As Seo-jin approached the Dongdaemun Design Plaza, she wondered how Hyun-woo felt about it. The building presented itself as a sculpture rather than a traditional building, looking like an immense silver-skinned alien rising from the heart of Seoul. Its sweeping curves and seamless liquid aluminium panels shimmered under the shifting daylight, catching reflections of the city, clouds, and even the moon, transforming from futuristic spaceship by day to glowing sculpture by night. He would never accept this for what it was. Its shape and form unwilling to flinch even to Hyun-woo's gaze.

She followed the gently sloping walkway that pulled her inside the structure almost unconsciously. The air hummed quietly, contrasting with the roar of traffic just outside. 

As Seo-jin stepped through the sleek, modern entrance, the gallery space enveloped her, a cool expanse of polished concrete floors and soaring glass partitions. She paused briefly, glancing at the exhibition guide in her hands, its smooth surface a small anchor.

Ahead, near a large-scale installation of deconstructed city maps, Hyun-woo waited. Arms crossed over his chest, his posture composed, he looked as if he’d been there for a while, a permanent fixture of the minimalist space. She sees her approach.

"You’re on time," he stated, his voice even, neutral, devoid of any warmth.

"Why wouldn’t I be?" Seo-jin retorted, her tone equally flat.

A loaded silence hung between them. Seo-jin turned, breaking eye contact deliberately, and moved towards the first exhibit.

The installation showcased a progression in architectural thought. Stacked layers, shifting forms, echoes of past designs bleeding into bold modern structures. It was a visual metaphor they both clocked instantly, a mirror of their own fragmented history, but neither would acknowledge it.

"Architecture is memory in tangible form," Hyun-woo began, his voice taking on the cadence of an academic lecture. "Cities evolve the way people do. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes by accident."

"Sometimes by necessity," Seo-jin countered, her voice softer, with an undeniable undercurrent. She wasn’t talking about the exhibit. Neither was he.

A pause stretched as she walked ahead, studying the meticulous models of historical facades displayed beside daring contemporary renderings. Hyun-woo followed, but maintained a respectful distance, his shadow a few paces behind hers.

"Look at these lines," he continued, gesturing to a particular piece. "Fluidity between past and present. The tension in adaptation."

"Tension is inevitable when something transforms," Seo-jin replied, her voice measured, betraying the depth of her engagement. "The question is whether it still resembles what it used to be."

The words hung in the air. Heavy with personal meaning. They now stood in front of an old brick foundation model, carefully preserved beneath a sheet of glass, a fragment of history encased, immovable even as new, soaring designs rose above it in the exhibit. Hyun-woo watched her carefully, his gaze unwavering. She held her gaze on the exhibit, lost in its implications.

Unknown to Seo-jin, Do-yeon lingered near another installation some distance away, keeping her distance but observant, her eyes tracking their silent dance.

"Some things remain foundational," Hyun-woo murmured, his voice low.

"Others are meant to be replaced," Seo-jin countered, her voice equally quiet, a bitter edge to her words. The silence stretched again, a taut line between them. Then Hyun-woo shifted slightly, adjusting the sleeve of his jacket, a subtle movement of disengagement. "We should start. Look at the spatial flow in relation to branding."

The conversation pivoted back to the professional, but the thick, charged air between them didn’t.

Seo-jin and Hyun-woo moved deeper into the exhibition, their steps synchronised and distant. They stopped in front of a sculptural installation of overlapping cityscapes. The stark contrast between the past and present designs was almost aggressive, mirroring everything unspoken that simmered between them.

"This reminds me of that project you struggled with in school," Seo-jin ventured, a flicker of something in her eyes, testing the waters.

Hyun-woo barely glanced at her before shifting the focus back to the abstract. "Symmetry is something we strive for. See how it draws the eye toward the supporting structures. That’s what keeps it balanced."

She exhaled through her nose, a subtle sound of frustration. "Balance. Sure. But adaptation is different."

"Architectural adaptation is about longevity, not personal preference," Hyun-woo retorted, his voice clipped, clinical.

"Personal preference?" Seo-jin scoffed, a short, sharp laugh escaping her. "YOU have personal preferences?" She let a beat hang, then twisted the knife. "Never showed any preference when it mattered." Her fingers tightened around the exhibition guide, crumpling the edge slightly.

They moved to the next model, an evolution of skyline compositions. Hyun-woo gestured to a diagram showcasing vertical integration in modern city planning, his hand movements precise. "This type of structure lends itself to fluid branding, flexibility in perception."

"Flexibility. Right. You weren’t exactly flexible when..." Seo-jin began, unable to resist, pushing past his professional barrier.

"Let’s focus on the project," Hyun-woo cut in, his voice firm, drawing a sharp boundary.

Her jaw tensed, a visible sign of her simmering anger. Fine. He wanted to pretend none of it existed? Then she’d push harder. She wouldn't let him off the hook so easily.

They continued through the exhibition, now stopping in front of a display showing traditional hanok roofs alongside modern tensile structures. The exhibit detailed the evolution of shelter, how spaces adapt to protect, shield, and change over time.

Seo-jin exhaled lightly, studying the graceful curvature of a hanok eave, a sense of something lost clinging to the old design. "Shelter. Protection from the elements. Temporary relief." She paused, tilting her head slightly, a memory surfacing. "Like that time you shoved an umbrella under my arm in the rain."

Hyun-woo’s focus remained entirely on the display, his gaze fixed on the explanatory text, a master class in deflection. "Shelter isn’t just about avoidance. It’s about reinforcing what’s already there."

