The week after Yuhan left, the café felt too quiet.
Even the rain seemed hesitant, falling in short, uneven bursts — like it couldn't decide if it wanted to stay.
Li Wei tried to keep busy.
He drew, cleaned, made coffee, repeated. But everything reminded him of that night — of Yuhan's voice echoing softly through the steam and rain.
He still hadn't moved the cup Yuhan had used last. It sat on the corner shelf, washed and empty, but somehow… alive. Like it remembered too.
Then, one morning, a small envelope arrived — no return name, just his own written neatly on the front.
His heart skipped.
He tore it open carefully.
Inside was a folded piece of paper, and a polaroid.
The photo showed a dressing room mirror, blurred with light. In the reflection — Yuhan, smiling faintly, holding a cup of coffee.
On the back, written in small, familiar handwriting:
> Missed your coffee today.
Tour's been long. Cities blur. But the rain in Seoul sounded like you.
— Yuhan
Li Wei pressed the photo to his chest and laughed softly. "You're ridiculous," he whispered, even as his throat tightened.
Then he took out his sketchbook and drew — the same mirror, but this time with a second cup beside it.
Underneath, he wrote:
> Don't forget to breathe.
The rain misses you too.
He didn't know if he'd ever send it. But it helped.
It made the distance feel smaller.
---
Days turned to weeks.
The café became his world again — but now it held small echoes of another life.
Every time the rain fell, Li Wei would look at the window and imagine Yuhan standing under a different sky, maybe doing the same.
Sometimes, late at night, his phone buzzed.
> Yuhan: Still raining there?
Li Wei: Always. What about you?
Yuhan: Not yet. But I can hear it coming.
Their messages were simple — half-teasing, half-tender.
They never talked about missing each other directly.
They didn't have to.
Li Wei began sketching things for him — the café window, the night streets, his own hand holding an umbrella. He'd send a picture of the drawing, and Yuhan would reply with a lyric, or sometimes just:
> You make me remember who I am.
Those words stayed with him for days.
---
But fame has its own storms.
One evening, Li Wei saw a headline flashing on a customer's phone:
"Yuhan Rumored in Secret Relationship — Fans Speculate Identity."
His hands froze mid-cleaning.
The photo in the article was blurry — a silhouette leaving a café under an umbrella.
His café.
His heart dropped.
By the time he locked the doors that night, the world outside felt louder than ever.
He wanted to text, to ask if Yuhan was okay — but stopped.
He didn't want to make things harder.
Instead, he sat at his desk and wrote another letter.
> I saw the news.
I don't care what they say. Just… take care of yourself, okay?
The world will always want to own you. But you still belong to yourself.
And if the noise gets too much, you know where the rain begins.
He folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and left it by the window — like a wish meant for the wind.
---
Three days later, his phone buzzed.
> Yuhan: Sorry I couldn't come by.
Li Wei: You don't have to apologize.
Yuhan: I wanted to. But the cameras haven't stopped following me.
Li Wei: Then I'll wait until they forget.
Yuhan: They never forget.
Li Wei: Then I'll wait anyway.
There was a long pause before the next message came.
> Yuhan: You make waiting sound beautiful.
Li Wei: Maybe because it's you I'm waiting for.
He didn't see Yuhan's next message until hours later, after closing the café.
> Yuhan: If I could disappear anywhere right now… it would be there.
Just for a cup of coffee. And a minute that feels like forever.
Li Wei typed slowly.
> You don't have to disappear. Just come home.
No reply came that night.
But when he checked the next morning, he found a new message waiting:
> Soon.
— 🌙
---
Weeks passed.
The tour reached its final city.
Fans flooded the internet with photos, countdowns, tears.
Li Wei followed quietly — not as a fan anymore, but as someone holding a piece of that world close to his heart.
Then one night, the doorbell of the café rang just as he was turning off the lights.
He looked up — and froze.
Yuhan stood there, wearing a dark hoodie, hair hidden under a cap.
No cameras. No noise.
Just him.
"I told you I'd come back," Yuhan said softly.
Li Wei couldn't move for a second. Then he smiled — a real one, small and trembling.
"You're late."
Yuhan stepped closer, rain dripping from his sleeves. "I got lost in the noise."
"Then you found your way back," Li Wei said.
"I always will," Yuhan whispered.
The distance between them disappeared in a heartbeat — not with touch, not yet, but with the quiet certainty that this moment was theirs alone.
Outside, the rain began again — soft, endless, familiar.
Inside, two hearts finally exhaled, in perfect rhythm with it.