Chapter 1
Seo Harin did not like reunions.
Not because she hated her old friends, not because her high school years had been bad.
Quite the opposite.
Her high school years held too many versions of the person she used to be; the one who was brighter, more certain, more stubborn, more convinced that if she studied hard enough, chose the right major, got into the right university, and did not waste time on unimportant things, her life would turn out well.
It turned out not to be that simple.
At twenty-seven, Harin had learned one thing school had never taught her: not everyone who succeeds looks happy, and not everything she once called “a distraction from the future” was truly a distraction. Sometimes those things were exactly the future she most wanted to repeat.
That night, rain fell softly over Seoul. Not heavy rain, only a fine drizzle that left the streets wet and made the city lights stretch long across the asphalt. Harin stood in front of the restaurant where her high school class reunion was being held, staring at the sign that was too bright. From outside, she could hear laughter, the clink of glasses, the voices of people who had not met in years pretending not to feel awkward for five minutes before eventually returning to questions about jobs, marriage, homes, and other adult things.
Harin took a breath, then opened the door.
“HARIN-AH!” Choi Yena’s voice rang out before Harin even had time to take off her coat.
Of course. Ten years had passed, and Yena was still Yena. Only her hair was shorter, her makeup neater, and her voice a little more grown-up. A little, not much.
Yena hurried over and hugged her with enough force to nearly knock the breath out of Harin.
“Oh my gosh, you really came!”
Harin patted her back gently. “I said I would come.”
“You also said you would come to my birthday last year then disappeared because of a deadline.”
Harin fell silent.
Yena pulled back and narrowed her eyes at her. “Don’t make that guilty face. I’ve forgiven you, but I still remember.”
“That’s not forgiveness.”
“It’s the realistic version of forgiveness.”
Harin smiled faintly. Strange. She had only been inside for five minutes, yet some part of her felt as if she had returned to a place she had avoided for a long time.
At the long table, several familiar faces were already seated.
Miyawaki Sakura, still wearing the same calm expression, now worked at a Japanese-Korean game company and looked like someone who had never panicked once in her life.
Jang Wonyoung, once the most famous junior at school, was now a model and young creative director whose face appeared in advertisements far too often.
Ahn Yujin, Harin’s former academic rival, was now a resident doctor who looked exhausted but still radiant.
Jo Yuri, the music kid who used to sing in the practice room, was now a vocal coach.
Bae Jinyoung sat on the other side of the table, quieter than before, wearing a black shirt and a flat expression that still made it hard for people to guess what he was thinking.
Hwang Minhyun, the legendary student council senior, stopped by briefly before having to return to a work event.
Everything had changed, yet strangely, when they laughed together, Harin could still see the seventeen-year-old children behind their adult faces.
“Harin-ah,” Sakura said, pouring water for her. “You look tired.”
Yena immediately turned. “She always looks tired, even in high school.”
Yujin nodded. “True. She studied like she was fighting the entire country.”
Harin set her bag on the chair. “Did I sit here just to be attacked?”
Yuri laughed. “We call it nostalgia.”
Wonyoung smiled sweetly. “Eonni, you’re still pretty even while being attacked.”
“Thank you. That’s slightly comforting.”
They talked about work, who had moved, the math teacher who had apparently retired and opened a bakery, the school cafeteria that had been renovated, and the old field that had been turned into a new building. The conversation flowed, sometimes awkward, sometimes funny, sometimes touching too quickly on things that made Harin feel left behind.
“Are you still at that design firm?” Yena asked.
Harin nodded. “Still there.”
“How’s work?”
Harin smiled automatically. “Good.”
It was an adult answer: short, safe, dishonest.
Because the real answer was exhausting, boring, I don’t know why I’m still there, I used to want a different life, I don’t remember when I stopped wanting it.
Sakura looked at her a few seconds longer, as if she knew but chose not to ask. That was Sakura, always knowing when to stay quiet.
After an hour, Harin began to relax a little. Yena was telling an embarrassing story from the second-year school festival when Jinyoung suddenly looked toward the door and his expression shifted slightly. Yena stopped talking, Yujin turned too, and the voices around the table slowly faded.
Harin did not need to turn around to know who had arrived; her body knew first. Strange. Annoying. After ten years, her body still remembered someone before her mind had time to prepare.
“Sorry I’m late.”
That voice.
Lower than she remembered, more mature, but still the same. Park Jihoon.
Harin turned. And for a few seconds, the world became terribly unfair, because Jihoon looked fine. He was taller than in her high school memories, neat black hair, dark coat. The face that once made half the school pretend to pass by the basketball court just to watch him practice. But that was not what made it hard for Harin to breathe, not his face, not the way he smiled politely at everyone. It was the fact that when their eyes met, Jihoon looked like someone who remembered too much, too.
“Harin-ah,” he said softly. Not formal, not too familiar, just her name. And Harin immediately felt seventeen again in the most dangerous way.
“Hi,” Harin answered.
