She walked into his office two days later, nerves wrapped around her like invisible threads. The building was too bright, too polished, too alive for someone who had forgotten how to breathe in crowded spaces. The receptionist smiled politely, voices murmured over phone calls, and somewhere in the background, a piano track played on repeat.
When the elevator doors opened, she saw him again. Kang Joon-ha, the man from the café.
He was dressed in quiet shades of black, sleeves rolled up, a faint exhaustion hidden behind his composure. He looked up from a file when she entered, and for a second, neither spoke.
"Han Areum?" he asked gently.
"Yes," she replied, her voice softer than she meant it to be.
He gestured to the seat across his desk. Papers, coffee, and a faint scent of rain hung in the air. After the brief introductions and formalities, she signed the contract, her signature trembling slightly at the end. It felt surreal, as if she had just signed her name into a story she hadn't agreed to live in.
When she left, he watched her through the glass wall until the elevator doors closed.
Something about her silence stayed behind in the room, settling between the walls like an unfinished melody.
__________________
Two days later – Photoshoot Day
The staff moved quickly across the studio, adjusting lights, rolling backdrops, setting cameras. Areum stood near the corner, her camera hanging from her neck, fingers tightening around it. She had done this a hundred times before, but never for someone like him.
Joon-ha stood under the lights in a simple white shirt and black jeans. The team fussed around him, fixing his collar, touching up his makeup, but his eyes occasionally drifted to her, the quiet photographer watching him from behind the lens.
When the shoot began, she didn't direct him much. She just watched, waited, and clicked when the silence between them felt honest. There was something raw in the way he held his gaze, as if trying to look at her without being seen.
Hours passed before anyone noticed the soft shift in the air.
The room felt warmer.
His expression lighter.
Her breathing steadier.
When it ended, she gave a small bow. "We're done," she said quietly.
Her voice was calm, but her heart felt strangely unsteady.
He nodded, thanked the staff, and then turned to his manager.
"Bring her dinner before she leaves," he said, already walking toward the door.
She blinked, surprised.
He didn't even wait for her response.
It wasn't arrogance, just habit.
The kind of habit that came from loneliness disguised as control.
______________
The night was quiet except for the sound of water hitting tile.
Joon-ha leaned against the shower wall, cold water running over his skin like fragments of memory. His hand trembled again, a faint tremor he could never seem to stop.
"Some days," he whispered to no one, "I forget how to breathe without breaking first."
The words echoed off the tiles, hollow and real.
He turned off the shower and walked into his room, towel around his shoulders, the city lights bleeding through half-closed curtains. He tried to sleep. He couldn't. His mind wandered, always back to that one photograph on the nightstand.
His sister's smile.
Still frozen in time, unaware of how short forever would be.
He reached for the frame. His hands were still wet.
The photo slipped, shattered against the floor.
A sharp sting, a line of blood and then, just silence.
He sank to the floor, glass shards scattered around him, pain blooming quietly through his palm. His breath came unevenly as he whispered into the still air,
"She smiled like that right before—"
The words broke apart before they could finish.
The door burst open. His manager, Min Joon, stood frozen at the sight, glass, blood, and a man who had everything except peace.
Joon-ha didn't look up. His voice cracked as he whispered again,
"She smiled like that right before—"
Min Joon didn't ask. He didn't need to.
He knelt, wrapped Joon-ha's bleeding hand with a towel, and pressed his palm against it.
"You can stop being her savior now," he murmured, his voice trembling. "Just live, Joon-ha. Please."
The room fell silent except for the quiet sound of their breathing. Outside, thunder rolled across the night sky.
_____________
Across the city
Areum stood before her painting again.
The same unfinished one, the sky torn open in red and blue.
She stared at it for a long time before speaking, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I wanted to be someone worth staying for," she said, her throat tightening. "But all I became was the echo of goodbye."
She brushed her fingers across the paint, smearing the colors without meaning to.
The world outside her window was asleep.
She wished she could be too.
________________
Later that night
Joon-ha sat on his bed, his hand wrapped, phone dimly lit in his palm.
He opened the gallery folder from the shoot unedited, raw images Areum had taken earlier.
And there she was.
Behind the lens, her reflection caught in the mirrored studio wall, her eyes, her posture, her silence.
He stared at it for a long time before whispering,
"Why do her eyes mirror the same emotions as mine?"
He didn't have an answer.
Only the quiet ache that told him it wasn't coincidence.
_____________
The next morning – Day Two of the Photoshoot
When he entered the studio, Areum was already there, adjusting lighting quietly. Her hair was tied loosely, strands framing her face.
"Morning," he said softly.
She nodded. "Good morning."
They worked in silence again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. There was something almost sacred in the stillness, two people learning how to exist in the same space without breaking.
When the cameras stopped clicking, he looked at her and said,
"Are you up for ramen after the photoshoot?"
She blinked, startled. "Well… I—I… okay."
He smiled faintly. "Good."
_____________
They walked under the fading light of evening, their steps matching without trying. The ramen shop was small, tucked between an old bookstore and a flower stall. Warm air met them as they stepped inside, the scent of broth, garlic, and quiet comfort.
They sat across from each other, steam rising between them.
He took off his cap. She removed her scarf.
They didn't talk much.
Just the sound of chopsticks, soft slurps, and the hum of a radio playing a love song no one remembered.
He glanced up once, catching her reflection in the window.
She looked lost in thought or maybe found. He couldn't tell.
She caught him looking, and for a second, their eyes met both too tired to pretend they weren't searching for something.
Neither spoke.
Some emotions were too heavy for words, and both of them were fluent in silence.
When they finished, he paid without a word. She thanked him, voice almost a whisper.
Outside, rain began to fall again, light, hesitant drops.
He held out his hand, letting the rain touch his skin.
For the first time in years, he smiled.
___________
That night, Areum returned home, her coat damp, her heart quieter than usual. She looked at the painting again, the one she couldn't finish and for the first time, she dipped her brush in yellow.
A small stroke of light.
A beginning.
And somewhere across the city, Kang Joon-ha finally slept.
[Sometimes, healing doesn't start with words.
Sometimes, it begins with silence that someone finally shares with you.]