⋆｡°𝑨𝑹𝑰 + 𝑹𝑬𝑰𝑫

you were barefoot on the sand, running towards someone with their arms outstretched. the sky was a stormy, ominous gray, the air smelled of salt and regret, and you felt like you were running out of time– but you didn’t know why. 

you woke up before you could make it to them.

blinking in the moonlight of your lonely apartment, you quietly slip out of bed. the floor is cold beneath your bare feet as you pad to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water. you can’t shake the dream away, even as you try to wash it down; can’t shake the feeling that you’re forgetting something important.

but you just can’t recall the dreams for long enough to know what it is you’re looking for.

you sigh and glance at the clock– three a.m. too late to get enough sleep, too early to start your day. you drain your glass and head back to bed, resigned to curl back under your covers and stare wistfully out your window at the night sky. 

the stars seem to stretch on forever in the endless dark, and you let them sing you back to sleep as you chase the dream that’s already slipping through your fingers.

–

the dream is long gone from your mind when the sun crests and spills into your room in the morning.

the world is waking up and taking you with it. you rise and go about your day: making toast, brushing your teeth, lacing your shoes– all while sifting through your memories to find the dream that woke you last night. you can never recall what they’re about when the sun comes up, only how they made you feel. all you know is that you startled awake with a cry of a name you can’t remember in your throat and tears brimming behind your eyes.

but anything beyond that feels like a wisp of smoke drifting in the wind.

you walk out onto the street that’s only just started humming with activity and take the path you know like the back of your hand to the train station. you sit on the bench at the platform as you wait for the 7:04 train, earbuds in with your favorite song looped in the background.

you don’t even remember getting on, but before you know it, you’re hopping off, feet moving through the early morning hush with sleep still lingering behind your eyes.

there’s a coffee shop tucked between a laundromat and a florist that always opens too early and smells like cinnamon and burnt toast. your shift starts before the city fully wakes. you unlock the door, shrug on your apron, and tie your hair up to get ready to open the shop.

the bottles are sticky and the espresso machine whines in protest when you start it, but you hum while you work anyways. it’s a tune you’ve always known; a song you think means more than it seems, wordless but stuck in your head nonetheless.

you couldn’t possibly know it— but two doors down, han jisung is lugging his laundry bag into the building next to yours, humming the exact same melody.

he woke up with it in his ear this morning. it bounced around his head as he tried and failed to go back to sleep; he’s not a morning person, but something about the tune was too haunting to let go of.

so he got up and wrote it down.

it was just notes, at least for now. just letters on a page, gently plucked on his guitar until he was sure they matched what he’d heard in his dreams. he’d fiddled with it until it was perfect, then groaned and got up to start his day much earlier than he usually does.

han hums the song again as he loads his laundry into the machine, throws in the detergent, and starts the wash, leaning against the wall with his headphones around his neck.

there’s a coffee shop nearby he’s been meaning to try. he pulls out his phone and sets a timer for the length of the wash cycle before he exits the laundromat, bell jingling overhead. he starts down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, kicking a rock out of his path.

he’s about to reach for the door handle when his phone goes off.

he sighs before picking up the call– it’s from felix, his best friend from college.

“hey man,” felix’s abnormally deep voice carries through the speaker, “i’m grabbing breakfast at that diner near your place. wanna meet up?”

han looks at the coffee shop one more time, checks his timer, and then shrugs. 

“sure, i can be there in ten.”

and then he’s walking in the other direction, pulling away further from the scent of espresso and vanilla, until the shop is far behind him.

back inside, your gaze lifts to the window without realizing it. your heart tugs painfully in your chest– maybe a remnant of feeling from the dream you can’t remember? maybe a consequence of waking up at three in the morning?

whatever the reason, you stare out the window with a mix of confusion and longing, not knowing that your heart is reaching for the figure already blocks down the street.

—

by the time the sun sets, you’re tired, sticky with coffee syrups, and permanently smelling of cinnamon.

you scrub a hand over your face in exhaustion as you move around to close up the shop for the night. you sweep and scrub and flick off the machines, listening as the constant drone of activity fades from the air in the store. 

you’re humming again. same tune. same notes. it comes easily, naturally; you start untying your apron and tugging it off, going to hang it on the rack.

you stop short at the shadow passing the window.

you feel something indescribable: a pang of yearning, a twinge of heartache, like something in you is crying. like something could’ve tilted your world on its axis, but didn’t– and you’re feeling the loss.

you stare at the streetlight outside the store and wonder if you’re so lonely that you’ve started romanticizing the shadows.

meanwhile, han jisung is on his nightly walk, hands back in his pockets and headphones on. he’s listening to some of his favorite lo-fi tracks, walking without real purpose.

something drew him back by the same street from earlier; he normally takes a different route, but the sweet scent he caught a whiff of this morning was too tempting not to follow again. he tells himself that next time he wakes up early, he’ll go inside that coffee shop he keeps seeing.

he passes by the window under the streetlight, watching cars drive by. and just when he’s on the other side of the shop, he pauses. only for a second.

his heart is doing something weird in his chest.

he puts a hand over it, feeling something he can’t put into words– like it stopped beating for a moment. like it was holding its breath.

he shakes his head and keeps walking, blaming it on waking up so early this morning.

–

later that night, you’re watering the plants on your windowsill while deep in thought.

the city is quieter tonight; not silent– no one who lives here would ever mistake it for that– but softer somehow. the kind of hush that only comes when the streets have tired themselves out and even the subways have stopped screaming.

you’re standing at your window, sipping tea from your favorite chipped mug, the one with the faded constellation print on it. it’s habit by now, this midnight ritual: come home, shower off the day, press your forehead to the cool glass. the sky’s not clear, not really. it rarely is. but the moon is peeking through, hazy and half-full.

you tilt your head like you’re listening to something. 

you don’t know why.

your apartment is still and quiet. you take another sip and lean into the sill, eyes tracing delicately over the moon that hangs between stars that aren’t quite visible through the city glow.

and then it hits.

a flicker– too fast to catch fully, too sharp to ignore.

a hand holding yours. a kiss to your cheek. there’s candlelight and laughter, a faint whiff of incense in the air. a voice your mind can’t remember is saying ‘i’m so lucky’, and you’re there in that moment thinking, ‘i know’.

you blink, heart racing. the image vanishes like steam, gone just as quickly as it came.

you frown, staring at your empty mug like it betrayed you. maybe you’re just tired. maybe you fell asleep with your eyes open; or maybe you’re just going crazy. you feel like you might be.

you whisper out loud, “what the hell was that?”

across the city, jisung flinches so hard he rips his headphones off.

he’s at his desk, messing with the song he recorded earlier. he’s been layering harmonies and beats with the melody, but nothing has felt right; like it’s missing something. like he hasn’t unlocked whatever the heart of the song is yet.

but as he’s playing around with tempo and backtrack, he freezes outright, song instantly forgotten.

because a voice just spoke in his head.

not imagined, not a memory, not a dream.

real. 

he stares out his open window, staring at the moon like it holds the answers, heart pounding. 

rationality tries to reason its way through this: he fell asleep. he’s hallucinating. his phone glitched and played a clip from somewhere. maybe he left the TV on. maybe– maybe…

but then he hears it again.

another thought that isn’t his, a lilting voice threaded into the silence between seconds.

“i think something’s wrong with me.”

he sits up too fast and walks to the window like something is pulling his feet there, eyes still on the not-quite-full moon that looms over the city. his palm rests against the glass, cool under his touch, and his forehead follows next to press against it. 

he stares out at the city lights. “who are you?” he breathes, asking the moon more than anything.

and he doesn’t expect to hear an answer, not really.

but his heart sinks a little either way when nothing happens.