Terrible. After ten years without seeing each other, all she could say was “hi.”
Yena looked back and forth between them with eyes that were far too active. Jinyoung lowered his head, hiding a small smile. Sakura pretended to drink water. Every adult at that table suddenly became a teenager again, eager to observe someone else’s love.
Jihoon sat in the empty chair that was, of course, across from Harin. Apparently the universe had a terrible sense of humor.
At first, the conversation was normal, even too normal. Jihoon now worked in documentary film production. He traveled often, was still close friends with Jinyoung, and was not married. Yena nearly choked when that last piece of information came from Yuri’s too-casual mouth. Harin pretended not to hear it.
Failed.
“And you?” Jihoon asked.
Harin raised her head. “What?”
“How are you?” It was an ordinary question, but the way Jihoon asked it was not ordinary. Other people asked while waiting for a short answer. Jihoon asked as if he truly wanted to know. That had been one of the things Harin hated most back then, because it was hard to lie to someone who was really listening.
“I’m fine,” she answered.
Jihoon looked at her, not for long, only long enough for Harin to know he did not believe her, then he nodded. “That’s good.”
No pressure, no forcing.
The night went on, and people began changing seats. Minhyun left first because he had an early schedule, Wonyoung had to take a work call, and Yujin was sleepy from her hospital shift. One by one they moved, and the table grew looser. The rain outside grew heavier, and somehow Harin ended up standing near the restaurant window with Jihoon, holding a glass of water she did not drink.
“It’s been a long time,” Jihoon said.
Harin smiled faintly. “Ten years.”
“Feels longer.”
“Feels shorter too.”
Jihoon turned to her. “You still like saying contradictory things.”
Harin laughed softly. “You still like commenting on them.”
“Hard habit to break.”
Silence.
It was not entirely awkward, and that was exactly the problem. It should have been awkward; they had not spoken in far too long. Back then, they were close, and then they were not. There had been no big fight, no dramatic scene, no farewell. Harin simply became busier with studying, and Jihoon waited more often. Harin said “later” more often, and Jihoon asked more often. Until one day, no one waited anymore.
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” Jihoon said suddenly.
Harin tensed. “About what?”
“If we had spoken honestly just once back then, maybe everything would have been different.”
Harin looked at the rain on the glass, her chest tightening. “Not everything can be fixed by talking.”
“True.” Jihoon looked at their reflections in the window. “But some things break because we don’t talk.”
The sentence was too accurate, too late. Harin wanted to say sorry, but sorry for what?
For not replying to his last message?
For choosing entrance-exam prep over coming to his final match?
For pretending not to know how he felt?
For being afraid of something that had not even had the chance to begin?
Too many apologies made one word feel insufficient.
In the end, she only said, “I still remember that day.”
Jihoon did not ask which day. Maybe he knew too. The spring match in their third year. Jihoon was injured in the middle of the game, and Harin did not come. Not because she did not want to, but because that day she chose extra class. Because she thought the future was more important than one match. In the future, she barely remembered the material from that extra class, but she remembered Jihoon’s message that night.
📱Park Jihoon: You’re busy, right? It’s okay.
It’s okay.
The biggest lie anyone had ever sent her.
Jihoon said softly, “I remember too.”
Harin closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
The words finally came out. Small. Ten years too late.
Jihoon looked at her for a long moment then smiled faintly. “I’m sorry too.”
Harin turned to him. “You didn’t do anything.”
“I gave up too quickly.”
“No, you waited too long.”
They looked at each other. Between them stood two versions of themselves: seventeen and twenty-seven. One too afraid of losing the future, the other too afraid of becoming a burden. Two children who did not know how to ask to keep being chosen.
The reunion ended close to eleven. People said goodbye with half-empty adult promises.
“We should meet more often.”
“I’ll message you later.”
“Don’t disappear again.”
They all knew life would test those sentences tomorrow morning.
Harin left last with Yena and Sakura. Yena was still hugging her.
“You have to reply to the group chat, okay? Don’t become an office ghost again.”
“I’m not an office ghost.”
“You reply to messages after three days. That is ghost behavior.”
Sakura smiled faintly. “Yena is right.”
“Thank you, Sakura. Your validation gives me strength.”
Harin nodded. “I’ll try.”
Yena narrowed her eyes. “Not try. Do it.”
Sakura and Yena took a taxi together. Harin refused to join them because her home was in a different direction. In truth, she just needed to walk for a while. The rain had turned back into a drizzle, and the air was growing colder. She walked along the sidewalk with a small black umbrella.
The reunion was supposed to be nothing more than nostalgia, but now her chest felt like an old cabinet that had been forced open. Too many dusty things spilled out, too many names, too many regrets. And one face: Park Jihoon.
“Harin-ah.”
She stopped and turned. Jihoon stood a few meters behind her, holding a navy umbrella. Funny. Back then he had always shown up with an umbrella too.
“Are you heading toward the station?” he asked.
Harin nodded.
“Me too.”
