The morning after felt like a betrayal. Seo-jin woke up with a groan, the inside of her skull throbbing like a drum. Sunlight, far too bright, pierced through Do-yeon’s apartment window, each ray a tiny spear aimed directly at her temples.

“If I were cruel,” Do-yeon’s voice cut through the haze, far too awake, far too cheerful, “I’d remind you who ordered two extra bottles.” She appeared by the side of the sofa, already holding out a glass of water and a packet of painkillers.

“It was you! You’re cruel,” Seo-jin croaked, her throat raw. She took the offerings, grateful despite herself, and swallowed the pills dry.

Do-yeon merely smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes, before tossing a fresh towel at her. “Go on. Get ready. We still have to face the day.”

The morning hinted at the day that would follow. Low clouds glued to the horizon line of houses and apartments with a clear, muted blue sky above. The air cold when you dripped in and out of the shadows. 

They sat side by side at the bus stop, the city already alive with morning traffic. Seo-jin leaned back against the cool plastic of the bench, sunglasses firmly on, her head still pounding with a rhythm that defied the painkillers. Near them, a group of high school students chatted excitedly, their voices a chirping melody, as they stuffed textbooks into worn backpacks and stared into their phones. Their youthful energy was a jarring contrast to Seo-jin's profound weariness.

Then, further down the bench, one girl stiffened, her posture rigid, facing a boy who stood awkwardly in front of her. Their body language was unmistakable, a silent argument playing out for anyone to see. A breakup? The hushed tones, the averted gazes, the boy’s helpless hands gripping his bag straps.

Seo-jin found herself staring without meaning to, drawn in by the familiarity of it all. The scene was too intimate, too raw, and devastatingly too close. Her vision blurred, not from the headache, but from the sudden, sharp thrust of memory. The present faded, replaced by an echo of years long past.

It was a similar bus stop, years earlier, yet infinitely different. Crowded with the same chaos of high school students, a sea of bright uniforms and boisterous chatter. The air thrummed with a different kind of energy, youthful anticipation, careless laughter.

Hyun-woo stood before her, his school bag clutched tightly in his hands, his usual composure fractured by an unspoken question. His voice was cautious, almost hesitant, as if stepping on glass. “Did I... do something wrong?”

Seo-jin shrugged, the gesture deliberately casual, detached. The indifference was a shield, a performance. “No.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy amidst the swirling currents of other students. Hyun-woo waited, his dark eyes searching hers, clearly expecting more. But Seo-jin gave him nothing. She wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“So... why?” His voice was quiet, a desperate plea for logic she couldn't, or wouldn't, provide.

Seo-jin crossed her arms over her chest, digging her nails into the sleeves of her uniform, affecting an air of complete indifference. “It’s not like it was serious.”

He stood there, silent, tightening his grip even further on the straps of his school bag until his knuckles went white. He didn’t argue. Didn’t fight. He just listened, his silence a stark contrast to her manufactured apathy. Still, he needed some understanding of it all.

“But you said...” His voice was shallow, a wounded sound.

“Forget it.” Her voice was sharper than she intended.

“So... why?” He asked again, a desperate echo of his earlier question, a final attempt to breach the wall she was building.

Her fingers tightened around her sleeves, digging deeper. She glanced at the approaching bus, its brakes hissing as it slowed, a sudden rush of escape. She exhaled sharply, a sound of forced finality. “Because it was never going to work.”

She stepped back as the bus pulled up, its doors opening with a mechanical sigh. She climbed in, automatically, without looking back. Hyun-woo didn’t follow. He just stood there, a solitary figure amidst the surging tide of students pushing past him, watching her go.

The bus pulled off, carrying her away, leaving him behind, alone on the curb.

Seo-jin had taken a window seat, staring ahead, her face a blank mask. But as the bus gathered speed, hurtling further down the road, she finally looked back. Her eyes scanned the receding bus stop, searching. A different look on her face now. No longer detached. A flicker of pain, quickly veiled, a ghost of regret already beginning to form.

In front of the school, a hundred yards from the bus stop, Soo-hyun waited, leaning on the school's boundary wall, his backpack sandwiched between himself and the cold stone. The moment he saw the bus, he pushed off, walking down to the stream of students disembarking. He scanned the faces, searching for Hyun-woo, but then his eyes landed on Seo-jin. A wide, easy smile formed at her sight. Hyun-woo would be close. She got off the bus, making sure she didn’t make eye contact with him. Soo-hyun's smile faltered, dropping as he looked back at the bus, still searching for his friend. The last student stepped onto the pavement. With a small frown, Soo-hyun stepped onto the bus and looked to the back. No one. He slowly turned and stepped off the bus, his gaze drifting down the school's driveway, trying to pinpoint where Seo-jin was going, a flicker of curiosity turning to concern. 

Seo-jin blinked, the jarring present-day bus stop materialising around her. Her fingers unconsciously pressed into her palm, an echo of the forgotten tension in her past. Do-yeon caught her blank stare.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Do-yeon observed, her voice tinged with concern.

Seo-jin exhaled slowly, shaking her head, trying to dislodge the lingering images. “Just a headache,” she mumbled, the excuse feeling flimsy even to herself.

She stood abruptly as her present-day bus arrived, a welcome escape. Do-yeon watched her, knowing better, her gaze thoughtful. But she said nothing, for now. The questions, Seo-jin knew, would come later.