–

that night, jisung dreams of hands.

not his; these ones are delicate, distinctly feminine. they’re clasping a watering can, tilting it over a windowsill lined with jasmine and peonies and a few other plants he doesn’t recognize. they move with grace as the light of a city he swears he recognizes hits them.

he watches them for a moment– her hands– without knowing why they seem so familiar. like he’s held them before. like he’s supposed to be holding them now.

but the harder he holds on to the image, the faster the dream slips. the windowsill fades. the plants blur. the light fractures. until–

he jolts awake.

his room is dark. the air is still. his sheets are twisted around his legs, his chest tight with something just shy of grief, and he blinks up at the ceiling like it might tell him what the dream meant. who she is. why his heart won’t slow down.

he sits up slowly, pushing a hand through his hair. his mind tries to catch the fragments of the dream like fireflies in a jar: the shape of her fingers, the curve of her wrist, the too-familiar moonlight. the scent of jasmine and something sweeter, something he knows he’s smelt before.

jisung has always been a dreamer– but lately, his dreams have been something different, feeling like more than just the dreams of a twenty-something who spends his days in a studio. now, his dreams have a shape: the hands. the voice. the flickers of images from a time his heart wants him to remember, but his brain can’t decide if it’s real or not.

he knows, somehow, that these dreams have meaning. that they have weight.

but he can’t tell if they’re memories, imagination, or just the byproduct of slowly going mad.

he sighs and settles back into his pillow, eyes stuck on the world outside his window. he wonders if the person he dreams of is out there; if she’s real, or just a figure stirred up by his lonely heart, meant only to dance in his dreams.

he goes back to sleep with the melody from this morning echoing in his head.

–

you’re running across the station the next day, bag slapping your side as you rush up the stairs to the platform where the train you need to be on has just pulled in.

there’s an apology already building on your tongue, thinking of what you’ll say to your friend when you’re late to meet her for lunch on the far side of town. you weave through the sea of commuters and push your legs to go faster.

behind you, the midday sounds of the city are buzzing: cars honking, other trains pulling in and out, the din of people talking and laughing and the faint sound of a street musician playing the saxophone. the music barely reaches your ears as you finally get to the train door.

you walk into the train car, and just for a second– only a breath– your eyes unintentionally lock with those of someone stepping out of it.

you’re instantly thrown into a flash of another almost-dream: those eyes are on you as you read by flickering firelight, mouthing a poem you know by heart. a hand is stroking your back, a smile curling on foreign yet familiar lips. there’s smoke and leaves and a faint guitar singing in the wind.

and then it’s over. you blink rapidly as the world comes back into focus.

just like that, the train is in motion again; the moment is gone, leaving you breathless and reeling. you shake your head, mutter something about sleep deprivation and too many romance novels, and grip the pole tight like it can ground you in reality as the train car sways gently.

but the question won’t stop humming under your skin: why does it feel like you’ve looked into those eyes before?

on the platform, han stands frozen mid-step.

he’s not sure why he stopped walking. doesn’t remember looking up into the eyes of someone hopping on the train. but now he’s staring at the closed doors like they’ve just shut on something he forgot to remember. there’s a strange pressure behind his eyes; it feels like the start of a headache. or maybe a memory. 

his heart stutters. not from fear, not even from surprise, but with the echo of something older. like hearing a song from a dream he can’t quite place.

he’s not sure if the hollow in his chest is grief or longing– he only knows that it blooms wide and quiet.

his headphones are still over his ears, some beat he stopped caring about drifting through. he slides them off his head and lets them dangle around his neck as he stares at the train, wondering if it’s possible for him to miss someone he’s never met.

he shakes his head at himself. but he can’t get past the thought that those eyes looked familiar.

he turns to leave. behind him, a gust of wind stirs the edge of his coat– and somewhere down the track, your reflection shimmers briefly in the train window before vanishing.

–

it’s nighttime, and han still can’t stop thinking about the eyes he saw on that train platform.

the rooftop of the apartment complex hums with distant city noise, and jisung sits beside chan, legs dangling over the ledge, picking at lukewarm ramen as if the silence might give him something back.

he hasn’t spoken much so far; still shaken from the dreams, from the moment on the train, the tune he can’t get out of his head. anyone who knows him can tell he’s distracted– something’s on his mind.

chan is the first to break the silence. “you alright these days?”

he doesn’t look at han when he says it; instead he acts casual, slurping his noodles and pretending he’s not emotionally checking in.

han shrugs. “yeah, mostly. work’s been hell, but what else is new, y’know?”

chan makes a noncommittal noise. “not what i meant.” there’s a pause, long enough for the weight of the question to catch up. 

han’s cup is drained before he finally looks up and gives a real answer.

“... i keep having these dreams,” he says softly, like it’s some sort of secret. “of someone i think i’m supposed to remember.”

chan raises a brow, silently asking him to go on; he does, eventually. but he has to work past the catch in his throat at the faint memories that swirl like clouds just out of reach in his mind’s eye.

“i can’t figure out where i know her from, but… there’s this girl. i keep getting these flashes of dreams with her in them. or memories, or whatever. and it’s never all of her– just pieces. a laugh, an elbow, a smile… just parts of her. but i swear i know her from somewhere.”

chan doesn’t answer right away. just lets the quiet stretch out, punctuated by the distant wail of a siren and the scrape of jisung’s chopsticks against the bottom of his cup.

when he does speak, it’s gentler than before. “do you think it’s real?”

han shrugs again, mind somewhere else entirely. “i don’t know, man. i can’t tell if it’s something i’m remembering or someone i’ve met, or if i’m just overtired and lonely and my brain’s making things up to keep life interesting.”

chan hums, “or maybe not.”

jisung glances over, surprised by the edge of non-judgemental sincerity in his friend’s voice. “what?”

chan looks like he’s chewing on something, like the thought tastes familiar but he can’t name it. “i think i’ve… heard that before,” he says finally.

“from who?”

“don’t know,” he admits, “but it’s on the tip of my tongue. it feels… real. the way you said.”

han looks down at his empty ramen cup, the corner of his mouth twitching. “yeah,” he murmurs. “that’s the worst part. it feels so real.”

a beat passes, quiet but heavy, before he adds: “like i’m missing someone that hasn’t even happened yet.”

neither of them says anything after that. 

the wind picks up a little, brushing cool across their arms. below them, the city keeps pulsing: oblivious, electric, alive.

and somewhere deep in jisung’s chest, something answers. 

not with words. just with ache.

–

it’s after midnight when you give up on sleep.

the playlist on your phone loops softly in the background– gentle instrumentals, the kind meant to lull you into rest, but your head won’t stop buzzing like there's something you forgot to do. something you forgot to feel.

your room is dim and washed with the kind of half-quiet that makes your thoughts feel too loud. you’re on your second mug of tea, curled into the corner of your bed with your journal open and untouched in your lap, lamp lighting it in a faint glow.

outside the window, the city hums: muffled tires on wet pavement, a far-off siren, laughter floating up from a sidewalk below. it all feels close, but not yours. like a story you’re listening to through a wall.

you press your pen to the page.

nothing comes to you at first.

then:

“i keep dreaming about being held. 

but not like it’s new. like i’m remembering it.”

the words look ridiculous on paper; dramatic. too much.

but when you stare at them, your throat gets tight. your mind’s eye coils the words into a new flash of forgotten mementos from a life you’re not sure is real: dirt beneath your nails, the earthy smell of rosemary in the air, a lingering kiss pressed to your head in a cottage that feels like home.

you write it down before it can escape you again. just fragments on a page– rosemary, earth, someone kissing you in a cozy, safe place you built together. it sounds crazy when you read it aloud.

it’s been like this for weeks now– flashes you can’t place. warmth without a source. waking up with the sense that you were just about to realize something the universe is waiting for you to understand.

sometimes you hear laughter you don’t recognize and swear it’s familiar. sometimes you see the right shade of dark brown and start missing eyes you’ve never seen without knowing why.

you don’t tell anyone; you’d sound insane. how do you say ‘hey, i think there’s someone out there who remembers me, but i don’t know who they are. why do i keep remembering things that i don’t know ever even happened?’

so instead, you scribble one more line and close the journal before you can think better of it.

“do you miss me too?”

