The moment Seo-yoon's boots hit the pavement outside the Suzhou airport, the reality of her choice settled over her like a heavy, humid blanket. This wasn't a movie set; it was a labyrinth.
She stood at the taxi stand, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. When the yellow cab pulled up, she realized her Mandarin—once so confident in her Busan bedroom—had shriveled into something small and fragile. She handed the driver a crumpled piece of paper with her aunt's address, her voice barely a whisper as she managed a basic, "Xie xie."
As the car lurched into the flow of traffic, Seo-yoon pressed her forehead against the glass. Suzhou blurred past—a montage of towering skyscrapers competing with ancient, low-slung rooftops. The people moved differently here; the pace was hushed, rhythmic. Even the sky looked unfamiliar, a hazy, pale violet that lacked the sharp, blue clarity of the sea.
Twenty-five minutes later, the cab stopped in front of a charming, two-story house nestled in a quiet lane. It looked "homely," a soft patch of warmth in a city that felt terrifyingly vast.
The door swung open before Seo-yoon could even reach for her bags.
"Seo-yoon-ah!"
Her aunt, Mi-sun, rushed out, her voice a sudden, beautiful burst of Korean in the silent street. She pulled Seo-yoon into a crushing hug, the scent of familiar laundry detergent and ginger instantly bringing a lump to the girl's throat. "Look at you! How many years has it been?"
Seo-yoon could only nod, her "arrogant" shell cracking just enough for a tired smile to peek through.
Inside, she was introduced to her uncle, a gentle-looking Chinese man who greeted her with a clumsy but warm "Annyeonghaseyo." Aunt Mi-sun led her upstairs to a sun-drenched room.
"Don't worry about a thing," her aunt said, patting her hand. "You stay here as long as you need. You are my sister's daughter, which means you are my own."
The words were a comfort, but as Seo-yoon shut the bedroom door, she felt the weight of her independence pressing in. She didn't plan on staying long; she was a girl who lived in frames, and this frame was too small for the story she wanted to write. She walked to the window and looked out. In Suzhou, every grey stone seemed to hold a secret, every canal a story.
After changing into comfortable clothes, the smell of home drew her downstairs. Her aunt had laid out a feast that seemed impossible for just three people. There was chilled Kkongguksu, its creamy soy broth shimmering, and a steaming pot of Kimchi-jjigae that smelled exactly like her mother's kitchen in Busan.
"So," her uncle asked between bites, his Korean slow and careful. "You are going to study scriptwriting at HUAD?"
"Yes," Seo-yoon replied, her voice steady.
The dinner was filled with the cheerful chatter of her aunt and uncle. It was a happy house, full of the kind of easy laughter she had just walked away from. By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the walls felt a little too close. She needed to breathe the air of this new world.
Seo-yoon stepped out into the Suzhou twilight. The streets were quiet now, the air filled with the gentle lap of water against the canal walls. She walked without a map, letting the winding paths lead her until she found herself standing on a high, arched stone bridge.
She leaned against the cool railing, looking up at the sky.
"Ah," she whispered to herself. "So, along with the air, even the moon is different in China?"
It looked larger here, hanging over the dark water like a pale, unblinking eye. She pulled out her phone and snapped a photo, sending it to her mother. For a second, her thumb hovered over Min-ho's name in her contacts. The urge to tell him about the moon was a sharp, physical pain in her chest. She could almost hear his voice saying, 'It's the same moon, Seo-yoon. Just a different frame.'
She looked away from the screen, her eyes stinging.
Below her, the canals were busy with the silhouettes of people heading home. She stood at the edge of the bridge, a solitary figure in the shadows, oblivious to the world around her.
Behind her, a figure approached.
Li Yan-chen was walking home from the university library, his black hoodie pulled up, his mind a chaotic mess of structural integrity and the "Bridge Project." He moved with a silent, focused intensity, his eyes usually fixed on the ground or the lines of the buildings.
But as he reached the crest of the bridge, his gaze caught on a girl standing by the railing. She was framed by the moonlight, her phone held up to the sky.
He didn't stop. He didn't know her. In his world of logic and stone, a girl taking a photo of the moon was just a fleeting disruption. But for a split second, the image of her—silent, lonely, and glowing in the pale light—etched itself into his mind.
He walked past her, his footsteps making no sound on the ancient stone.
Seo-yoon didn't turn around. Yan-chen didn't look back.
One week remained before the gates of HUAD would open. One week before their parallel
lines would finally collide.