Chapter 1
When I pass that flyover sometimes, I can still smell the same scent of bread.
It is warm and comforting, like bread freshly taken out of the oven. The aroma only lasts for a few seconds before disappearing into the wind carried by passing vehicles.
A few moments later, the smell of wood pellets from the factory nearby always follows.
Back then, we used to complain about that smell.
Now, it is exactly that smell that reminds me of you.
“Miss you.”
Those words always rise to my lips whenever I accidentally run into you. Every time I see your face, the memories begin replaying themselves in my head — memories of a few months that, without me realizing it, became the most beautiful months of my life.
Throughout my school years, from kindergarten to high school, I never truly understood what it meant to fall in love. Love always felt distant to me, like stories in books I could read but never really experience myself.
Until one night, I visited the house of one of my mother’s acquaintances — someone people said could help with university admissions.
That night, I was not alone.
A girl arrived with her grandmother. She was trying to enter the same university as me. The first moment I saw her stepping down from the train, my footsteps seemed to stop.
I stared at her for too long—
And she noticed.
Then, with a faint smile that was almost invisible, she looked back at me.
That smile was simple, yet somehow it felt like a small light had quietly turned on inside my life.
Long story short, both of us were accepted into the same university.
Of course, I was happy. Not only because I finally got into college, but also because a small possibility suddenly felt very close: seeing her every single day.
But what happened afterward was even more unexpected.
One afternoon, she came to my house with her grandmother.
“My grandson,” her grandmother said kindly, “my granddaughter goes to the same campus as you.”
“Yes, Grandma,” I answered, trying to sound normal even though my heart was beating much faster than usual.
Then her grandmother smiled.
“Would it be okay if she goes to and from campus with you?”
At that moment, it felt like I had just heard the happiest news in my entire life.
“Y-yes… of course,” I replied awkwardly.
Since that day, we started going to campus together.
On the first day I picked her up, I barely had the courage to start a conversation. The ride on my motorcycle felt quiet, accompanied only by the sound of the engine and the wind.
And that was the first time in my life I had ever given a girl a ride.
Days passed.
Slowly, the awkwardness disappeared and was replaced by small conversations that grew warmer day by day.
We started sharing stories.
About our families, which turned out to carry almost the same wounds — parents who had chosen different paths in life.
About the things we liked.
I told her about the Japanese manga I often read. She told me about Korean manhwa that kept her staring at her phone for hours.
Even when it came to something as simple as food, we found similarities.
“Chicken noodles are the best food in the world,” she said one day.
I laughed. “Finally, someone who agrees with me.”
Those days felt light and warm.
As if my once ordinary life had suddenly gained different colors.
But among all those memories, there is one small moment that stays with me the longest.
Every time we rode home from campus and crossed the flyover, there was a bakery beside the road.
Every afternoon, whenever we passed by, the smell of freshly baked bread would greet us.
“It smells so good,” I once said.
“Yeah,” she answered with a smile. “It really does.”
We always looked forward to those few little seconds — passing through the warm scent of bread floating in the air.
But not long after that, the smell of pellets from the nearby factory would arrive.
Sharp and slightly unpleasant.
“First the nice smell of bread, then suddenly replaced by pellet smell,” I joked one day.
She burst into laughter.
And somehow, after moments like that, we always laughed more freely.
One time, through my motorcycle mirror, I saw her laughing behind me. Her hair danced in the wind while the afternoon sunlight brightened her face.
At that moment, I thought about how beautiful someone looks when they laugh without burdens.
And perhaps, without realizing it, that was when I truly fell in love.
But happiness rarely comes to stay for long.
One day, during our ride home, she spoke with excitement all over her face.
“You know what?”
“What?” I asked.
“I like someone… and he likes me too.”
Those words felt like lightning striking directly inside my chest.
“Oh… really?” I replied quietly.
Since that day, our rides home felt different.
The same roads. The same motorcycle. Even the same smell of bread.
Yet everything suddenly felt much quieter.
Until one day, I said something I should never have said.
“I like you.”
She fell silent.
And after that, something between us slowly changed.
She began distancing herself.
A few days later, she no longer rode with me to campus.
The motorcycle that used to carry the two of us now carried only one person again.
The days afterward were filled with regret.
Until one day, I finally gathered the courage to visit her house.
But I only met her grandmother.
“My grandson,” her grandmother said softly, “why doesn’t my granddaughter ride with you anymore?”
I lowered my head.
“Our schedules are different now, Grandma,” I answered at last.
Her grandmother looked worried.
“She takes public transportation now. Even though it was her first time traveling that far alone.”
My chest tightened with something difficult to explain.
“I often ask her why she doesn’t ride with you anymore,” her grandmother continued quietly.
“But she never wants to talk about it.”
I could only remain silent.
Since that day, we truly became strangers.
Yet sometimes, whenever I pass that flyover, the warm smell of bread still greets me.
Sometimes I think life is just like that flyover — we only pass through briefly, smell something beautiful for a moment, and leave it behind before we ever truly get to keep it.
And just like the scent of bread that only lingers for a few seconds in the air, some people also stay in our lives only briefly — yet their fragrance remains far longer than their presence ever did.
