The salt air of Busan was a cruel companion. For Min-ho, every corner of the city was a ghost of a memory—a café where they had shared a pastry, a stone wall where they had watched the sunset, a bus stop where he had held her hand.
In his room, the bright, clean photos of the Seoul studio apartment he had found were still open on his laptop. It was supposed to be the "Seo-yoon and Min-ho" space. He had imagined the curtains she would choose and the way her scripts would be scattered across the wooden floor.
With a hand that felt strangely numb, he clicked the 'Cancel Reservation' button.
The confirmation email arrived instantly. The deposit would be refunded, but the dream was non-refundable. He couldn't imagine living in that light-filled room alone, listening for a voice that was now speaking Mandarin thousands of miles away. Instead, he filled out a new application—this one for the university dormitories. A single bed in a crowded room felt more appropriate for the hollow space in his chest.
The day he left for Seoul National University, there was no celebratory meal. He packed his life into two suitcases, his movements slow and mechanical. His parents watched him with worried eyes, but they knew better than to bring up her name.
As the train pulled away from the station, Min-ho didn't look at the city skyline. He stared at his reflection in the window. He was a Seoul National student now—the golden boy had reached his goal. But as the train sped toward the capital, he realized that he wasn't running toward his future; he was just fleeing a city that had become a museum of her absence.
He checked his phone one last time. No messages. He didn't know about the photo of the Suzhou moon she had sent her mother. He only knew that the distance between them wasn't measured in kilometers anymore, but in the silence that stretched between two different lives.