Seoul looked different at night.
Not louder, not brighter—just lonelier.
From the window of her tiny apartment in Mapo-gu, Yoon Ara watched the city breathe. Neon lights flickered like tired stars, and somewhere below, a street musician played a broken melody. Ara pressed her forehead against the cold glass and whispered to herself,
“You survived another day.”
Ara was twenty-seven, a children’s book illustrator who no longer believed in happy endings. Two years ago, her fiancé had walked out with a simple sentence that still echoed in her bones:
“You feel too deeply. I need something easier.”
Since then, she had learned how to live quietly. No expectations. No promises. Just work, sleep, repeat.
That night, everything changed because of a wrong umbrella.
It was raining hard when she stepped out of the subway station. In her hurry, she grabbed an umbrella from the stand—only to realize, ten steps later, that someone else was holding the same handle.
“I’m sorry,” a calm male voice said.
Ara looked up.
Kim Ji-hoon.
He had soft eyes, the kind that looked like they had seen too much but still chose kindness. His hair was slightly wet, his coat simple, his smile hesitant.
“This is mine,” Ara said, embarrassed.
He nodded. “Yes. And that one”—he pointed behind her—“is probably yours.”
They exchanged umbrellas, shared an awkward laugh, and should have walked away.
But Ji-hoon said, “It’s raining too hard. Do you want to walk together until the next corner?”
Ara hesitated.
Then she said yes.
Ji-hoon worked at a small independent cinema, restoring old Korean films. He loved stories that time had almost erased. Ara liked that about him—it felt familiar. She, too, was someone people overlooked easily.
They began meeting by accident. Or maybe Seoul was just pretending they were accidents.
The cinema.
A quiet café near Hongdae.
Late-night convenience store dinners.
They talked about everything except the things that hurt most.
One night, sitting on the steps near the Han River, Ara finally asked,
“Why aren’t you married?”
Ji-hoon smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“My wife passed away.”
Ara’s breath caught. “I’m so sorry.”
“She loved films,” he continued softly. “After she died, I couldn’t stand places that felt alive. So I chose stories instead. They don’t leave.”
Ara looked at him then—really looked at him—and realized something terrifying.
She was falling in love with a man who belonged to a memory.
Love came slowly, like winter turning into spring.
A shared scarf.
Ji-hoon waiting outside her apartment with roasted sweet potatoes.
Ara sketching him when he wasn’t looking.
But fear grew alongside love.
One evening, Ara overheard a phone call. Ji-hoon’s mother, her voice sharp even through the receiver:
“You can’t stay stuck forever. She’s gone. And that girl—she’s just a replacement.”
Ara stepped back before Ji-hoon saw her.
That night, she didn’t reply to his messages.
The next day, she left a letter at the cinema.
I don’t want to be someone you use to forget someone else.
I deserve to be chosen completely.
So I’m letting you go first.
Then Ara disappeared from his life.
Seasons changed.
Ara’s books finally began to sell. Children loved her illustrations—gentle, emotional, full of hope. Yet every love story she drew ended with two people standing just a little apart.
Ji-hoon stopped restoring films.
He watched Ara’s absence replay like a movie he couldn’t pause. For the first time, he admitted the truth he had been avoiding:
He wasn’t protecting his wife’s memory.
He was hiding behind it.
Three years later, at a book exhibition in Seoul, Ji-hoon saw a familiar name on a banner:
Illustrations by Yoon Ara
His heart stopped.
Ara stood at the corner of the hall, older, stronger, smiling softly at a child. When she looked up, their eyes met.
Time collapsed.
“I never stopped loving you,” Ji-hoon said later, his voice shaking. “But I finally learned that loving someone who died doesn’t mean I can’t love someone alive.”
Ara studied his face carefully.
“And if I leave again?” she asked.
He answered without hesitation.
“Then I’ll wait. Not in the past. But right here.”
Ara reached for his hand.
This time, he didn’t hold it like a memory.
He held it like a future.
Ending
Some love stories are loud.
Some are dramatic.
And some—
Some are written quietly,
between rain and waiting,
until Seoul finally learns their names.
The End. 🤍
