Leggo-My-Aegyo

The train arrived two minutes late, which—on a normal day—would’ve annoyed you.

But today wasn’t normal. Today, the sky looked washed out, the kind of gray that reminded you of pencil sketches on newsprint. You weren’t running late. You weren’t even supposed to be on this train. But something about waking up before your alarm felt like permission to do something… unordinary.

You bought your usual drink, jasmine tea with honey, and sat on your usual bench, only two seats from the back, near the window. The seat that let you half-watch the world outside and half-watch the people within.

That’s when you saw him.

He was already sitting across from you when you boarded. Black hoodie, white headphones slung around his neck, and a sketchpad balanced on his lap like it belonged there.

You weren’t someone who paid attention to strangers. But something about him made you look twice.

Maybe it was the way his hands moved—quick and careful, like he was trying to draw something before it disappeared.

Maybe it was the way he’d glance out the window every few minutes, as if measuring the world in glimpses.

Or maybe it was just the fact that he was drawing a dog’s paw.

No. Not just any paw.

It was your dog. Your childhood dog. The little scar on the pad, the uneven claw—he was drawing Miso, your old retriever who passed away four years ago.

You didn’t even realize you were staring until he looked up.

His eyes locked with yours, and for a split second, you felt like you knew him. Not in a déjà vu way. Not in a crush way.

But in a longing way.

He blinked slowly. “Sorry,” he said, holding up the sketchbook. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You pointed at the sketch. “Where did you see that dog?”

A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. It was a soft kind of smile. The kind you give to someone before saying goodbye.

“I didn’t,” he replied. “I think I just remembered her.”

You stared.

Then laughed, dryly. “That’s… weird.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I guess so.”

The train lurched slightly, the way it always did when nearing the next station. The voice on the speaker crackled, announcing the upcoming stop. You almost forgot where you were going.

He began packing up, tucking the sketchbook into a worn leather bag. As he stood, he paused and looked back at you.

“I’ll see you again,” he said, not quite as a question.

You raised a brow. “Do you come here often?”

“No,” he said, stepping out into the crowd.

“But you will.”

And just like that, he disappeared into the blur of commuters and gray umbrellas.

You didn’t expect to see him again.

Maybe that was the strangest part—not just that he vanished after saying he’d see you, but how you kept thinking about it long after.

Long after the train, long after the noise of the day caught up with you, long after you should’ve forgotten about a boy with soft eyes and charcoal on his fingers.

But you didn’t forget.

You remembered the way he said it. Not like a hopeful guess. Like a quiet promise.

You didn’t even know his name.

A week passed.

It was raining again. The kind that misted your glasses and clung to your sleeves. You ducked into your favorite bookstore just to escape the wet, and because—if you were being honest—you were starting to look for him in the corners of ordinary places.

It was dumb. You knew that.

Still, you walked the same aisles. Still, you let your fingers brush the same spines of books you’d already read. Still, you sat near the poetry section, sipping your too-hot tea, heart unsure of what it was even waiting for.

And then he walked in.

No umbrella. Hoodie pulled up. A little soaked, but there he was—Jeongguk, charcoal-boy, strange-train-stranger.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Not even a little.

“You’re late,” he said, stepping into your aisle.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

He smiled. “You usually come in an hour earlier.”

“…How would you know that?”

“I’ve seen you here before.”

That made no sense. You had never seen him here. Not once. You were sure.

He wandered to the opposite shelf, trailing a finger along a row of books. His eyes skimmed titles like he already knew which one he wanted.

You watched him in silence, heart crawling up your throat.

Finally, you asked, “Do I know you?”

He turned his head slowly, eyes unreadable.

“Not yet,” he said softly. “But I think you will.”

You didn’t speak much that day.

He sat beside you on the bench near the window. He didn’t pull out his sketchpad. Didn’t offer any explanations. He just sat there, not even looking at you—just out at the sky, where the clouds broke slightly and left streaks of gold.

It was quiet. But not awkward.

In fact, it felt like you’d sat like that before. Like muscle memory.

You noticed his pinky finger twitch, like he was fighting the urge to reach out. Like he remembered something you hadn’t lived yet.

“You don’t talk much,” you said.

“I do,” he replied. “Just not right now.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

“Why?”

He tilted his head, thinking.

