It starts the same way most weekends do — no plans, no messages, no promises to meet. Just the quiet rhythm that's formed between us over time.
She's already waiting by the crosswalk when I get there, hands tucked neatly into her pockets, the strap of her bag resting on one shoulder. Even outside of school, she moves with that same composure — every step measured, every breath steady. Like she's still in control of something no one else can see.
We don't decide where to go first. Somehow, our feet always find the same path.
The street where the three of us used to play stretches ahead, cracked in places, faint chalk lines still marking the edges of a game we outgrew too soon. She slows down when we reach the corner — the one under the streetlight that flickers in the same rhythm it always has.
It's where he confessed to her once, years ago. She never told me, but I was there after — when she walked home without saying a word.
Now she passes that spot like it's any other piece of pavement. Her eyes flicker toward it just once, barely noticeable. Then she keeps walking.
The silence between us isn't awkward. It never is. We learned a long time ago that sometimes silence is the only language that fits.
The park comes next — the one near the river, small and half-forgotten. The slides and monkey bars are too short for us now, their paint chipped and faded, but she sits on the swing anyway. I stand by the railing, listening to the water.
"It's quieter than before," I say.
"It's always been quiet," she answers. Her voice isn't cold, just careful.
She pushes herself lightly, the chains creaking in rhythm. For a moment, the sound reminds me of when we used to meet here after class — the three of us eating snacks, pretending to study, laughing about nothing. Sometimes I still catch myself glancing at the path, half expecting to see him coming down it.
But she doesn't look that way anymore. Her eyes stay on the river.
We leave when the clouds start to thicken, following the path toward school. The road is still familiar — the faint white paint of our old race lines barely visible. She steps over each one without thinking, like muscle memory.
"You ever think about those mornings?" I ask.
She nods. "Sometimes. But I try not to."
There's no sadness in her tone, just quiet honesty.
By the time we reach the tteokbokki shop near the corner, the air smells like rain. The old lady behind the counter looks up and smiles the same way she used to.
"Oh, you two again!" she says, wiping her hands on her apron. "It's been years, hasn't it?"
"Feels like it," I reply.
She chuckles. "Still less spice for the lady, too much for the gentleman?"
I grin. "You remember."
"Of course. You two always complained and came back anyway."
She ladles sauce into our bowls, slipping in extra fish cakes "just because." We sit by the window like before. The rain begins, faint at first, tracing lines down the glass.
Seon-young eats slowly, blowing on each bite, gaze fixed somewhere past the reflection in the window. Her calm is the same — the kind that looks like peace but feels like endurance.
When we're done, we walk toward the river again. The rain hasn't stopped.
I open my umbrella, tilt it toward her side like I always do. For a moment, she stands under it. Then, without a word, she steps away — out into the open rain.
"Hey—" I start, but she doesn't stop.
She just lifts her face to the sky, eyes closed, the drops soaking into her hair, her hoodie darkening. There's no hesitation — no pretense of control — just quiet acceptance.
"It's cold," I say softly.
She lets out a small laugh — barely there, like the sound surprised her.
"It's just rain," she says.
The sound of it fills everything — the river, the road, the small space between us. For the first time in a long while, she doesn't look like she's trying to be anything.
She turns once, slow, her shoes splashing through a shallow puddle. I don't move. I just watch her — not like before, not to understand her, but to remember her.
When she finally steps back beneath the umbrella, her sleeves heavy with rain, her expression is calm again. But her eyes — they're lighter somehow.
We walk without speaking, the rain steady and soft.
And maybe, I think, it's not that she can't let go of the past.
Maybe it's that she's learning how to stand in it — without drowning.