The next day, Saanvi didn't plan to go back.
Really—she didn't.
She even took a different route that morning. Left the apartment earlier, grabbed a different kind of coffee from a different café, and entered the school through the back gate near the gym instead of the main one with the cherry blossom trees. It was a new start. A clean slate.
At least, that's what she told herself.
"I'll explore today," she thought while clutching her warm paper cup. "Maybe find the library. Or the music room. Somewhere quiet. Maybe the nurse's office, just in case."
Anything. Anywhere.
Anywhere but the rooftop.
And yet…
Her feet had other plans.
---
The corridors blurred into one another—hallway after hallway, flight after flight. She didn't even realize she was heading upward until the sunlight changed. It turned gentler.
Warmer.
Quieter.
Up the stairwell.
Past that familiar, rusting sign that read "Rooftop Entry Restricted."
Her hand brushed the cold metal doorknob before her brain could protest.
The door creaked open, slow and loud—like an old story remembering how to be told.
And there it was again.
That sound.
(click… clack… silence… click–click—whirr—stop)
Saanvi didn't breathe.
---
He was there.
Just like before.
The boy.
The skater.
Alone.
He didn't notice her at first—his body was mid-motion, in perfect conversation with the wind.
His black hoodie fluttered like a quiet flag, his shoes slicing across the rooftop surface with practiced determination.
There was no audience. No applause. Just him… and the sound of wheels chasing freedom.
Earbuds in.
Head low.
World out.
But then, something in the rhythm broke—subtle, but real. A shift. Like a skipped beat in a song only he could hear.
He glanced up.
Eyes met.
Saanvi stopped mid-step, heart loud in her ears.
He didn't look surprised.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't raise a brow or even straighten his posture.
He looked at her the way people look at the sky before it rains.
With familiarity.
With quiet acceptance.
As if this moment had already happened.
Then he turned away—no words, no wave—and simply continued skating.
Unbothered.
Unshaken.
---
Saanvi exhaled slowly and made her way toward the far wall.
She sat down carefully, her backpack against her knees, not wanting to disrupt whatever rhythm he was chasing.
The wind whispered across the rooftop, tugging playfully at her hair. A few stray cherry blossom petals drifted up, swirling like soft confetti caught in a daydream.
She unwrapped her sandwich—egg and radish, a bit too salty—and chewed slowly, her eyes never straying far from him.
He moved like someone who had learned to speak through silence.
No tricks. No flair. Just motion.
Like skating wasn't a sport or a hobby—but home.
Every turn, every pivot, every near-slip—he met them all with the kind of focus that only comes from repetition. The kind born from a thousand failures no one had seen.
He wasn't trying to be cool.
He wasn't even trying to be seen.
He just… was.
And Saanvi found herself watching him the way people watch flames dance in a fireplace. Comforted by the warmth, even if she didn't understand why.
---
Minutes stretched into twenty. Maybe more.
The wind died down.
The clouds moved overhead like gentle herds grazing the sky.
And still—no words.
Not even a glance.
She didn't mind.
Strangely, it felt right.
As though silence was the language of the rooftop.
And they were both fluent in it.
---
He finished his final trick—a tight spin, a clean stop—and stepped off his board.
Sweat glistened on his neck. His breath shallow but steady.
Then, without ceremony, he walked past her toward the door.
Saanvi stiffened.
Would he say something this time?
A nod?
A "Hey"?
Even a glance?
Instead… he paused just as his hand reached the doorknob.
He pulled out one earbud.
Not both—just one.
And muttered—softly, like a memory sliding under the door:
> "You don't remember me, do you?"
The words hung in the air like fog, thick and impossible to grasp.
Saanvi blinked.
"W-what?"
But he didn't turn.
Didn't wait.
The door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing louder than it should have.
And just like that—he was gone.
---
She stared at the closed door for a long, long time.
Her sandwich sat in her lap, forgotten.
Her legs were numb, but she didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Her thoughts chased themselves in circles.
> "Remember him?"
That voice.
That tone.
So certain.
So calm.
> Who was he?
Had they met before?
She rewound the past in her head like a tape on fast-forward—school days, childhood, old apartments, forgotten cousins at weddings. Nothing matched. Nothing clicked.
But there was something about him.
Something familiar.
A shadow she couldn't name.
---
That night, Seoul flickered outside her window like a living painting.
The city hummed with neon dreams and midnight dramas, but her room stayed quiet.
She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
Blankets kicked aside.
Heart oddly full.
Mind oddly tired.
> "You don't remember me, do you?"
She mouthed the words to the dark.
Was it supposed to be romantic? Accusatory? Sad?
It didn't feel like any of those things.
It felt… heavy.
Like something important had passed through her, and she missed catching it by just a second.
Her phone buzzed, breaking the silence.
She reached over, expecting a group text, or maybe a reminder from her language app.
But instead—
One Plus Notification.
____________•••____________
You are one plus away from recognizing someone fate refused to erase.
____________•••____________
Her breath caught.
Her fingers trembled.
She stared at the screen until the light dimmed.
Until her reflection stared back from the black glass.
---
And in the distance...
Even in sleep...
She could still hear it:
(click… clack… silence… click–click—whirr—stop)