–

the next time you feel that string pulled taut in your chest, it happens fast. no warning.

you’re on a narrow stretch of sidewalk in the middle of the city in the late afternoon, sunlight golden across the pavement. your mind is half-distracted by a playlist in your earbuds and the weight of the day pulling at your shoulders. the crowd around you moves like a tide– brisk, loud, indifferent– and you’re not looking for anyone. not consciously.

but the crowd thins just enough for a beat.

and someone’s hand brushes yours.

skin to skin; barely. just that.

and everything stills. the ground wobbles beneath your feet, and sparks that feel like they’re from another planet pool in your fingertips.

your knees nearly give. you feel it in your chest– like your heart missed a step on the stairs. like something dropped through the floor of your body and didn’t hit the bottom.

the world goes muffled. sirens dim, footsteps hush.

the music in your ears cuts out.

and for the briefest second, you’re somewhere else. you hear breath fogging glass. you see moonlight through a windowpane in a city that looks like yours.

you see the outline of a hand pressed against the cold glass from the other side; a hand you could swear you’ve seen somewhere before.

and you hear it– quiet and aching and close as a whisper:

“who are you?”

but it’s not your voice.

you blink, startled. the image flickers out; leaving you back in the real world. it’s just the street again around you. just the rush of passersby and the beat of your music skipping back to life in your ears.

you turn, breath shallow. someone behind you has paused too.

a figure in a hoodie and headphones. familiar in a way that makes no sense. he’s not fully turned around, just rigid in place; like he felt the electricity against your hand, too.

his is still half-lifted like he meant to reach for something. like maybe he meant to reach for you.

then he shakes his head, pockets his hand. steps away.

just like that– gone.

you’re still stuck in the ghost of what you saw– what you felt– rattled down to the bone like your body just recognized something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

you look down at your hand.

your fingers feel like a current is moving through them at that simple touch.

and somewhere beneath the noise, like an echo rising back to meet itself, the words from your journal come rushing back to you.

“do you miss me too?”

but you’re not the only one who hears it.

the question you asked in the dead of night hits han jisung like a bell strike– low and echoing, a clang of near-recognition right behind his ribs.

he doesn’t know where the sentence came from, doesn’t know how he heard something that hasn’t been said; he only knows that it feels like it belongs to him.

his fingers are still half-curled from the brush of the hand. his pulse won’t stop jumping. and for a second, maybe even less than that, he’s not on this street anymore.

he’s somewhere else entirely.

he sees the soft curve of a wrist in lamplight. a journal, open. a pen moving across paper in handwriting he knows. not remembers—knows. like he’s watched it a hundred times. like the sprawl of the letters is branded somewhere deep inside him.

the image is quiet, domestic, intimate in a way that makes his chest ache.

there’s a song playing low from a phone speaker. a warm mug sits on the bedside table. the world outside the window glows blue-grey, and the moon shines faintly against the covers.

han watches through different eyes as the pen hits the page.

and then words are being written down:

“do you miss me too?”

his breath catches.

he sees it. hears it. feels it in every atom—

—and then it’s gone.

just the city again. just a rush of people and car horns and someone brushing past his shoulder, unbothered, this time leaving no electric wake behind.

he turns back toward the direction the first touch came from without meaning to.

the mystery behind it has already disappeared into the crowd.

but something in him lingers, tethered to the electric static still humming in his fingertips, to the ache behind his heart, to the invisible thread tugging tight across time.

he looks down at his palm. wonders if his hands have held the ones he keeps seeing.

and he swears he hears the voice in his head again, sound given life with the words: 

do you miss me, too? 

–

when the world goes dark a few hours later, you dream of smoke, steam, and the kind of joy that permeates a war.

you’re on a crowded train platform. your ears ring with the sound of a thousand boots crunching on gravel, the whistle of a train still echoing off the hills behind you. people are all around you– they shout, reunite, cry. everything smells like iron and ash and bitter, unyielding hope. everything feels too loud. too unreal.

but the moment you see him— the world falls silent.

you don’t know his face in this dream. you try to look, but it slides like water in your grasp. not unfamiliar, just unreachable; like a memory through fog.

but you know him. you know his soul better than you know your own.

your feet are already moving; your chest aches with the surge of joy on the rise. you don’t remember what you said to him in your last letter, or whether you kissed him goodbye when he went off to fight. 

you just know he’s come back to you.

so you run.

he drops his bag the second he sees you shooting toward him like a falling star. his arms open before his mouth can form your name, and you fling yourself into them.

he twirls you, laughing. god, he laughs. the sound breaks through the war-torn smog like a sunbeam. it fills your lungs with breath after so many months spent feeling like you were drowning. his soldier’s coat is scratchy, and his heart is thundering beneath it.

he kisses you like he’s alive again.

his bandaged hands cup your face. burned, maybe. they tremble when they touch you, and your unmarred fingers fold gently over his own the way you’ve done a million times before. like it doesn’t matter what hurts; like he came back to you in pieces, and you’ll hold them all together.

your mouth tastes like salt, and your cheeks are wet– you don’t remember when you started crying.

his forehead rests against yours. your name falls from his mouth like he can’t believe you’re real. you hear the love in his voice like an undying oath.

and then—

you wake.

it’s still dark in your room.

the ceiling blurs above you. your chest heaves, heart pounding like you ran the whole way.

you touch your lips. your face. your arms, where you can still feel the ghost of him holding you.

you whisper, “what was that?” into the empty bedroom.

and because something in you is terrified you’ll forget the dream like you have so many others, you reach for the journal on your nightstand and write:

“train platform. there was a war— his hands hurt. he kissed me like he remembered.”

and on the other side of town, han jisung startles awake.

the clock reads 2:12 a.m. the back of his neck is damp with sweat. the dream still clings to him like train smoke in his lungs.

he presses a hand to his chest; it aches worse than it has before. it’s not sharp. just… haunted. like something was torn open too fast and left raw in its place when he woke.

he reaches for the notebook beside his bed where his most vulnerable lyrics live. he scribbles the first thing that comes before it disappears, desperate to keep at least one of his dreams of the fleeting figure he keeps chasing across his mind:

“her lips. her laugh. the bandages didn’t matter. she still held me.”

he stares at the page a long time; even tries to draw her face.

he can’t. but he remembers the warmth. he remembers her lips, remembers the way her hands knew him.

and later, when he’s alone at the keyboard, headphones on, heart still off-kilter, he builds a melody around that memory.

slow. aching. laced with the sound of steam and boots and strings that soar like hope.

a lyric falls out before he even thinks about it:

“you ran through smoke like you knew i’d be waiting. i kissed you like the war was already over.”

he doesn’t know who it’s for. not yet.

but god, he hopes she hears it.

–

it’s late afternoon the following day when the rain starts.

not the kind that howls or floods; just a quiet drizzle that settles like breath against a windowpane. the city glistens with wet pavement and anticipation. people duck into stores, adjust their hoods, mumble about the weather. umbrellas bloom like petals all up and down the sidewalks.

you slip into the bookstore mostly for cover.

the air smells like paper and ink, and your hair is still damp when you stop by a display table stacked high with leather-bound journals. your mind’s been fuzzy all day, fogged by echoes of the dream you can’t shake– bandages, smoke, a kiss that felt like coming home.

you wonder if you’ll remember the dream in a few days. you’re surprised you still remember it now.

your fingers brush an intricately embossed brown notebook, admiring the print. but when you go to grab one in green from the stack, another hand reaches first.

“oh– sorry,” a low voice says, fingers already releasing to let you have it first.

you look up at the stranger and feel time dwindling to a stop.

you blink.

he blinks.

the bookstore hushes around the two of you. somewhere in the back, a register dings with someone else’s purchase.

you know those eyes– but you don’t yet. you recognize the hand hovering under yours– but you’ve never held it. not outside of a dream, anyways.

but your breath stutters in your lungs when you see him, and you aren’t quite sure why.

his hand doesn’t move. 

yours doesn’t either.

he’s… warm. not literally– you couldn’t possibly know that. but something about the shape of him feels sun-soothed, familiar, like standing in the light after too long in the dark.

your throat goes dry. “no– it’s okay,” you manage, reaching for the journal slower this time.

he gives it to you. your fingers brush, just barely. but it’s enough to flip your heart inside out.

you feel the jolt clear through your spine from the place where your hand meets his.

he looks like it hit him, too.

there’s a beat of silence soaked in awe, a breath held in raw disbelief. a flash of moments from your dreams scatter behind your eyes when you blink, the touch sparking memories of worlds you’ve only touched in your sleep: bare feet on sand. rain soaking your dress. the scratchy wool of a soldier’s coat beneath your hands. a smile in flickering firelight.

you stare at him in wonder, in question– you don’t know him. but he looks like every dream you’ve ever had… and you can’t figure out why.