“Because if I say too much, I might break the moment.”

There was something sad about the way he said it.

Not dramatic sadness. Just… the kind you carry because it’s always been there.

When he left, he didn’t say goodbye.

He just stood slowly, glanced at you like he was memorizing something, and said:

“I hope next time, you still like me.”

Then he walked away again.

And for the second time, you sat there with a cooling drink and a thousand unspoken questions.

But this time, you whispered one aloud:

“Next time?”

You tried not to expect him.

That was the rule now, the quiet vow you made with yourself: Don’t expect the boy with the sketchpad. Don’t wait. Don’t wonder. Don’t walk into a bookstore or board a train hoping the universe would fold itself into the shape of him.

And still, somehow, you broke it.

You found yourself walking the long way home again. Past the market. Past the station. Past the window of the café you never liked, just in case he was there, warming his fingers on a cup of tea you could pretend was also jasmine with honey.

It was stupid, wasn’t it? Missing someone you didn’t really know.

Wanting someone who left every conversation with a mystery and a look that felt like goodbye.

You wanted to hate the ache of it.

But instead, you started to carry it like a secret.

It had been twelve days since you last saw him.

You counted, though you told yourself not to.

You started keeping a journal again. You hadn’t done that since high school. But something about him made you want to capture time—trap it in words before it left you like he always did.

You wrote small things.

Day 6: I walked past the dog park. Saw a retriever with the same eyes as Miso. I cried a little and told myself it was allergies.

Day 9: I started drawing. I’m not good. But I drew a pair of hands. I think they were his.

And then came Day 13.

It was raining again. You had no plans. So you found yourself returning to the quiet gallery near the edge of the university district. The one with free entry and too much space between the walls.

You liked it because no one ever talked there.

The room smelled like varnish and old dreams. You wandered slowly, reading plaques, half-looking, half-thinking. Your mind somewhere else.

You turned a corner—and stopped.

There, on the wall, framed and pinned like a memory, was a charcoal drawing of you.

Not a perfect likeness. It wasn’t a portrait. But it was you. Your profile. Your jacket. Your fingers holding a tea cup. The same way you looked that first morning on the train.

And in the corner, like a whisper, was his name.

Jeon Jeongguk.

You didn’t realize someone had stepped behind you until a soft voice said, “I didn’t think you’d find it.”

You turned slowly.

There he was. Hood down, eyes gentler than you remembered. No sketchpad this time. Just him.

You didn’t know what to say. So you stared at the drawing again. Then at him.

“That’s… me.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Jeongguk looked at the wall like he was trying to explain something too big for words.

Then he looked at you.

“You looked like you were living in a memory,” he said quietly. “I just wanted to keep it.”

You swallowed.

“That’s not a normal thing to say to someone.”

“I know.”

You looked at him again. His eyes were tired in a way that didn’t match his age. Like he’d lived too many versions of a single goodbye.

“Do you do this a lot?” you asked. “Draw strangers?”

He shook his head. “No. Just you.”

You tried to laugh it off. “You’re weird, you know.”

“I know,” he said again.

But he smiled.

You ended up walking together after that. Slowly. No destination.

There was a rhythm to being near him. Not comfortable, exactly—but familiar.

You noticed how he walked half a step behind you, like he was following your lead, like he was afraid of walking beside you too soon.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t pry. But when you spoke, he listened like every word mattered.

At one point, you stopped to buy two fish-shaped pastries from a street stall. You handed him one.

“I like red bean,” you said. “Hope that’s okay.”

He looked surprised. “That’s… always been your favorite.”

You paused. “How do you know that?”

His expression flickered.

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “It just feels true.”

That night, as you stood at the train crossing together, watching the lights blink red, he turned to you.

“Can I ask something?” he said.

You nodded.

“Do you believe in things happening out of order?”

You thought for a moment. “Like fate?”

He shook his head. “Not fate. Just… time. Moments. Meeting someone when you’re not supposed to. Remembering things before they happen.”

You gave a small, uncertain smile. “Is that what’s happening?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he whispered, “I think I’m remembering you from the end, while you’re still at the beginning.”

You stood there, breath caught in your throat, not knowing how to respond.

Because somehow… that didn’t sound crazy at all.

It sounded like the truth.

The first time you dreamt of him, he was crying.