That might have been a lie, or it might not. Harin was too tired to guess.
They walked side by side, each carrying their own umbrella. The distance between them was polite, too polite for two people who had once been something.
At the intersection, the pedestrian light was still red. Cars passed one by one. Harin stared at the light. Red. Waiting. As if her life had always been waiting for the light to change, thinking: later. Later after exams, later after university, later after stable work, later after everything was safe. But some people did not wait forever.
“Jihoon-ah,” she said.
“Hmm?”
“If you could go back to seventeen...”
Jihoon turned to her.
Harin kept staring at the red light. “What would you change?”
Jihoon did not answer immediately. Then he said, “I would be more honest.”
Harin smiled sadly. “That’s all?”
“No.”
“What else?”
Jihoon looked at her. “I would ask you to come that day.”
The light turned green, but Harin did not move, and neither did Jihoon. Rain fell softly between them. And for one strange second, Harin felt as if the world was giving her a chance to answer something that had never been asked back then. But the sound of a horn from far away startled her.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. She stepped forward too fast, her umbrella tilting, her bag opening slightly, and her small wallet falling onto the road.
“Harin—”
Jihoon moved to pick it up.
Harin turned back too.
The green light blinked.
A motorcycle sped too quickly around the corner, its tires slipping on the wet road.
The sound of brakes.
Jihoon’s scream.
“HARIN-AH!”
The world spun.
The umbrella slipped from her hand.
Rain touched her face.
Cold asphalt.
People’s voices.
Then darkness.
________________________________________________________________________________
Harin opened her eyes. The first sound she heard was not rain, not a siren, not Jihoon, but the school bell. Loud and far too familiar. She blinked: a white ceiling, classroom lights, the sound of chairs being dragged, teenage laughter, the smell of markers and books.
Someone shook her shoulder.
“Seo Harin! Were you sleeping?”
Harin turned her head.
Choi Yena. But not twenty-seven-year-old Yena. Seventeen-year-old Yena. Her long hair tied carelessly, her cheeks still a little round, her eyes bright, and she was wearing a high school uniform.
Harin could not breathe. “Yena...?”
Yena narrowed her eyes. “Why does your voice sound like that? Did you have a nightmare?”
Harin slowly lowered her gaze. Her hands were smaller and softer, with no traces of long working hours. On her desk was a high school math textbook. On the blackboard was written: Semester 2 – Class 2-3. The date in the corner of the board: March 14, 2014. Harin stood so quickly that her chair fell backward, making the entire class turn to look.
Yena was startled. “Hey! What’s wrong with you?”
Harin looked around. Sakura sat near the window, Ahn Yujin in the front row, Jo Yuri in the back holding earphones, Bae Jinyoung leaning against a chair near the door, and on the right side of the classroom...
Seventeen-year-old Park Jihoon turned to look at her. He wore the school uniform, his hair slightly messy, his face young, his eyes the same. Jihoon frowned.
“Harin-ah?”
Harin stared at him. Her heart seemed to stop, because she knew this day, she remembered this date. March 14. The first day of the second semester, the day she began distancing herself from everyone because she wanted to focus on the future. The day she made the first small decision that would later pile up into one great regret.
Harin covered her mouth with her hand. Impossible.
Yena stood, panicked. “Are you sick? Do you want to go to the nurse’s office?”
Harin did not answer, her eyes still fixed on Jihoon. Jihoon had half-risen from his chair, as if he wanted to come closer but hesitated. Back then, Harin had not noticed small movements like that. Now she noticed them. Too clearly, too painfully.
Harin whispered, “I came back.”
Yena stepped closer. “What?”
Harin looked at the calendar on the board, then at her seventeen-year-old hands, then at Jihoon. Park Jihoon, who was still here, not yet distant, not yet hurt by her silence, not yet the greatest regret of her life. Tears rose so quickly that she had no time to hold them back. The classroom began to blur.
“Seo Harin, are you crying?!” Yena panicked completely.
Jihoon finally stood and walked toward Harin. When he stopped in front of her desk, his face was worried. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Harin wanted to laugh, wanted to cry, wanted to apologize for ten years that had not happened yet, wanted to hold his hand and make sure he was really there. But she could not say all of that, so she only looked at him and said softly, “Jihoon-ah.”
Jihoon blinked, because Harin rarely called him that back then, with a voice like someone who had missed him for a very long time.
“Yeah?”
Harin drew a trembling breath, then realized one thing that made her whole body go cold. She had been given a second chance, but she did not know the rules. She did not know why she had come back or whether she could change anything. She did not know whether one new mistake could destroy the future even worse than before. And the most frightening thing was that she did not know whether one day she would have to return to twenty-seven and leave this seventeen-year-old Park Jihoon behind once again.
Outside the window, spring flowers had bloomed, and Seo Harin, a twenty-seven-year-old woman trapped in a seventeen-year-old body, stood in the middle of her old classroom with one thought striking her harder than last night’s accident.
This time...
she could not lose them again.