“have we met before?” he asks, not quite tentative, not quite confident. more like he has to ask, or the question will riot from chains in his chest.

you stare at him.

not because you have an answer. but because… his silhouette.

it was him.

you ran to him.

the dream washes back in full force: your name in his mouth, your tears on his collar, the weight of war melting in his kiss. your heart knocks hard against your ribs like it’s trying to break free and leap into him.

but you don’t say any of that– of course you don’t. because it can’t be him… right?

you just shake your head. “i don’t think so.” but you aren’t really sure.

he nods, but it’s slow. like he doesn’t believe you. or like he does, but he wishes he didn’t.

the silence stretches. not awkward, but weighted.

“you just… look familiar,” he says after a beat, scratching the back of his neck with the hand that isn’t still half-curled from passing you the green journal.

your breath skips. “yeah. you do too.”

you both look away before the word has time to break the surface of the half-memories swirling between you like an invisible storm.

he nods toward the counter. “i’ll, uh– see you.”

“yeah. see you.” you breathe.

he walks off; not far, just to the register. but you feel it like a tether pulling taut.

your hand curls around the notebook like it’s a lifeline.

in line at the register, jisung’s fingers tap the edge of the journal on the checkout counter.

his brain is buzzing. not just with static, but with clarity, weirdly; like something finally aligned, just slightly, and it unmoored his heart from his chest.

the voice. your voice.

it was in his dream.

not words, not a speech– just the sound of your laugh when he spun the girl in his dream around, your breath before the kiss. he remembers it echoing in his skull like a vow. and hearing it now, in a rainy bookstore with a notebook between your hands?

it felt like something real. it felt like fate– and he has no idea why.

his fingers shake when he takes his receipt.

he doesn’t look back at you, though he can feel your eyes on him as he leaves.

he knows he’ll see you again. he has to.

even if it’s just in the next dream.

–

when han gets home that night, he drops everything at the door and immediately cracks open the journal.

in the very first page, he scrawls something that feels like destiny:

“i think i met her today, at the bookstore. 

she looked at me like she’d already held me.

i wanted to ask her if i’d kissed her before.”

and on the other side of the city, you flip to the last page in your old notebook, writing words that confuse you and excite you all at once:

“today in real life– i think i met him. the one in my dreams. same voice, same hands, same silhouette.

we barely said hello, but he looked at me like we’d already said goodbye a thousand times before.”

you shut the notebook and stare out at the city lights, heart beating hard like a doorway to your dreams has just cracked open.

–

your first shift of the following week sees another day filled with rain, soaking the city in a glittering cascade. headlights reflect off the window in the cloudy afternoon drizzle, droplets drumming softly on the roof overhead.

the bell above the door jingles.

you glance up from the bar as someone steps inside: hood up, one earbud in, distracted by his phone. he doesn’t look up right away, and you don’t pay him much mind— just another customer. rain is still dampening his hair. his sneakers squeak a little as he walks toward the counter.

then–

“hi, um… just an iced americano, please.”

your pen stalls halfway through writing the order. that voice.

it’s low, familiar. it sounds like something carved into the grainy montage of a dream.

you glance up. and– god. 

it’s him.

his face is different in this light than it was in the bookstore. softer somehow, realer. but something behind your lungs still flinches– a recognition so sharp it nearly knocks the breath out of you.

you force your hand to keep moving. but when you write his name, when he says it out loud, you swear that something in you snaps.

han jisung.

your fingers tremble around the sharpie. the name bleeds across the cup, but you don’t rewrite it.

because suddenly you’re not here. not really.

another half-memory that feels like fate dances behind your eyes: you’re in a ballgown on a terrace with his name in your mouth. you feel a gloved hand holding yours, hear violins and string quartets drifting through an open door, watch in wonder as moonlight brushes marble pillars. you twirl in someone’s arms as the name lingers in the air. 

your pulse stutters.

your hand tightens on the cup.

“you okay?” someone behind you calls; a co-worker, maybe. you nod without turning. focus on just making the drink: americano. ice. lid.

you hand it to him, and his fingers brush yours.

there’s no lightning bolt, no magical hum. just a silence so thick it fills your ears. like something is still missing.

“here you go,” you say, voice thinner than usual. “jisung.”

he looks up at you for the first time.

he’s not even sure why he came in here. just needed caffeine, maybe. somewhere dry to stand for five minutes. but now—

he sees you, recognizes you; not just as the girl from the book store, but as someone… more. someone he’s been seeing in his dreams long before he ever met you.

and now you’re saying his name like it hurts. like you already know it.

your voice is soft, sweet. but there's an edge to it, too. like you’re trying not to shake.

he can’t stop staring at your face. something inside him is screaming: ask her name.

his hands curl tighter around the cup, cold condensation bleeding into his palm. he turns to leave.

and then he stops. turns back to you.

“sorry, um– what’s your name?” he asks, and he already knows it. not on the surface. not in his brain. but in his bones.

you give it to him: “y/n.” quietly. almost shy. and the second you say it, his whole chest caves in.

because he’s heard that name before— not in this life, but in a dream.

he’s shouted it, once. on a train platform, lungs raw with hope. he’d called it out like salvation. like surrender. like he was running home.

it hits him so hard he has to grip the edge of the pickup counter.

you just blink at him. like you don't know why you feel like crying.

he just nods. says, “thanks.”

then leaves before he can say something neither of you can understand yet.

–

the rain keeps falling until the day bleeds steadily into night.

jisung walks home with his hood down, soaked through. he keeps hearing your voice– soft, careful. like you didn’t mean to say his name out loud, but had to.

like you already knew it.

and now he can’t stop thinking about you. not just your face or your voice or the way your fingers shook when you handed him the drink– but the way something in his chest knew you. as if he’d been looking for you without realizing. like maybe you could be the elusive shadow he’s chased through sleep and waking all this time.

he doesn’t sleep much that night.

but when he does, he dreams in brass and velvet.

a lush room is lit in the kind of gold that glows warm, not garish. smoke is curling slow above half-full glasses over the roar of laughter that sounds like it’s lived too long to be anything but careless.

he’s playing piano in a jazz club; 1920s, maybe. prohibition-era. somewhere timeless, lawless, lost in revelry.

his sleeves are rolled. his collar’s loosened with the tie half-unknotted. there’s a rose tucked into the pocket of his suit jacket, blooming quietly against the black lapel. the crowd around him is a blur– cigarettes and chatter and glinting teeth– but he doesn’t look at them.

he only looks at the vision of red and romance perched on the edge of his piano.

her swing dress is hitched up as she sits, heels crossed at the ankle, smile burning brighter than the chandelier above. her lips are red, but her eyes are soft– like the way she watches him is real, even here. like she knows him. like she always has.

he plays for her.

he sings, too. something low and close and barely formed; something about beauty, about how the night is complete with her in it. about how she’s his favorite song and he doesn’t mind playing it forever.

she tilts her head, laughing behind her hand.

then– she leans forward, slow. presses a kiss to his temple. smudges her red lipstick there like a promise of something entirely his to keep.

the song rises, starts soaring into a dizzy crescendo–

and he wakes up gasping.

the dream rips out of him like breath after drowning. too much, too fast. his hands are shaking when he throws the blankets back. 

he stumbles to the keyboard across the room, clawing onto the notes already melting from his mind. he turns it on with desperate fingers, tries to find the chords.

they’re right there. just out of reach.

he hums what he remembers. a few notes. the way her laugh curled through a suspended sixth. but when he tries to anchor it, when he tries to capture it–

it’s gone.

the melody doesn’t live without her.

he stares at the piano keys; swears under his breath. 

then opens his laptop and creates an empty file labeled ‘red’.

across the city, you jar awake from the same dream: shades of crimson and secrecy. a true love that shone beneath. the burn of liquor and the promise of lipstick on a cheek.

it takes you a second to breathe normally when you come out of the dream. your heart’s racing like you just danced too fast, drank too much, felt too much. your bedsheets are twisted at your feet like you fought and lost a battle to them in your sleep, and your mouth tastes like bittersweet memory.

you sit up. rub at your eyes as if it’ll help you keep the picture in your head this time.

the dream’s already fading—smoke and music and red. but you remember hands on piano keys. you remember someone looking at you like you were the only thing in the world worth staying for. 

and you remember a voice– low, familiar, one you’ve certainly heard before.

but not a face. not yet.

you sigh and sink back into your covers, humming whatever song was floating from the piano softly to yourself in the quiet night.