It was quiet. He sat on a rooftop somewhere, knees drawn to his chest, and the wind moved gently through his hair.

He cried the way people do when they know something is ending.

Not with panic. With surrender.

And when he turned, he said your name like it was the last time.

You woke up with your heart beating wrong. Like it had skipped a few steps and landed in someone else’s story.

You didn’t see him for days.

But the dream stayed. It stayed in your bones, in your throat, in the stillness between tasks. You thought about his voice saying your name—how he’d never actually said it in real life. How, somehow, your subconscious gave him the exact tone you thought it might have.

You found yourself looking for him again. Not frantically. But like a habit.

You walked the bookstore path. The gallery path. The bench in the train car, third from the back, near the window.

He wasn’t there.

Instead, you sat alone and tried to draw the rooftop from your dream.

The view, the shape of his shoulders, the way the sky looked bruised behind him.

You didn’t even realize someone had approached until a shadow passed over your sketchbook.

“That’s a nice shade for grief,” said a voice.

You didn’t need to look. You knew it was him.

You looked anyway.

Jeongguk sat down beside you like it was his seat too. As if time had folded again and he just stepped back into your rhythm.

You waited for the awkwardness that should’ve come.

But it didn’t.

You just said, “I saw you.”

He blinked. “When?”

“In a dream. You were on a rooftop.”

He stilled, eyes unreadable. “Did I say anything?”

You hesitated. Then lied: “No. You just looked… tired.”

He looked down at your sketch. Then at his hands.

“I think you remember more than you think.”

You wanted to ask what that meant.

But part of you was scared—scared to name the strange dance you’d been pulled into. Scared it would stop if you looked too closely.

Instead, you changed the subject.

“Do you live nearby?”

He smiled faintly. “Not really.”

“You just wander around the places I happen to be?”

“I told you. I’ll always see you again.”

“You say that like you’re sure.”

“I am.”

There it was again—that quiet certainty. That knowing.

You didn’t understand it. But you were starting to trust it.

That afternoon, he asked if you wanted to see something.

You followed him down old streets with hanging vines and crooked fences. He led you into an old train station that had been turned into a community art space. He didn’t say much. Just walked past the louder displays until you reached a room tucked in the back.

He pushed open the door. Inside: a small room filled with sketches.

Dozens of them.

Hands. Eyes. Half-smiles. Rooftops. Teacups. Dogs. You.

You stared. Not just at the art, but at what it meant.

“These are—”

“Moments,” he said quietly. “Tiny things I didn’t want to forget.”

You turned to him, voice thin. “All of these are me?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head gently. “Not yet. Some are versions of you I haven’t met yet.”

You felt dizzy. Like the floor had shifted just slightly.

“Why are you showing me this?”

He finally looked at you—really looked.

And in that moment, you saw it. The ache beneath the certainty. The way he held your gaze like it was already breaking his heart.

“Because someday,” he whispered, “you’ll forget me.”

That night, you didn’t sleep.

You sat by your window, journal in your lap, and wrote down every time he’d appeared. Every strange thing he’d said. Every little impossible truth.

You didn’t have the answers.

But you were starting to understand the shape of the question.

And it terrified you in the most beautiful way.

The next time you saw him, he didn’t smile.

It was dusk—your favorite hour. That in-between stretch of time where everything feels dipped in nostalgia for something not quite gone. You weren’t looking for him. Not this time. You were walking the long way home again, headphones in, humming a song you didn’t remember learning.

And then, just before the crossing, there he was.

Leaning against the railing like he’d been waiting.

He didn’t wave. He didn’t greet you with a line dipped in mystery or tenderness. He just looked at you like he was afraid to speak.

“Hey,” you said first.

“Hey.”

A pause.

Then he asked, almost nervously, “Can I walk with you?”

You nodded.

The two of you walked in silence.

It was easy now, the quiet. You didn’t need to fill it. There was something sacred about it—like you were both protecting the same fragile thing without naming it.

You watched the way he moved. How he always kept one hand curled slightly, like it had held yours once, and still remembered the shape.

You didn’t know why, but your chest ached.

When you reached the familiar bench by the corner bookstore—the one with the chipped blue paint and fallen ginkgo leaves—he stopped walking.

“This was the first place I said I loved you,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

Jeongguk didn’t look at you. His eyes were on the bench like it was a grave. Or an altar.