"Right. So that umbrella was structural reinforcement?" Her tone was light, teasing, a thread of playfulness, but there was a significant weight beneath it, a desperate attempt to chip away at his composure. He kept his posture controlled, unwavering.

"Are you going to deflect every single time?" she asked, her voice flat, sharp, abandoning the pretence of lightness.

"Let’s focus on the project," Hyun-woo stated, his voice a low, unyielding command.

Her jaw tightened further, a muscle twitching. "Of course. The project." Her sarcasm hung in the air, a bitter taste.

She stepped away, walking briskly toward the next exhibit, putting distance between them. She held her hand out and her fingers brushed the edge of the hanok roof model as she passed, just slightly, like she was feeling the weight of the history encased within it.

Hyun-woo watched, but didn’t follow immediately, his gaze hung on the exhibit, then on the empty space where her hand had rested.

Seo-jin stopped near an exhibit showcasing modular housing developments, structures designed to adapt over time, expanding or shifting, based on necessity. She studied the intricate models, her fingers tracing the edge of an annotation about foundational revisions.

"You always did obsess over stability," she mused, her voice low, almost to herself, yet loud enough for him to hear. "You hated unpredictability, hated not knowing what came next."

Hyun-woo finally looked at her directly, his usual guard momentarily dropped. "You’re mistaken." His tone was sharp, a sudden, unexpected cut. He leaned into her slightly, raising his hand, his finger almost pointing, not at the exhibit, but at her.

"It wasn’t me chasing perfection. It was you." The words were low, even, but edged with something raw. His teeth were gritted. This wasn't calculated. Not neutral. It was a visceral reaction. "You wanted control. You wanted guarantees. You broke everything before it had the chance to fail."

Seo-jin stiffened, reeling from the unexpected intensity. "That’s ridiculous." She looked about her, a quick, almost panicked glance, to see if people had heard them, if anyone was watching. She stepped back from him.

Do-yeon, from her strategic distance on the edge of a group of tourists, had heard it all, her calm exterior belying an internal panic at Hyun-woo's sudden, raised voice. She watched Seo-jin through her peripheral vision.

"Is it?" Hyun-woo challenged, his voice not rising, but landing like an undeniable impact. Seo-jin was truly thrown, momentarily speechless. She had expected distance, deflection, not this raw, exposed accusation.

Hyun-woo exhaled sharply, shifting his stance, the brief surge of emotion retreating behind his usual facade. The air around them tightened, charged with the lingering echo of his words. Then he turned abruptly, walking off without another word, leaving her standing alone amidst the quiet hum of the exhibit.

Seo-jin watched him go, a mix of frustration and a strange, unsettling stir inside her that she wasn’t prepared for. She glanced around herself again, then, after a moment, began to follow him at a distance. "Hyun-woo. Wait." Her voice, a low appeal, chased him through the quiet gallery.

The cafe within the events centre was modern, slick, an architect's interpretation of a cafe. All clean lines and muted tones. A low hum of conversation filled the background, a gentle white noise.

Seo-jin stepped toward the counter, her movements stiff. Hyun-woo, already at a table, sat down, adjusting his watch, not impatiently, but with a slight, hesitant tremor that betrayed his earlier composure. She ordered without asking him what he wanted, her voice crisp. She tapped her card, collected both drinks, and headed to the table, setting his Americano down in front of him before sliding into the seat across.

"Americano, right?" she asked, her voice flat.

"You didn’t need to..." Hyun-woo began, his hand hovering over the cup.

"It’s fine," she cut him off, a dismissive wave of her hand.

A pause. His hand settled, slowly picking up the cup. Seo-jin swirled her own coffee absently, avoiding his gaze. Hyun-woo took a slow, deliberate sip. The air between them was stiff, heavy with something profound and unresolved.

"This is ridiculous," Seo-jin stated, breaking the silence, her frustration boiling over.

"We’re here to finalise project details," Hyun-woo replied, his voice carefully devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to her agitation.

"No, Hyun-woo," she said, leaning forward, her voice low and insistent. "You walked out. In the middle of a conversation."

He exhaled through his nose, setting down the cup carefully, like he was choosing his words, each one a calculated stone. "Some conversations don’t need to happen."

She let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking her head. "Right. That’s convenient for you, isn’t it?" Her voice laced with bitter sarcasm.

He looked at her, a long, steady gaze that was neither confrontational nor truly neutral. It was piercing. Seo-jin leaned forward slightly, her hands wrapped tightly around her coffee cup, seeking its warmth, using it to ground herself.

"Tell me something, Hyun-woo," she pressed, her voice barely a whisper, raw with a question that had lingered for years. "Are you ever going to acknowledge..."

"Let’s just work," he cut in, his voice firm, unyielding, shutting down the discussion with a finality that offered no argument.

Her fingers tightened around the cup, just enough for him to notice the white in her knuckles. The silence stretched, with the words left unsaid.

She exhaled slowly, forcing composure back into her rigid posture. "Fine. Let’s work." But her voice was thinner now, a fragile thread stretched almost to breaking.

The coffee sat untouched between them, now cold. The air felt heavier, thicker now, Hyun-woo’s constant deflection lingering like a suffocating cloud, Seo-jin’s patience thinning to nothing. Then Seo-jin exhaled, pushing her chair back abruptly. The scrape of wood against the floor was sharper than necessary, a jarring sound in the quiet cafe.

"This is pointless," she stated, her voice tight with suppressed anger, frustration, and a deep weariness.

Hyun-woo didn’t stop her. He didn’t ask her to stay. He just watched. She reached for her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and walked out. Her stride wasn’t fast, not a run, but measured, deliberate, a quiet act of defiance. She left first, leaving him alone again.