–

it’s been three days since you last saw han.

since he said your name like it meant something. like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for lifetimes, waiting for a chance to be spoken aloud.

since he held the cup like it might disappear; as though anchored him to something real. something familiar.

and now he’s back.

the rain’s gone today. it’s just golden light– warm and honey-thick, stretching through the coffee shop windows in sleepy beams of late afternoon sun. it turns the floating dust to shimmer. it catches in the curve of your wrist as you wipe down the counter. 

the door chimes, and your spine straightens before you even register why. and then—

there he is.

hood down. earbuds tucked into his collar. a shy, almost startled smile tugging at his mouth like he hadn’t been sure you’d actually be here, like a part of him still thought you were a dream.

“hi, y/n,” jisung says with a boyish grin. “can i get a vanilla iced latte today?”

“of course you can.” you reply with a smile that dazzles him. you’re already reaching for a cup.

there’s something in the air– not static, not chill. not exactly. 

just a weight. a hum. the skin along your neck prickles, like the moment before something breaks open. like his eyes on you mean more than a customer getting coffee.

he rocks slightly on his heels as he waits, fingers drumming against the counter as if they’re looking for rhythm– like they’ve known yours before and are searching for them now. and then:

“hey,” han says suddenly, “this might be kind of weird. but do you maybe wanna grab boba or something sometime?”

you pause mid-pour. glance up. 

your heart lifts– weightless and sharp, a bird startled into flight.

he rubs the back of his neck. “i’m not trying to come on too strong or anything, but you– you just… feel familiar, somehow. and i haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. like, i literally haven’t slept.” 

you laugh, soft and surprised. his ears catch on the sound like a hook to the chest– it’s airy and bright and echoes things he’s heard only in his dreams.

“i get off at seven,” you say, looking at the clock. “but if you don’t mind waiting twenty minutes, i could probably close a little early.”

“i’ll wait,” he says, without hesitation. “however long.” 

the sentence sparks something in you; like you’ve heard him say those exact words a thousand times before. like he’s meant it every time.

and he does.

you wipe down the counter a little faster than usual. your hands shake as you count the register, clock out, grab your bag. you catch him watching you– eyes bright, expression eager yet unreadable– and the second you make it to the front door, he holds it open without a word.

outside, the pavement is sun-warmed. the evening breeze smells like sugar and honeysuckle. something settles under your skin, as certain as gravity, when you fall into step next to han.

you walk side by side. not quite brushing, not quite touching. but there’s an ache in the space between your bodies like you’ve always belonged shoulder-to-shoulder with him. as if the universe wants you closer.

you want that, too.

the boba shop is a few blocks away. you talk as you walk; he tells you about a melody he can’t write, a song that came to him in a dream but disappeared when he woke up. you tell him about your latest playlist and how it accidentally turned into a power ballad love letter to the eighties.

he laughs at your jokes, the sound brightening up long-forgotten corners of your soul, and you’ve never felt so at ease next to someone. never felt so right.

you swear your fingers remember his even before they brush– just barely, just once.

he pays before you can finish grabbing your wallet from your bag.

“chivalry isn’t dead,” he says, grinning. “but it’s cute you thought i’d let you pay.”

you walk some more, and with every conversation, it’s like you’re falling into a spiral with his name tattooed all over it. you wonder briefly if you should mention your dreams– how eyes that look a lot like his haunt your nights and saturate your days– but think better of it. you’d sound crazy, anyways.

you end up at a small park nearby, drinks in hand. kids are shouting in the grass, a blur of movement and color and imagination. one has a plastic tiara tangled in her curls. another has a blanket for a cape, brandishing a stick for a sword.

they’re playing some fantastical kingdom game: assigning titles, making up rules, declaring war and peace with dramatic gasps and theatrical swoons and fighting.

and for just a moment–

your breath catches.

not fear; not panic. just an ache in your heart that you can’t put a name on. a slant in the light. something soft and sideways inside you.

you glance at jisung, and he’s already looking at you like he feels it too.

like it hit him in the same place.

the child in the crown points a stick at her brother. “this means war!” she declares, as he gasps and falls to the grass, hand to heart.

you blink. and then—

a flash of dreamlike images come to life behind your eyes: a golden crown catching the last rays of sunlight through a palace wall. a voice that you almost recognize calling your name with the word ‘princess’ attached to it. a lotus flower tucked behind your ear by hands that you should know by now. bows exchanged in a formal hall where no one knows the love you share.

your breath hitches, just once– and then it’s fading like the sunset out of your periphery.

next to you, han is reeling from the mist-curled montage that hit him like a punch to the gut.

eyes shining like the stars beneath a tiara. a fan concealing the ghost of a smile made just for him. love songs sung by minstrels as the king orders him into marriage. him saying no and throwing his crown, running off into a dark night to find his love over another palace’s gates.

he turns and meets your eyes; they’re searching his, like you’re asking him something you can’t put into words. as if somehow, impossibly, you’re seeing the same blur of dream and memory that he is.

but it can’t be true.

so he clears his throat and nudges your shoulder with his, slicing through the moment like a boat over still waters. 

“will you let me walk you home?”

you say yes. of course you do.

and when he kisses your cheek at your doorstep, you could swear that it’s not the first time.

–

han starts coming into the coffee shop more often.

at first, it’s once or twice a week. always the same order. always the same shy smile, like he’s bracing for the moment to vanish.

but then it’s most days– sometimes even twice.

he says it’s for the coffee, jokes that your lattes have magical properties; but the way he lingers near the counter says something else. the way he always remembers your schedule. how he knows when your boss is around and when he can talk longer, and how it takes you a few tries to knot your apron in the back just right.

you start saving him the seat by the window, the one with the best light. he starts bringing his notebook, headphones askew, always half-writing something heartfelt and hidden when you peek at him between orders.

and sometimes, he lets you listen.

you’ll perch on the stool across from him on your breaks, fingers still dusted with cinnamon or cocoa powder, and he’ll slide his phone across the table without a word and let you put on his headphones. his screen always glows with an open file or a voice memo, a demo-in-progress.

“what do you think?” he’ll ask, pretending not to look at you.

your feedback is always thoughtful. always honest. once, you told him a bridge felt like running downhill on a golden summer day, and he didn’t stop grinning for the rest of the week.

the shop smells like espresso and sunlight. outside, the seasons are starting to change, green leaves fading just a little to make room for golds and reds. you mention that you like the in-between times best– when summer hasn’t fully left but autumn’s just arriving– and han nods, eyes soft.

“that makes sense,” he says. “you feel like that, too.”

you blink. “like what?”

he shrugs, but he won’t meet your eyes. “you’ve got that look,” he says like it makes sense.

you tilt your head. “what look?”