“I’m not supposed to tell you,” he continued. “It messes things up when I do.”

Your breath caught. “Jeongguk—”

“I know,” he said, holding up his hand. “It doesn’t make sense. Not yet.”

You stepped closer, heart hammering. “Are you saying we’ve done this before?”

He looked at you then.

And it wasn’t the look of a boy flirting with possibility. It was the look of a man grieving a memory he was losing day by day.

“No,” he whispered.

“You’ve never done this before. But I have.”

You didn’t speak.

Not for a long while.

He sat down on the bench, shoulders slumped, and you followed, slowly, sitting beside him like gravity demanded it.

“You’re not from the future, are you?” you asked, voice small.

He let out a breath—half laugh, half sigh.

“No. I’m just… on a different clock.”

You turned to face him, eyes wide, searching. “What does that mean?”

Jeongguk hesitated.

Then he looked at you like this might be the last time.

“I live backwards,” he said. “My past is your future.”

You stared.

“No,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “That’s—what does that even mean?”

“It means,” he said gently, “that the first time I met you, you already loved me. But from your side… it hadn’t even started.”

The silence that followed was cruel.

You sat frozen, trying to wrap your mind around it.

A love story in reverse.

He’d already seen the version of you that knew his middle name, his favorite movie, how he liked his coffee. He’d already watched you fall in love, and fall asleep in his arms, and cry into his hoodie on a rooftop.

He knew all the versions of you that you hadn’t met yet.

But every time you saw him… he was closer to forgetting.

“I don’t want this,” you whispered, unsure if you meant him, or the truth.

“I didn’t either,” he replied. “But I didn’t have a choice. I fell into you without knowing where it would end. And by the time I realized it was your beginning—I was already at my end.”

You felt the tears before they came. Silent, but inevitable. The kind you didn’t sob. The kind you just let fall.

Jeongguk didn’t touch you. He didn’t wipe them away.

Instead, he just said:

“Someday, you’ll fall in love with me.”

And with that, he stood.

Before you could say anything, he added—

“And the cruel part is… you’ll think it’s the first time. But for me, it’ll be the last.”

Then he walked away.

And all you could do was sit on the bench where love would eventually be spoken, aching over a goodbye you hadn’t even said yet.

The human mind wasn’t built for this—

For remembering things it never lived.

For aching over touches it never felt.

For grieving someone who hasn’t left you yet.

But your body remembered him.

In tiny ways.

Like how you almost said “bless you” the moment before he sneezed in the middle of a bookstore, even though you hadn’t even looked up yet.

Or how, during a rainstorm, your hands made tea for two without thinking. Right before your phone buzzed with his name.

You hadn’t saved his number.

You hadn’t even given him yours.

That night, you dreamed again.

But this time, you weren’t watching.

You were in it.

You were curled up on someone’s couch, in a dim apartment with windows that faced the Han River. A sweatshirt too big for you hung off one shoulder. Someone—him—was cooking something in the kitchen. It smelled like garlic and rain.

And then—like it had happened a thousand times before—you walked barefoot to him and wrapped your arms around his waist from behind.

He turned his head slightly and kissed the crown of yours.

“Why are you sad tonight?” he asked softly.

You whispered, “Because I know this ends.”

He didn’t argue. He just said: “Not for me. I’m already in the middle of it.”

You woke up with tears in your hairline. The kind you cry in your sleep and don’t remember starting.

You didn’t tell anyone.

How could you?

How do you tell someone:

I think I’m remembering someone else’s heartbreak… but it belongs to me.

You didn’t see Jeongguk again for five days.

Not that you weren’t looking.

You just didn’t know where to look anymore. Or if you should.

Instead, you filled your days with things that used to feel like yours.

Books. Cafés. Sketches. Long walks.

But they all felt thinner now. Like rooms missing furniture. Like mornings missing him.

You told yourself it wasn’t love. That was ridiculous.

You didn’t know him.

But your soul disagreed.

Then, on day seven, he came back.

He was waiting outside the gallery. Not in front. In the alley behind it—half-hidden, half-watching. He didn’t look surprised when you found him. Just sad.

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t come,” he said.

“I didn’t know I was coming either.”

He nodded, as if he already knew.

