When the teacher announced the spring field trip to Nami Island, the classroom erupted into cheers.
Chairs scraped.
Voices tangled.
Someone shouted, "We better get free time!"
Another yelled back, "I'm bringing ten cup noodles!"
But Saanvi just… stared at the board.
Nami.
It sounded like poetry.
Looked like a postcard.
And felt like something she couldn't quite name — not until she saw Jisoo glance at her from across the room.
Just a flicker.
But that was all it took.
A memory unspooled in her mind like an old film reel—
They were younger. Maybe ten.
Running under a canopy of golden trees.
Her, laughing breathlessly, always three steps ahead.
Him, chasing and panting behind, pretending he could win.
Pretending he didn't mind losing every single time.
After class, Jisoo caught up to her at the stairwell. His voice was casual, but his eyes were a little too focused — like he was trying not to smile too hard.
"We've been there before."
She nodded.
"Yeah. With my mom. You brought two cans of peach soda."
"And you spilled both."
That made them laugh.
Not just because it was true,
But because they were laughing at the same thing — like their memories had finally lined up again.
---
The class trip fell on a Friday.
A soft, spring morning that smelled like distant flowers and recent rain.
Clouds drifted lazily above the school gate as students hauled their backpacks onto the bus — half-asleep, arms full of snacks, heads full of freedom.
Saanvi sat beside Jisoo on the left side of the bus, second row from the back.
He had taken the window seat without asking.
She followed without hesitation.
Across the aisle, their classmates exchanged quiet glances.
Minho nudged Ara with his elbow.
Ara raised an eyebrow.
No words were needed.
Everyone could tell.
There was something different now.
Something returned.
Something unfolding again — but slower, steadier, as if this time it wouldn't be broken by trains or distance or childhood goodbyes.
---
Nami Island was exactly how they remembered it.
No — better.
The trees were taller, stretching up like pillars in a natural cathedral.
Birdsong floated from the branches.
Bike wheels rolled over smooth stone paths.
A breeze carried the scent of pine and old river water.
Saanvi and Jisoo walked beside each other, neither talking much, but never falling out of sync.
It wasn't awkward.
It wasn't forced.
It was just quiet — the kind of quiet that happens when you no longer feel the need to fill every space with sound.
Every few steps, their hands would brush.
The first time it happened, Saanvi almost pulled hers away.
But she didn't.
And neither did he.
---
They stopped at a bench by the lake — half-hidden behind a cluster of plum trees. The wood was faded now, weathered by seasons and tourists, but the tiny heart carved into the left armrest was still there.
Saanvi ran her fingers across it.
Rough. Familiar.
"This is it," she murmured. "We sat here when we were ten."
Jisoo dropped his backpack and plopped down with a sigh.
"I remember. I made you promise not to feed the ducks your crusts."
"And then you fed them yours."
"Hypocrite behavior. I was young."
She laughed — sharp and warm. Then reached into her bag.
From the side pocket, she pulled out two cans of peach soda. The kind with the peach smiling on the label. The kind that made a crack-hiss sound when opened just right.
She held one out to him.
"I thought I'd spill again," she admitted, grinning. "So I practiced opening it ten times."
Jisoo blinked, then burst out laughing — real, belly-deep laughter.
"Only you would practice opening soda."
She shrugged, mock-serious. "Trauma runs deep."
He tapped his can against hers.
A soft clink.
"To not spilling."
She smiled.
"To remembering."
They drank. The fizz tickled. The sweetness was exactly how she remembered — too syrupy, a little artificial, but perfect.
---
For a while, they just sat.
The lake sparkled under the sun.
Boats drifted quietly by.
A family of ducks wobbled near the shoreline, pecking at invisible treasures.
Somewhere, a wind chime clinked gently from a food stall.
They didn't talk about the past.
Didn't dig up promises or apologies.
They just were.
Side by side.
In silence.
In peace.
Then Saanvi turned to him and asked, softly:
"Why do you think we found each other again?"
Jisoo didn't respond right away.
He leaned back slightly, propped his arms behind him, and stared out over the lake like it held the answer.
Then he looked at her.
Serious. Still. Certain.
"Because this time… I was meant to walk with you the whole way. Not just to the tree."
Her heart pressed against her ribs like it wanted to say something too.
But she let his words settle.
Unrushed.
Unquestioned.
Real.
---
Their phones buzzed at the same time.
Saanvi reached for hers first.
The familiar interface of the One Plus app lit up her screen.
____________•••____________
You are one plus away from letting go of the child versions of yourselves… and meeting again, as you are now.
____________•••____________
Neither of them opened the app.
They just looked at the screen.
Then at each other.
And smiled.
Not everything needed an update.
Some connections didn't require reminders.
Some people, once lost, didn't need a notification to be found again.
---
Saanvi leaned back against the bench, eyes closed, face tilted toward the sunlight.
Then, without looking, she asked:
"Do you still hate steamed bun clouds?"
Jisoo scoffed.
"Only when I'm drawing them."
Pause.
"Still can't make them not look like food."
Her eyes opened. A grin tugged at her lips.
"Maybe it's a sign."
"Of what? That I'm hungry?"
"No," she said. "That you should stick to drawing people."
He looked at her.
And for the briefest moment —
She swore the sunlight painted a sketch of them both in the stillness.
One Plus Notification
____________•••____________
You are one plus away from writing a memory you won't need to redraw.
____________•••____________
And for once, they didn't try to capture the moment.
They just let it exist.
Wild. Fleeting. Beautiful.
Exactly like childhood.
Only now —
with no more running.