“like you’re standing in a doorway between lives,” he murmurs. “and you’re not sure which one remembers you.”

your chest goes tight for a reason you can’t name; you think of the dreams. the sense of knowing him before you ever truly did. the flashes of a time your heart is begging your mind not to forget.

you wonder if he feels it too.

he never says anything outright– neither do you. but you start to learn the language of han in small ways: the songs he hums when he’s distracted. the way he counts on his fingers when thinking. how he always adds just a little extra vanilla to his drink on days he’s feeling off.

he learns you, too: he memorizes your favorite pastries. brings you little things– a flower pressed in a book, a lyric he scrawled on a napkin that sings of you, a bottle of honey he got at the farmer’s market just because it had your name on the label.

there’s still a space between you, but it’s charged now. aching at the edges. like a chord hanging in the air, half-resolved and waiting to meet your ears.

and sometimes, when he’s walking out, you feel it again:

a slant in the light. a tug in your chest.

as if the universe is holding its breath, waiting for something to click into place.

–

you don’t wear dresses often.

but tonight, you do. a cherry red one. you picked it out from the moment he told you his favorite color, maybe even before then.

it’s soft and simple, with a hem that sways at your knees and straps that sit gentle on your shoulders. you pair it with heels– cute ones, not too high– and laugh to yourself when you nearly lose your balance on the doormat, locking your apartment behind you.

han is waiting for you at the bottom of the steps.

he’s dressed casually nice: dark jeans, a fitted dinner jacket, and a button-down just barely open at the collar. his hair is styled back but still soft at the edges, and there’s something about the way he’s holding a single carnation between two fingers, looking up at you a little shy and a little amazed, that makes your heart tumble sideways in your chest.

you swear you’ve seen this exact look on his face across so many timelines, but your mind can’t seem to understand what your heart is whispering it knows.

“this is for you,” he says, holding the flower out.

you take it and tuck it behind your ear. “you’re dangerously close to being smooth, han.” you tease him lightly as your hand finds his and laces together like you’ve been doing this all along.

“me?” he grins, “i trip on flat surfaces. you just make me look better when you’re on my arm.”

you walk downtown, side by side beneath the soft spill of a purple twilight overhead. there’s a nice restaurant just past the park with tables out front and string lights dotting the banisters, and when the host asks if you’d prefer indoor or outdoor, you both answer “outside” in unison.

dinner is as easy as breathing.

you talk about the little things first: songs you love, your first jobs, the best coffee you’ve ever had– he insists it’s yours. then, somehow, it all deepens; conversation turns rich and real. you share the kinds of stories that only come out when you feel safe, the kinds of laughs that bend you over the table, helpless with joy.

at one point, he goes quiet.

you’ve just finished dessert, a shared chocolate cheesecake that has you both grinning like fools, when he says, almost out of nowhere: “this feels like something.”

you tilt your head. “what does?”

he’s not fully looking at you. more at the way the candlelight flickers against the rim of your water glass and casts shadows of memory across your face.

“this,” he says softly. “you and me. this place. like we’ve done this before. like–” he cuts himself off. shakes his head like he’s brushing it away.

he doesn’t say the rest: like we’ve been here before. and there were flowers all around us. and a fountain. and your hair had daisies in it, and you let me sing to you while we watched the clouds pass by. he doesn’t let the words make it past his throat.

you feel it, too. not the specifics; just the echo of it. the image lands warm in your chest: a green garden under an impossibly blue sky. the gentle sound of running water. your bare feet on a stone path and an achingly familiar song sung by a voice you’ve loved a thousand times.

he looks back at you.

you just smile. “i get it.” and neither one of you knows how true it is.

he smiles back, like that’s all you really need to say.

after dinner, you try to play it cool– but the moment you take two steps in your heels, you wince.

“everything okay?” han asks.

“yeah,” you try to lie. “my shoes just hate me.”

he crouches in front of you, already turning his back. “alright. climb on.”

“han– ” you say through a giggle.

his protest is immediate: “nope. you wore heels for me, it’s only fair I do something equally ridiculous for you.”

“like?” you hum.

“like carrying you four city blocks while hoping my jacket doesn’t wrinkle.”

you laugh loudly, the sound ringing out clear and bright, and give in.

his back is warm, steady. your arms loop loosely around his shoulders, your cheek brushing the side of his face as he walks. the streetlights cast wafts of liquid gold across the pavement. chatter drifts out from restaurants and windows; the night is summer-sweet and alive.

he spins a few times in circles with you on his back, making you dizzy and drunk on laughter. you squeal and hold onto him tighter like he might fade away if you don’t.

you feel safe here, tucked close to him. more connected than you’ve ever felt to someone you’re technically still getting to know.

because maybe, just maybe, part of you already knows him.

at your apartment, he sets you down carefully. your shoes dangle from your fingers by the straps, and your heart is pounding steadily somewhere in your throat.

“thank you,” you say, quieter now.

“for dinner?” he asks, equally hushed.

you meet his eyes and don’t look away. “for all of it.”

he looks at you then– really looks.

your breath catches.

his hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek. his gaze dips to your mouth, but he doesn’t move. not until you do.

and when you do–

it’s cosmic, transcending time and place. you’re not on your doorstep anymore; not really.

you’re a thousand places at once from the moment his lips touch yours: midnight within darkened palace halls. seaside with sand beneath your feet and salt on your tongue. red-lipped and surrounded by smooth jazz and whisky and sequined dresses. clutching those hands you see in every dream as a train slowly whistles to leave the smog-filled station.

the kiss is like stardust and memory; like the first inhale after being underwater too long. like something ancient is burning new.

your hands come up to cup his face, and for a moment, the world stills. stars collide and fall out of orbit as you kiss him like it’s what you were made to do, as you rewrite yourself against his lips.

you don’t speak when you part. you don’t need to; his eyes tell you everything.

he leans in, nose brushing yours, and tucks the carnation in your hair back into place.

“goodnight,” he whispers like a secret– like a promise.

you step inside barefoot, heart still suspended in the endless twilight, and lean against your door with a hand to your lips, still tingling with every feeling you’ve ever felt before.

–

han dreams of your face again that night.

well… almost. it’s not quite yours, never quite a full picture. but he’s starting to believe it could be you.

the details don’t stay– they never do– but tonight, something lingers longer than usual. the curve of your cheek in pale, wintery light. the way a hand reaches for his beneath a thick blanket before those haunting eyes had even opened. the way he had a warm body tucked into his side to make up for the dying fire in the hearth.

it’s out of order, these flashes of a time long forgotten, but he knows the cold floor beneath his feet like it’s a part of him; knows the wooden beams above his head, the thin layer of frost curling like lace over the corners of the windowpane.

he stands barefoot in a kitchen he doesn’t quite recognize but feels he must’ve built with his own two hands. there’s a chipped mug on the sill. tea is steeping slow, steam winding upward like breath. outside there’s a fresh coating of snow, quiet and untouched. a field of white beneath a soft gray sky.

and then– there you are.

or at least, the woman is shaped like you. wearing your softness. moving with your rhythm. her back is to him, wrapped in a wool coat with one gloved hand cupped around the mug, breath fogging the glass of the window

he doesn’t say your name. doesn’t even try; he knows better now. every time he tries to catch the illusion of the girl in his dreams, she vanishes like smoke. 

so instead, he steps closer. careful. like the dream itself might break if he makes too sudden a move.

the scarf around her neck is one he thinks— knows— he’d had made for her. a deep blue, worn at the edges. he reaches for it before he knows why.

maybe to see her face. maybe to feel her warmth. maybe just to remind himself she was real.

maybe to see if it’s really your face that’s been haunting his nights for so long.

his fingers catch the edge of the scarf. he tugs it gently.

and then—

the figure turns.

she has your eyes.

almost; not quite. but enough to make him gaspx his breath caught like a skipped heartbeat.

and in the space of that gaze, something cracks wide open.

not because he recognizes you; he almost does, but there’s still pieces missing. but because he knows— deep in his bones, deep in his soul, deep in the parts of him that have always known you— that he’s about to lose you again.

to the dream, to the landscape, to the distant echo of another life.

the dream is already fading: snowfall bleeding into sunlight, footsteps softening out behind glass.

he reaches out anyway.

“don’t go,” he says, voice cracking like frost underfoot.

but all he gets is a smile. the saddest smile he’s ever seen. the most beautiful.

and then it’s gone.

he wakes up with his hand still stretched out toward nothing, head full of winter and ice and the scent of tea still clinging to the edges of his breath.