You looked at him then. His eyes were tired again. That same quiet exhaustion you’d seen in the first dream. But this time, he had something folded in his hand. A photo.

He handed it to you.

It was worn, edges curled. A photograph of you. You were laughing—laughing so hard your head was thrown back, your teeth showing, your hands clutching your stomach. And beside you… him. Eyes crinkled. Grinning like the world was ending and he didn’t mind.

You swallowed.

“I’ve never—this photo—”

“You will,” he whispered.

You blinked up at him. “Why are you showing this to me now?”

Jeongguk looked at you like it hurt.

“Because I’m starting to forget.”

Your heart cracked.

“I don’t want to forget the sound of your laugh. So I needed to give something back.”

You didn’t speak for a while after that.

You just stood in that little alleyway, the city humming in the background, and stared at a memory you hadn’t made yet.

And when he finally stepped closer and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, you didn’t flinch.

You didn’t pull away.

Because somehow, even that touch felt like a habit.

Before he left, you asked quietly:

“Is there a version of us where we got it right?”

He hesitated.

Then said the softest thing you’ve ever heard:

“Every version of us felt right to me.”

Then he turned and disappeared around the corner—like a memory being tucked away.

And you were left with a photo you didn’t remember taking, and a heart full of someone you were still about to meet.

There’s a particular kind of longing that has no name.

Not quite missing.

Not quite desire.

But a gravity that pulls you toward something you’ve never touched, yet ache for anyway.

That’s what it felt like.

Living with the memory of a boy you hadn’t yet loved.

You started noticing the way time bent around him.

How he never asked questions he shouldn’t already know.

How he never said “maybe.”

Only “you will.”

Only “we did.”

And you began to crave something strange—

Evidence.

Proof that you weren’t going mad.

Proof that time really was folding around the two of you.

You went to the river that weekend.

The Han was quiet under gray skies, scattered with couples and joggers. You wore a hoodie you didn’t recognize—one that smelled faintly of rosemary and something familiar.

You didn’t know why you’d kept it in the back of your closet.

Didn’t know why you reached for it now.

Didn’t know why your fingers found the inside pocket and touched a crumpled movie stub.

The date was two weeks away.

Your heart stuttered.

You sat on a bench by the water and stared at the ticket, waiting for the world to shift. It didn’t. It just… kept turning, quiet and indifferent.

Still, you stayed.

Like he might appear again, walking from the mist.

Or maybe… fade into it.

You dreamt again that night.

Not a rooftop this time.

A tiny secondhand bookstore with hanging lights and an old cat asleep on the poetry shelf.

He was there, waiting, eyes glowing like he’d just seen you for the first time again.

“Hey,” he whispered in the dream. “You’re earlier than last time.”

You wanted to say, No, you’re just late.

But you didn’t. Because even in your dreams, you could feel it:

You were always catching up.

And he was always quietly saying goodbye.

The next morning, you returned to the city with one thing on your mind:

The bookstore.

You didn’t know if it was real.

But it felt real.

The cat. The low ceilings. The smell of dust and cardamom tea.

You walked street after street until your feet ached.

And then, tucked between a flower shop and a laundromat, you found it.

A brass bell jingled as you stepped in.

And there—curled like memory made flesh—was a gray cat asleep on the poetry shelf.

Your knees nearly buckled.

You wandered through the aisles in a daze, fingertips tracing bindings, breath shallow.

And then, on a small table near the window, you saw a sketchbook.

Familiar.

Charcoal lines. Unfinished curves. And your profile again—softer this time, like it had been drawn while you were sleeping.

A note was tucked underneath.

“I left this here in case you came looking.

And I always hoped you would.”

—J

You sat on the floor.

Right there, surrounded by poetry and dust, you let yourself cry. Not because you were sad—but because something inside you knew this was a place you had once been loved.

You didn’t call him. You didn’t know how.

You didn’t run to find him either. Because something about love like this—love that defies time—teaches you to wait with reverence.

So you walked home slowly, under a sky dusted in rose-gold.

And when you passed by your own reflection in a train window, you smiled softly.

Because you finally understood:

You were falling in love with him.

Not because of the memories.

But because of the quiet way he made room for you to become someone you hadn’t yet been.

Somewhere between meeting him and now,

you stopped trying to make sense of time.

It was like swimming in a lake you’d known in another life.

You stopped asking how deep it went.

