Mireya did not expect to think about him again.
But the problem was—she did.
She thought about him while wiping the counter in the supply room.
She thought about him while pushing a cart down the hallway.
She even thought about him when her supervisor complained about someone leaving gloves in the wrong place.
The letter.
That was the problem.
Who writes a letter and never sends it?
At lunch break, Mireya sat alone on a bench outside the hospital. The air smelled like rain and disinfectant. She opened her lunchbox and stared at the food without eating.
"You're doing it again," a voice said.
Mireya looked up, startled.
It was Hana, a nurse with sharp eyes and a mouth that never stayed quiet.
"Doing what?" Mireya asked.
"Thinking too hard," Hana replied. "Your face looks like you're solving a crime."
"I don't look like that," Mireya said softly.
Hana snorted. "You always look like that."
Mireya poked at her rice. "I just… met someone."
Hana's eyes lit up immediately. "Someone? Like someone someone?"
Mireya felt heat rise to her face. "No. I mean—yes. I mean—"
Hana leaned closer. "Details."
"There are no details," Mireya said quickly. "We bumped into each other."
"That's how all good stories start," Hana said. "Did he apologize?"
"Yes."
"Did he smile?"
"…Yes."
Hana gasped dramatically. "Dangerous."
Mireya laughed despite herself. "He was holding a letter."
"A letter?" Hana blinked. "What is this, a drama?"
Mireya shrugged. "He said he wouldn't give it to anyone."
Hana studied her face. "And that bothered you."
Mireya didn't answer.
Because yes—it did.
Later that evening, Mireya was restocking a quiet corridor when she saw him again.
He stood near the window at the end of the hall, reading the same folded letter. The light from outside touched his face softly, making him look even more distant.
Her heart did that strange thing again.
She told herself to walk away.
She didn't.
He noticed her first this time.
"Oh," he said. "You're—"
"Mireya," she said. "We met yesterday."
"I know," he replied quickly. "I just didn't want to say it wrong."
That made her smile.
"Still carrying it?" she asked, nodding toward the letter.
He looked embarrassed. "It refuses to leave me."
"Maybe it wants to be read," she said.
He hesitated. "It already was."
"Then maybe it wants to be answered."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he laughed quietly. "You're better at this than I am."
"At what?"
"Understanding things without asking too many questions."
Silence settled between them again—but it felt warmer this time.
"I'm Jae," he said at last.
"Mireya," she replied, even though he already knew.
They stood there, two people holding words they didn't know how to say.
And somehow, that felt like the beginning of something.