me—Dae—?"
My knees hit the floor before I realized I was falling.
The world flashed in and out, slow and too bright.
And then—
Dark.
Later.
At the….
Hospital.
Soft beeping monitors. The sterile smell of disinfectant.
My chest still felt tight, but I could breathe again.
Someone was speaking near the bed—calm, professional, steady.
A doctor.
"It was a panic attack triggered by memory recall," she said, tone gentle but clinically grounded. "When a traumatic or highly emotional memory resurfaces suddenly, the body reacts before the mind can process it. Heart rate increases, oxygen intake drops, the nervous system enters 'fight or flight.'"
She continued, eyes warm but direct.
"In your case, the emotional weight of the memory was strong enough to cause dissociation—your mind detached from the present to protect you. That's why everything felt unreal. It's not dangerous, but it is frightening."
I swallowed. My voice was rough when I finally spoke.
"So… I remembered something important, and my body just… shut down?"
The doctor nodded.
"Memory is not stored in one place. Emotional memory and factual memory are processed separately. When emotional trauma resurfaces before the logical narrative is complete, the body reacts as if the danger is happening again."
A breath.
Slow.
Controlled.
"Your brain is trying to reconnect the past you lost. It may happen again—hopefully more gently next time."
I nodded.
And then I looked to my right.
Woo-jin sat there.
Still.
Completely silent.
His hands folded tightly together, knuckles white, eyes focused on the floor—not crying, not moving, just there.
He looked like someone waiting for a sentence to be read.
I shifted slightly, and his head snapped up—panic flickering in his eyes before he smoothed his expression over.
As if he was scared that showing emotion might break me again.
"…Hey," I said, voice low.
He didn't answer immediately.
When he finally did, his voice was hoarse, barely audible.
"You remembered something."
Not a question.
I nodded.
He swallowed hard, throat trembling.
"Was it… bad?"
I hesitated.
And then:
"It was you," I said quietly.
"You were hurt. And I was there."
Something broke in his expression—not fully, but visibly. A crack, small and sharp.
He lowered his gaze.
"…I didn't want you to remember that," he whispered. "Not that part."
"Why?"
His fingers curled, digging into his palms.
"Because I don't want to be something you feel guilty for," he said, voice trembling. "I don't want you to look at me and feel… responsible."
My breath caught.
Not because of the words.
But because of the pain underneath them.
Slowly, carefully, I reached out—not touching him. Just close enough for him to feel the intention.
"I don't feel guilty," I said quietly.
He lifted his eyes.
I held his gaze.
"I feel angry."
He blinked. Confused. Hurt. Small.
"…At me?"
"No."
I shook my head.
"At him. At the world. At everything that made you look like you had to survive alone."
His eyes widened—just a fraction.
A breath hitched.
His shoulders trembled.
Woo-jin didn't speak.
He just sat there… knees drawn slightly in, arms folded like he was holding himself together.
Like if he loosened his grip even a little, he might fall apart.
I didn't force him to look at me.
I just waited.
And, eventually—
His voice came.
Soft. Unsteady.
"…I never forgot," he said.
I looked at him, head turning slowly.
He swallowed.
"You. Us. Those years."
His voice cracked—barely, but real.
"Even if you didn't remember… I did."
Something inside my chest tightened—but not in pain this time.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "I know."
There was a long silence. Not uncomfortable. Just full.
Then—something flickered in my mind.
Not like before.
Not sharp.
Not painful.
Warm.
The sun.
A small park near our old school.
The smell of grass.
Summer, maybe.
I was holding an ice cream—chocolate mint, melting down my fingers because I ate too slow—
And Woo-jin—
tiny, pouty, ridiculously dramatic even back then—
stole a bite.
No—a chunk.
Like half the thing.
I remembered the way I yelled, "HEY!"
And how he tried to run away—but tripped over absolutely nothing—
and landed on his back laughing so hard he choked.
I blinked slowly.
It was so clear.
So stupid.
So absolutely ours.
"…I remember something," I murmured.
Woo-jin's head lifted just slightly, eyes cautious.
"The ice cream," I said. "That day. You stole mine, I tried to grab yours back, and we ended up both crying because they melted."
His breath stuttered.
For a full second, his lip trembled—just a little.
Just enough to break me.
"I…" His voice cracked. "I thought I made those memories up. I kept thinking maybe I imagined how we used to be. Maybe I was holding onto something that was never real."
I shook my head immediately.
"It was real."
His eyes finally met mine.
And he looked so young in that moment.
Not the polished actor.
Not the quiet adult full of pain.
Just the boy I once knew, standing barefoot in summer grass, laughing with ice cream on his face.
I reached out—slowly—placing my hand on the bed between us. Not touching him. Just offering.
Woo-jin looked at my hand for a long time.
Then, carefully, like the movement might break him—
he placed his fingers over mine.
Not holding.
Just… connecting.
A breath left him—shaky, uneven.
I didn't move.
I didn't let go.
"I'm here," I said quietly.
Not dramatic.
Not emotional.
Just true.
Woo-jin's eyes softened—wet, but he didn't cry.
"…Don't leave," he whispered.
My chest tightened—but gently this time.
"I'm not going anywhere."
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time since we met again—
He believed me.
"Woo-jin, why did I lose my memory? Is it due to some car crash?"
The moment I said this, the terror in Woo-jin's eyes. He's hiding something isn't he? What was it?
"It was a car crash Dae-hyun."
Lies.