The city was dressed in twilight when Kang Joon-ha texted her.
"If you're free tonight, join me for dinner. My place. Less noise."
— JH.
Areum stared at the message for several minutes before replying.
"Why not a restaurant?"
"Paparazzi."
She almost smiled, short, quiet, barely-there. He didn't need to explain further. The industry thrived on speculation, and neither of them could afford another rumor. Still, her heart trembled slightly as she typed her reply.
"Okay. Send me the address."
His penthouse sat high above the city modern, minimal, the kind of space that looked beautiful but felt too quiet to be lived in.
When she arrived, he greeted her at the door, casual in a black sweater and sweatpants. The air smelled faintly of rosemary and garlic.
"I tried cooking," he said, half-smiling. "Don't judge me if it's terrible."
Areum glanced toward the dining area, a simple table, two plates, soft jazz humming in the background. "You cooked?"
He shrugged. "Therapy," he said simply. "Chopping vegetables makes me feel… less human and more mechanical. And sometimes that helps."
She didn't know how to respond, so she just nodded and sat down.
Dinner was quiet. The city lights spilled through the glass walls, scattering gold reflections across the table.
Neither spoke much, yet the silence didn't feel awkward, just fragile, like something sacred they didn't want to disturb.
When she finally broke the silence, her voice was soft.
"Your home feels like you're always leaving it."
He looked up, slightly startled. "What do you mean?"
"It's too clean," she said. "Too quiet. Like you're trying not to leave traces of yourself anywhere."
He laughed softly, not out of amusement, but disbelief that someone had noticed.
"Maybe I'm afraid of becoming a ghost in my own house."
"Maybe you already are," she whispered, eyes lowering to her plate.
After dinner, they moved to the living room. He offered her tea; she accepted. The steam curled upward, fogging the air between them.
"Why art?" he asked suddenly, breaking the quiet hum of rain outside.
"Because words fail," she said. "And because sometimes the only way to scream is with color."
He nodded slowly, almost reverently. "I get that."
She studied him for a moment, the faint dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers trembled slightly when he lifted his cup. He looked calm, but she sensed the storm beneath.
"What about you?" she asked. "Why music?"
He hesitated. "Because silence terrifies me."
There was something raw in his tone, something that didn't belong to the public version of him, the idol, the perfect son, the unreachable man.
"I grew up in a house where silence meant danger. My father's silence. My sister's silence before she—" He stopped. His voice cracked on the memory he still couldn't name.
Areum's hand moved slightly, as if to reach for him, but she stopped midway.
"You don't have to finish that sentence," she said gently.
He gave a faint smile. "You're the first person who didn't want me to."
The rain outside deepened, tapping gently against the glass like a metronome to their confessions.
At some point, they moved to the piano.
"Play something," she said softly.
He hesitated but obeyed. The melody that spilled out wasn't loud or showy, it was slow, melancholic, like a memory being whispered instead of sung.
Areum stood near the window, her reflection overlapping his in the glass.
"You play like you're remembering something you're afraid to lose," she said.
He looked up at her, eyes glistening faintly under the soft lamplight. "And you paint like you're trying to bring something back."
They stared at each other, the kind of gaze that wasn't romantic yet, but intimate enough to feel like a confession neither had spoken aloud.
Then he laughed quietly. "We sound pathetic."
"Maybe," she replied. "But maybe that's what surviving feels like.:
When the clock struck midnight, she stood, ready to leave.
"Thanks for dinner," she said, reaching for her bag. "And for… letting me see the human side of the great Kang Joon-ha."
He smiled faintly. "Don't tell anyone. I have an image to protect."
At the door, he handed her a folded umbrella. "It's still raining," he said. "Seems like it never stops when you're around."
She blinked. "Then maybe I'm cursed."
"Or maybe," he murmured, "you're the storm I've been waiting for."
Her breath caught, just for a moment, before she smiled, small and uncertain. "Goodnight, Joon-ha."
He watched her leave, her silhouette fading into the soft glow of the hallway. When the door finally clicked shut, he exhaled, his chest tightening in that familiar, unbearable way.
He reached for the pill bottle on the counter and swallowed one dry. His hands were shaking again. He leaned against the wall, eyes closed, willing his heart to slow down.
The sound of the rain returned, steady, relentless, like a reminder that time never stopped for anyone, no matter how much they begged it to.
Later that night, she couldn't sleep.
She sat by her window, sketching him, not his face, but his hands on the piano keys. The lines trembled, not from lack of skill, but from emotion she didn't know how to name.
Every time she tried to draw his eyes, she stopped. They were too full of something she recognized, fear, grief, longing. The same things that haunted her.
"Why do you feel like someone who's running out of time?" she whispered to the paper.
Meanwhile, Joon-ha sat in front of his laptop again.
Multiple email tabs were open, correspondence with hospitals in Switzerland, Tokyo, and Boston. Each message more desperate than the last.
He typed one final line before sending:
"I don't need comfort. I need time. Please tell me there's a way to buy it."
He closed his laptop, staring at the reflection of the city lights on the window, Seoul glittering like a thousand fragile promises.
For a long time, he just sat there, motionless. Then he whispered,
"She wouldn't forgive me if I gave up now."
He was talking about his sister, but somewhere deep down, part of him was already thinking of Areum.
______________
The next morning, the storm finally broke. The first sunlight in days crept through the clouds, painting his living room gold.
He stood by the window, holding his cup of black coffee, eyes distant.
In another part of the city, Areum did the same two lonely figures, both learning how to breathe again, even when it hurt.
And though they didn't know it yet, something had already begun between them not love, not yet, but recognition.
The quiet kind that says: I see you. I know the weight you carry. And somehow, that makes the world less unbearable.
But time, cruel as ever, was already waiting, watching from the distance, ready to steal what little they were starting to find.