"..?"

It’s 2012. Han walks beside the quiet girl he’s known for ten years—since she was five and he was nine. Ten years of laughter folded into whispers, stolen glances, and moments too fragile to hold in daylight. A single argument had cracked their world in half, leaving a shadow that lingered for months, and now, a year and a half later, the silence between them stretches long, like a thread pulled taut, fraying at the edges.

Her presence is soft, almost ghostly, as she moves alongside him. Shoulders drawn inward, gaze downcast, careful not to meet his eyes. He senses the weight she carries—the fear, the jealousy, the quiet ache that she hides beneath a practiced mask of calm. He sees the cracks sometimes, the subtle flicker of unease in her posture, the tremor in a hand, the quick dart of a glance—but he misreads them as shyness, as habit.

Han remembers the first days, the little girl with wide eyes and cautious steps, the boy nine years old, trying to guide her through the chaos of childhood. They grew together, woven into one another’s worlds, a tapestry of mischief, secret notes, laughter, and small, careless kisses. And yet, a single argument—a spark that ignited too easily, too fiercely—tore the edges apart. She had withdrawn, retreating behind walls he hadn’t the patience to dismantle, and he had tried, fumbling and failing, only for her to be the one to finally reach out, offering the fragile thread of connection once more.

Now, the walk stretches onward, quiet but alive. He taps his fingers against his iPhone 5, a rhythm to fill the space, a barrier against the weight of thought. The streets hum softly beneath their steps, leaves rustling like whispers around their ankles. Notes have passed between them, small exchanges of ink and paper, quiet messages laden with histories unspoken. Giggling moments erupt and fade quickly, fleeting sparks that illuminate the hollow spaces left by time and fear.

Every laugh he receives from friends, every glance, every compliment is a shadow over her composure, a spark she conceals beneath careful breathing. And he notices, in fragments, in flickers, but not enough to understand. He is not wary. He is not scared. He is simply Han, walking beside her, teasing gently, attentive, loyal, carrying the weight of love unspoken.

Shadows lengthen across the sidewalk as the sun dips low, stretching them together yet apart. He observes her, aware of the invisible walls she has built, and wonders at the quiet storm behind her eyes. Romantic hints hang between them, delicate as cobwebs in the fading light, catching on the edges of gestures, on the corners of smiles, on notes passed with trembling fingers. He treads carefully, teasing at the edges of the silence, trying not to shatter it, trying not to leave it untouched.

Each step is a measure of tension, a pulse of the slowburn that has grown over years. Each glance, each subtle shift in posture, each hidden note is a small bridge over a chasm neither dares to name. He walks beside her, loving quietly, teasing lightly, observing patiently, waiting for the smallest spark—a laugh, a look, a heartbeat that reminds him that even fractured, even awkward, even silent, their bond endures.