Spring hadn't left Seoul yet.
Despite the calendar flipping into late April, the cherry blossoms still held on.
Petals clung to their branches like secrets refusing to be shaken loose—stubborn, beautiful remnants of promises that had almost faded.
The school courtyard, usually noisy on weekdays, stood quiet under the soft Saturday morning sun. The wind was gentle. The city felt like it had exhaled.
And beneath one of the trees in full bloom—Saanvi stood still.
In her hand, she held a photograph.
That photograph.
From Busan.
From then.
It was slightly faded now, the edges curled and smudged by time, but she didn't need it to be perfect.
The image was burned into her.
A snapshot of a boy with a red skateboard, standing with his back to the camera.
A shower of petals falling behind him.
A tree heavy with blossoms above.
And her handwriting—crooked, childish, forever stuck in a younger version of herself:
"The boy who didn't say goodbye."
Except now…
Now she knew.
She was the one who left without warning.
She was the one who never said goodbye.
And that truth weighed heavier than the photograph.
---
She'd tried texting Jisoo the night before. Once. Then again.
No response.
Not that she really expected one.
He wasn't the type to reply with a "lol" or a string of emojis.
He didn't throw hearts into messages or say "np" when people apologized.
He didn't talk unless he meant it.
Didn't show up unless it mattered.
And Saanvi couldn't get the One Plus notification out of her mind.
____________•••____________
You are one plus away from choosing whether to open the past… or close it for good.
____________•••____________
She hadn't tapped anything this time.
She just stared at the message until it vanished—like fog burning off with the morning light.
But the words stayed.
Etched inside her.
Open the past… or close it for good.
No.
She couldn't let it close.
Not this time.
---
It took her two subway lines and a ten-minute walk to reach the skate park by the Hangang River.
She almost turned around twice.
But then she heard wheels.
Low, steady, familiar.
The sound of someone carving slow loops into cement—not for show, not for noise.
Just for motion.
For thought.
There he was.
Jung Jisoo.
Alone.
No headphones. No music. No hoodie.
Just a plain black T-shirt and jeans, his skateboard carrying him in measured arcs.
Like he was tracing the edges of a memory, careful not to slip too far into it.
She watched him for a while.
She didn't call out.
Didn't wave.
She waited.
Waited until he rolled to a slow stop by the rail and reached for his water bottle.
Only then did she step forward.
---
"I remember the cherry blossoms now," she said, voice clear despite the nerves fluttering in her chest.
He turned, water still in his hand.
His eyes met hers.
Not cold.
Not surprised.
Just still.
Like he had been waiting for her to remember.
Saanvi inhaled deeply. "You were the first person I met in Busan who didn't ask why my Korean was so good. You just… handed me your board and said, 'Try it.'"
Something flickered in his expression.
Almost a smile.
The kind that comes before a memory speaks.
"You fell," he said quietly. "Like, immediately."
She laughed—soft and real. "Flat on my face."
He nodded. "Your knee was bleeding."
"I know. You gave me your jacket."
He blinked.
Just once.
But she saw the shift.
"I still have it."
Jisoo looked down.
A long pause.
Then—"You do?"
She nodded. "I kept it. Even after we left that night. Even after I forgot where it came from."
He stared at his board.
Like it might roll him backward in time.
"And I still owe you a goodbye," Saanvi added.
Her voice was gentler now.
Like the petals falling slowly around them.
Jisoo gripped the rail, jaw clenched for a moment.
Then—
"The thing is," he murmured, almost too quietly, "I never wanted one."
---
They stood there, caught between breeze and silence.
A lone bicycle rolled past behind them.
A bird chirped once.
And the city, always too fast, slowed just enough for them to breathe in sync.
Saanvi stepped closer.
She could smell the rain from yesterday still lingering in the pavement.
She could hear the echo of the One Plus chime in her head.
And then—without preparing herself, without rehearsing—she said the thing she had carried since the rooftop:
"You mattered to me. Even if I forgot for a while… you still do."
---
Jisoo closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
But it said more than any words could.
When he opened them again, they were softer.
Not lighter.
Not brighter.
Just… less guarded.
Like a wall had cracked somewhere deep inside.
He took a step forward.
Slow.
Measured.
Then reached into his pocket and held out his phone.
A new notification glowed on the screen.
White background. Black text.
One Plus Notification
____________•••____________
You are one plus away from the moment that changes everything.
____________•••____________
---
Saanvi blinked.
Then slowly pulled out her own phone.
Same message.
Same moment.
Same eerie stillness in the air.
No app name.
No vibration.
Just the message, pulsing softly as if it was breathing with them.
They looked at each other.
Neither moved.
Neither smiled.
But they didn't look away either.
They didn't have to say anything now.
Because this moment wasn't about forgetting.
It wasn't about apologies.
Or blame.
Or even closure.
It was about something else.
Recognition.
Return.
Remembrance.
---
The cherry blossoms fluttered between them, swirling like pieces of something once broken, now floating gently back into place.
Not everything had to be said.
Some truths just needed to be felt.
And this time
It wasn't the kind of silence that meant goodbye.