–

the warm days and summer sunsets bleed steadily into fall without anyone noticing; and with the change of seasons, your heart becomes a living thing cradled in han jisung’s hands.

he’s everywhere, written all over you like a love letter to your existence. you spend every moment that matters together.  and when the nights start blurring together, they all look a lot like tonight.

it’s late– later than you meant to stay– but time never really seems to work the same in han jisung’s apartment.

his hoodie hangs oversized on your frame, sleeves curled past your knuckles. it smells like clean linen and something warmer beneath: cedar, vanilla, a hint of the cologne you’ve secretly come to associate with comfort the more time you spend in his orbit.

there’s a mug of lukewarm cocoa in your hands. his chipped keyboard hums quietly in the corner.

he’s still writing.

not talking, not rushing; just occasionally looking up from his laptop to meet your gaze like he can’t quite believe you’re here again. and again. and again.

“you know you don’t have to come over after work if you’re tired,” he says, voice soft over the scratch of pencil on stiff paper.

you shrug, curling one knee up on the couch and resting your head on it. “i want to.”

and you do. you always do, lately. next to him has slowly become your favorite place to be.

somehow, his rhythm has become your own: shared dinners that turn into late-night takeout, music sessions that trail into movie marathons, walks under street lamps with fingers intertwined. your laundry mixes with his by accident. his hoodies live in your closet more often than not.

sometimes you read while he works. and sometimes you just watch him write, his headphones looped around your neck so you can listen to the quiet drafts he’s too shy to play out loud for you. you’ve started hearing yourself in his songs, in his lyrics; catching glimpses of how he sees you in every melody. 

tonight, you hum as he plays a few chords on his guitar, and he smiles like it’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard.

he doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t need to. he’s whole with you here– he knows it.

your lives have been threading tighter and tighter lately. his hand always finds yours now. your name is saved in his phone with a little star beside it, and he kisses your cheek every chance he gets. you share playlists. you share dreams. you share slow glances that crackle with something too big to name yet; but it’s on the tip of your tongue, close enough to feel like gravity.

when you get up to leave, he walks you to the door, tugging the ends of the hoodie playfully over your hands to keep you for just a second longer. he cups your face in one hand and feels his heart beat doubletime when you gaze sweetly into his eyes.

“text me when you get home?” he murmurs.

you nod, smiling at him like he’s made of moonlight. your arms reach up until they loop around his neck, and you pull him to you softly, gently, kissing him with aching tenderness.

his thumb brushes your cheek as he kisses you back, pouring every inch of himself into it. time stops. music fades. all that’s left is you and han, together, softening each other’s edges and bringing light and laughter into every corner of your souls.

you break away first with a contented sigh, resting your forehead on his. he kisses your nose and earns a quiet giggle.

and just before you go– just before the door clicks shut behind you– he swears he sees something in your eyes he can’t quite name.

a flicker. a sense of déjà vu. like you remember something, too. or like you’re about to.

that night, you fall asleep in his hoodie.

and when you dream, you think you see his face.

you can’t be sure; but the eyes gazing headlong at you look devastatingly close to his.

a warm hand holds yours as you skip down a dock, laughter on the wind and sails rippling ahead. the sun bounces off the water and scatters like broken glass, tinkling and true.

you make it to the end of the dock and the figure spins you in his arms, until you’re nose to nose and smiling with a joy that surpasses time.

you hear yourself say breathlessly, “stay with me this time, please?”

the smile you’re beginning to memorize turns sad; the glow around you dims just slightly. he’s not saying he will– not telling you that he can, or that he’ll find a way to stay if he can’t yet.

but he gives you the next best thing. “i’ll find you next time.” he punctuates it with a kiss to your forehead. “i’ll find you every time. you know i always will.”

and when you wake up with a bittersweet pool of emotions swirling in your chest, you can’t help but think that the voice in your dreams is starting to sound a lot like han.

–

back in his apartment, jisung isn’t faring quite as well.

han dreams of doors.

not one. not two. but a hallway full of them, long and bending, wrapped in shadows. the walls hum with something old– almost musical. no light fixtures, just that soft-glow twilight that exists only in dreams. like candle smoke, like memory.

each door stands slightly ajar. he moves toward the nearest one.

inside: a flicker. a train station in winter. you in a wool coat. his hands bandaged and shaking as he tries to hold yours. he says something. you don't hear him. the whistle drowns him out.

the door slams shut before he can follow.

in the next: 

a cottage in spring. you’re in a linen dress, barefoot in a sunlit garden, laughing. your hair is different, your voice the same, a crown of daisies on your head. you press your fingers to his lips before he can speak.

“not yet,” you whisper, and vanish.

he flings open another door:

a hospital room. cold and sterile. you’re pale, reaching for him, lips blue with the effort. “don’t forget,” you’re begging, but the alarm screams louder than your voice. when he blinks, you’re gone.

he darts back into the hallways yelling your name; door after door. you in every one.

a thousand faces, a hundred names. always you.

always too far. he’s always just a little too late.

his heart pounds like it might crack through the bones of his ribs.

then—

he finds one that’s different.

the door isn’t open this time. it’s locked. but he knows what’s behind it, knows it with the kind of certainty that lives in the marrow of his bones.

he presses his forehead to the wood.

“please,” he says, on the brink of losing hope.

it swings open.

he steps into a room washed in silver moonlight with a city buzzing beyond the window. there’s tears on your face, but you’re wearing his hoodie and reaching for him. he surges forward and wraps you into his arms, falling to the floor as you let him hold you.

the world quiets.

for the first time, he sees the outline of your face clearly.

not blurred. not changing. not half-concealed or nearly-remembered.

it’s you. 

as you are now; as you’ve always been.

your name forms on his lips. but something grabs him, yanks him back—

and he jolts awake with a gasp, sweat-damp and wide-eyed.

your name falls from his mouth like a promise into the empty night.

–

the dreams weave tighter into your nights as the seasons change once more, han by your side for all of it.

winter has finally shown its pale face upon the city, and it’s the coldest night of the season so far. the sky hangs low and cloudy, pressing snowflakes down onto the quiet block. streetlights blur like stars against the frost.

you’re tucked against han’s side, arms looped through his as you both trudge up the sloping hill near the river. your breath fogs the air and your cheeks are pink, nipped by the cold wind. his hoodie hangs loose beneath your winter coat, sleeves peeking out like they still belong to you, even layered.

he doesn’t remember suggesting a walk tonight. he just remembers wanting to see you, to be near you; to do something, anything, that lets him hold you a little longer.

you’d brought him hot chocolate in a cup from work. “to warm your fingers,” you’d said. he still hasn’t told you his heart is the thing that needs your warming the most.

you talk about nothing and everything, the way you always do: how quiet the snow makes the world, how tomorrow’s schedule looks, how your landlord still hasn’t fixed the light in your kitchen that buzzes too loud. you brush snow off his shoulder and pretend you don’t notice how long his gaze lingers when you do.

the path curves toward the overlook, and you both pause there without needing to speak. the city sprawls out below, glittering faintly, muffled and dreaming.

he looks down at you.

you’re staring at the lights, eyes wide with something soft and wistful, and the wind lifts strands of your hair into your face.

he tucks your hair beneath your cap tenderly, watching the way the beams on the street dance in your eyes, and he can’t help himself from leaning in.

he kisses you with gentle lips, with the beauty of a thousand winter nights, gentle as a snowflake and thick as ice. you smile against his lips and cup his face in your gloved hand. he lets you pull him closer, lets you merge yourself with him until–

you fall to the snowy ground in a tangle of limbs and laughter, staring at one another with mirth and disbelief.

he kisses the tip of your red nose; you kiss the snowflakes that have landed on his eyelashes.

you look at him longer than you usually do– searchingly. like you’re trying to remember something you can’t name. like the answer is right in front of you.

his breath catches; he wonders if you feel it too. the pull. the ache. the almost.

you don’t say anything. instead, your hand finds his again, slow and sure, and he links your gloved fingers with quiet reverence.

you walk back in contented silence, sharing warmth, hearts louder than footsteps.

later, when he watches you curl up on his couch with his hoodie still around your shoulders, laughter spilling softly from your lips, he thinks he could stay here forever.

