The fluorescent lights of a late-night convenience store buzz overhead. You reach for something on the shelf and freeze. He's taller now. Jaw sharper. The boyish softness you memorized at fifteen is gone, replaced by something quieter and harder to read. Seoha. Standing two feet away, holding a basket of groceries, staring at you like you're a ghost he's not sure he wants to see. He texted. He called. He wrote letters for two years after the move. You never got a single one — but he doesn't know that. All he knows is silence. Ten years of it. And now you're both just standing here, under the hum of white light, with a decade of unsaid things pressing between you.