The street was still buzzing with life. The aroma of roasted beans from the café nearby mixed with the sharp chill of the Seoul evening. Krita stood frozen, staring at her ruined red dress.
Her first words weren’t exactly polite.
“Yah! Can’t you see where you’re going?”
The boy blinked, startled. His messy brown hair fell into his eyes as he tried to wipe the spilled coffee from his hoodie. “I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to? My dress looks like an art project gone wrong!” she snapped, her heels clicking as she shifted her weight.
He looked genuinely embarrassed, almost childlike. “I can pay for the cleaning,” he offered, fumbling for his wallet.
Krita sighed. Something about his tone—soft and uncertain—made her anger melt just a little. She noticed the small scar near his eyebrow and how his eyes, though apologetic, held a strange depth… like he had a thousand untold stories.
She rolled her eyes. “Keep your money. Just… watch where you’re walking next time.”
He gave a small, shy smile. “I’ll try. But Seoul streets are dangerous… especially when beautiful girls appear out of nowhere.”
Krita’s heart skipped a beat before she caught herself. Smooth talker, she thought, hiding a small smile. “That line might work on others. Not me.”
“Maybe I’ll earn another chance to try,” he replied, half teasing.
Before Krita could respond, a gust of wind blew the pages of a diary lying near the café bench. The boy noticed it and quickly picked it up. “Hey, is this yours?”
She frowned. “No. I don’t carry old diaries around.”
The cover was worn, the leather faded. On the first page, written in neat handwriting, were the words:
‘To whoever finds this, please finish what I couldn’t.’
Both of them stared at it, curious.
“Creepy,” Krita muttered. “Probably some drama script someone dropped.”
But the boy’s expression changed—serious, almost haunted. “No… I’ve seen handwriting like this before.”
She tilted her head. “Wait, you know this person?”
He didn’t answer. His fingers traced the words on the page gently, like touching a memory that hurt.
“I think,” he said quietly, “this diary belonged to someone I lost.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The laughter of strangers faded, replaced by the sound of soft rain beginning to fall.
Krita opened her umbrella, hesitated, and then extended it toward him. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere dry… and maybe figure out whose story this is.”
He looked up, surprised but grateful. “I’m Aarav,” he said softly.
She smiled faintly. “Krita.”
And just like that, beneath a shared umbrella in the rainy streets of Seoul, a story that began with spilled coffee slowly turned into something deeper—something neither of them saw coming.
As they walked side by side, the diary resting between them like a fragile secret, Krita glanced at him from the corner of her eye. For the first time, she felt something shift — as if destiny had brushed past them, whispering, this is only the beginning. 🌧️💞
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