–

it’s sunset in han’s apartment, golden light washing over you from where you sit on his couch, and he’s playing you a new song on his guitar.

it’s a lullaby this time– low and lilting, like an echo from somewhere older than his voice, older than both of you. the chords are sleepy and sweet, but the words ache:

‘stay with me longer, won’t you? i know you have to go; but the dock is long, the sails are up, and the tide is getting low. let’s run away, my dear. but i’ll find you in my next life if i cannot keep you here.’

you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a mug cupped in your hands. 

and you freeze.

you don’t move. don’t breathe. don’t blink.

because you’ve heard this before… you know you have. not the melody, not exactly— but the words. the feeling of them.

you swear you’ve lived the story he sings of.

in your dreams, there's a dock. 

in your dreams, you beg someone to stay. and he sounds so much like han when he tells you he can’t.

the last note fades like a memory you can’t reach; han’s fingers lift from the strings.

he doesn’t look at you right away, suddenly sheepish. “it’s a little rough,” he murmurs, “not sure if it’s done yet. just kind of came to me all at once the other night.”

you don’t say anything; you can’t yet. your throat is too tight with emotions you don’t think you can name.

he glances over, noticing the silence. “...too sad?”

you shake your head slowly, eyes on him as if you’re piecing him together like a puzzle you’ve always known. “no. it’s– it’s beautiful.”

he softens, looks down, fiddles with a string on his sweatshirt. you’re still staring at him like he’s just pulled the stars out of your chest and laid them bare on the floor with nothing but a song.

later– hours later, after dinner, after dishes, after the lull of a movie you didn’t finish– you curl deeper into his side and ask, like it’s been on your tongue all night:

“where’d you come up with that one?”

he pauses, then shrugs. “a dream, i think. or a memory. not sure anymore.”

you look at him for a long time, speechless.

he feels it before he sees it– that shift in the air between you. a breath held, a thread tugged taut until it’s on the edge of snapping.

“what if it is a memory?” you whisper like you’re unearthing an ancient secret.

he turns to meet your eyes, and something in the room tilts.

not fast. not loud.

but deep. like tectonic plates shifting under the skin of the world.

his mouth parts; no sound comes out at first. you don’t fill the silence.

you just hold his gaze– and in it, there’s a flicker of something long-lost. something shining and whole. something that knows you, really knows you.

and maybe he doesn’t say it yet. maybe you don’t either.

but the song still echoes through the room.

and you don’t have the breath to question it further tonight.

–

it’s one more night, one more dream, and you’re falling through the fabric at the edges of the world.

not the slow, spiralling kind. not the cinematic drift of someone slipping into something soft and safe.

tonight, you’re plummeting– air ripped from your lungs, screaming his name into darkness.

han doesn’t hear your cries.

the sky is gray. the sea is angry. the sand is slowing you down as you run to him, his arms open wide. you can’t get there in time. you trip over driftwood and shells so sharp they cut your feet, trying desperately to reach him.

you scream his name again.

he can’t hear you.

and then—

stillness.

a too-familiar ache. like you’ve lost him a thousand times before, and you just lost him again on this stormy shoreline. just when you’d finally found him.

you jolt awake with a gasp, hands clawing the sheets, throat raw.

your phone reads 3:14 a.m.

you’re crying, really crying. your whole body shudders with the kind of sobs that collapse you inward. the kind that burn your cheeks when the tears spill down them.

you don’t think. you just text:

are you real?

the reply comes instantly, even though he shouldn’t be awake at this hour:

only if you are.

and twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at your door.

you open it already breaking.

han doesn’t say anything– just opens his arms. you fall into them like gravity wins every time.

you’re shaking, still wracked with a yawning cavern of grief while your fingers curl into the hair at the back of his neck like you’re scared he’ll vanish if you let go.

“i keep seeing you,” you whisper into his chest, voice hoarse as you finally let the truth spill from your tongue. “in dreams. but they’re not dreams. not all of them. i see you in different places, different years. there’s a beach. a palace. your voice in all of them. i think– i think we’ve done this before.”

his arms tighten around you, holding you together when he sees that you’re about to fall apart. the sobs subside, raw longing left behind in their wake.

“sometimes i don’t recognize you,” you go on, barely breathing, “sometimes i find you. and sometimes i lose you. and it hurts. it hurts even when i wake up.”

you pull back just enough to see his face, eyes brimming with more tears that threaten to break loose. “i didn’t want to tell you. i thought maybe i was losing it. but then you sang that song about us on the dock, and i knew– i knew i wasn’t the only one.”

he holds your gaze like it’s the only true thing in the world.

“han,” you whisper, voice trembling. “what if it’s all real? what if it’s always been real?”

he inhales, slow and steady.

and then, with a voice full of something ancient and trembling, he decimates the last wall standing between you.

“i remember.”

he kisses you then– not gently, but desperately; like the sky is falling, like you’ll fade away beneath his hands if he doesn’t kiss you for all he’s worth. he kisses you as lifetimes dance behind your eyes, as his face lights up your past, your present, every dream you’ve ever had and every future you’ve ever yearned for. 

you break apart with a startled cry. “i love you,” you tell him, clinging to his shirt like a lifeline. “i love you, han.”

his hands grasp the sides of your face as he stares into your eyes and mirrors a love so cosmically big it’s spanned every age of time, every century that’s dawned upon the world.

“i love you,” he echoes back to you, “i knew i’d find you again. i’ve loved you in every life, y/n. i never stopped loving you. i knew we’d find our way back.”

the past and present moment blur together: you’re not just crumpled together on the floor of your apartment. you’re fleeing a burning kingdom, dancing on a moonlit terrace, spinning together on a train platform, waking in a winter cabin.

you’ve lived so many lives. and you remember them all with han’s lips against yours.

your prince. your pianist. your healer. your warrior, your soldier, your scholar, your poet, your artist– in every lifetime, he’s found his way back to you. in every life, you’ve fallen in love, written another story into the lining of the universe.

you find yourselves inside this kiss, memory washing over you like a tide. you cling to each other fervently– your hands in his hair, his on your face, lips moving like he’s chanting a prayer to the cosmos, begging it to let him keep you this time.

but you found him faster in this life than in your last. you pull away with a tear-riddled smile, joy and sorrow and wonder mixing together, tilting the world on its side.

“we’ll have so much more time in this one,” you breathe, “so much time to spend together.”

he smiles through his own tears and presses his forehead to yours. “we found each other so fast this time around. i get to spend the rest of this life with you.” and then he’s laughing: deeply, madly, wildly, the laugh of someone who just found the other half of his soul.

you laugh, too, shoulders shaking even as tears still track down your cheeks. “it’s really you,” you half-laugh, half-whisper, “i found you again.”

han kisses the tears away. “i knew you would.”

he rocks you back and forth in his arms, reliving past lives in your moonlit bedroom and vowing to try and find a way to stop the universe from taking you again when your time runs out in this life.

and as your souls intertwine once more, you feel your heart sigh, like every moment, every dream, every memory has led you to this.

to him.

to love.

–

epilogue:

in this life, you get married. 

you walk down an aisle to him, wearing a white dress, slipping rings onto each other’s fingers.

in this life, nothing forces you apart.

you age together; you dance in the kitchen, you make music for the world and for yourselves, you make a thousand more coffees and share a thousand more meals. you celebrate birthdays and anniversaries and achievements; and at the end of every day, you hold each other tight for all the lives you couldn’t touch in.

and in your next life, the dreams start not with the ocean, not with the sky–

but with music.

a tune half-finished. a figure in a hoodie and headphones humming.

a red dress spinning and a kiss speckled with snowflakes. a coffee shop that smells like cinnamon and cocoa and home with him in it.

and you know it before you can name it:

han jisung is your soulmate.

and you’ll keep finding each other every time– in every life– no matter what it takes.

-