You just sank, gently—willingly—into the knowing.

You saw him again at the gallery.

This time, he wasn’t sketching.

He was standing in front of a wall,

gazing at a drawing that hadn’t been there before.

It was of two people—hands reaching, not quite touching.

The space between them held more ache than most entire love stories.

He didn’t turn when you walked up beside him.

Didn’t even flinch when you said, “Is this new?”

He nodded. “It was always going to be.”

You looked at him.

He looked tired.

Like he was trying to memorize everything before it faded.

Like every second near you cost something.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

He smiled without looking at you.

“I’m running out of todays.”

You didn’t cry, even though your throat burned with the want to.

Instead, you stepped closer—so close you could feel the shape of his breath.

“I want to know,” you said. “Everything.”

He finally turned. His eyes were so full of you.

“I can’t give you everything,” he whispered.

“Only moments. Only pieces.”

“Then give me pieces,” you said. “Even if I break holding them.”

So he did.

That night, you sat by the river again—same bench, same distance, same hush between you—and he told you tiny truths in the dark.

“I knew the sound of your laugh before I heard it.”

“You fall asleep faster when your feet are cold.”

“You once told me you never wanted forever, just a love that felt like music. Quiet, then loud. Then quiet again.”

You didn’t remember saying that.

But your body did. Your bones did.

Your heart beat like a drum under your skin.

And you let your hand rest beside his—not touching, not yet.

The next night, he didn’t come.

Nor the next.

Nor the one after that.

You tried not to worry.

But the silence around you started to ache.

The dreams became stronger.

Not memories anymore—warnings.

You saw yourself running. You saw the bench. The sketchbook.

You heard yourself saying things you hadn’t said yet.

You woke with his name on your lips and a fist clenched around your pillow,

like you were holding on to the idea of him.

Then—on the fifth night—he came.

But not as you remembered.

He looked… lighter. Not in peace.

In fade.

His edges seemed blurred, like he was part of the air around you.

“Jeongguk?” you said, breathless.

“I’m forgetting,” he whispered.

“Even now, looking at you—I know I loved you. But I can’t remember which memory it was.”

Your throat closed up.

“I don’t want this to end.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer.

“But love doesn’t live in time.

It lives in us.

In the way you’ll carry me even when I’m gone.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want memories. I want you.”

And then—

He touched your face.

For the first time in real time.

In your time.

His hand was warm. Anchored. Real.

“You’ll love me,” he said. “And I won’t know it.

But I’ll still feel it.”

Tears slipped down your cheek.

And for the first time,

he kissed you.

It was soft. Gentle.

A hello and a goodbye in one breath.

You didn’t want to let go.

But you had to.

Because the moment his lips left yours—he began to vanish.

Not like magic.

Like a photograph in water.

Like smoke from a birthday candle.

You didn’t scream.

You just whispered:

“Thank you for finding me.”

And he smiled through the blur,

his final words barely a hush—

“I always will.”

Then he was gone.

That night, you walked home with the world rearranged.

Not broken.

Not ruined.

Just… quieter.

Because now, you weren’t afraid of the end.

You’d touched something eternal.

And soon—very soon—you’d fall in love with him.

Even if he never remembered.

You stopped hoping.

Or maybe you just stopped expecting.

Time had dulled the sharp edge of waiting into something quieter—

like the way the sea forgets the shape of a storm, but still remembers how to ache.

The world had moved on.

And so had you.

Or so you told yourself.

It was a Tuesday.

Ordinary. Uneventful.

The kind of day no one writes stories about.

You were seated on the train again—third car from the back, by the window.

Same seat. Same view.

A routine you hadn’t broken, not once.

You looked up.

And there he was.

On the opposite train.

Same seat.

Facing you.

Still. Silent.

His face hadn’t changed.

But his eyes…

his eyes knew something now.

The trains weren’t moving.

Just two carriages side by side, paused between moments.

You stared.

So did he.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you smiled.

But in the space between glass and time,

you looked at each other like you knew.

Like your souls had lived this before.

Like you had loved, lost, and loved again.

Like every version of you had always been reaching for this one second.

The city blurred behind him.

Your reflection shimmered in the glass between you.

Breath held.

Heart breaking.

Not because you were meeting for the first time—

but because somehow, impossibly,

you remembered.