The atelier buzzed with energy the next morning, but Hana felt numb inside.
She moved like a ghost—mechanical, polite, and distant.
Léon noticed.
Mi-Ho hadn't messaged again.
And that silence?It was louder than any fight.
Later that day, she sat alone in a café near the Seine, her sketchpad open but blank. Her mind wouldn't draw. Her heart wouldn't shut up.
"You look like you're about to run again," a familiar voice said.
She turned—and there he was.
Mi-Ho.
No suit. Just jeans and a hoodie. No driver. Just him.
"How did you find me?"
He shrugged. "You always pick the corner table with the worst view."
A beat passed.
"You're mad," she said.
"No," he replied. "I'm hurt. There's a difference."
Hana looked down, throat tightening.
"I didn't mean—"
"To kiss him?" Mi-Ho interrupted, his tone soft but sharp. "Or to not tell me?"
Her fingers curled into fists. "I didn't plan any of this. I didn't want to feel confused."
"Then don't be," he said. "Choose."
Her breath caught.
"I'm not asking you to love me now, Hana. I'm just asking for something real. Not borrowed moments. Not half-truths."
Outside the café, he turned to leave.
But Hana grabbed his wrist. "Wait."
He paused.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
Mi-Ho looked her in the eye. "So am I. But fear doesn't mean we stop. It means we go slower—but we go together."
And then he left.
No kiss.
No begging.
Just the kind of love that waits—and breaks a little more each time it does.