CHAPTER V

The Park was quieter today. A soft breeze whispered through the trees, carrying with it the faint scent of early autumn. Sana sat on the same bench where she had last seen him, her sketchbook resting on her lap.

She wasn't drawing, though. Instead, her pencil hovered idly above the page, the lines of a half-finished tree blending into nothingness.

It had been over a week since their paths had crossed. She'd come back twice now, hoping to see him again. She told herself it wasn't intentional – just a coincidence, that this was where she liked to sketch. But each time, she found herself scanning for that familiar smile.

He wasn't here.

Sana closed her sketchbook with a soft thud, gripping it tightly in her hands. The ache in her chest was persistent, like a bruise she couldn't stop pressing.

It was ridiculous, really. They hadn't even exchanged numbers, hadn't promised to meet again. "Maybe" he had said, when she had asked him if they would see each other again. For all she knew, for him, she was just another fleeting moment in a life full of them.

Still, it hurts.

She stood, brushing off her jeans, and slung her bag over her shoulder. The sunlight glinted over the metal clasp, and for a moment, she hesitated.

One last glance around the park, one last hope.

But the bench under the tree they had talked was empty, and the path leading to it was lined with strangers.

Her steps felt heavier as she walked away.

…

The library was quiet, as it always was in the late afternoon. Rows of bookshelves stretched into the distance, their spines creating a patchwork of colours and titles. Sana sat at the front desk, organizing a stack of returned books. The familiar scent of old paper and polished wood was comforting, a steady background to her thoughts.

"Sana, dear."

She looked up to see Mrs. Oh, the head librarian, peering at her over the rim of her glasses. She was a stern but fair woman in her late 50's with a no-nonsense demeanour that commanded respect from students at the library. Her sharp gaze, framed by rectangular glasses, gives the impression that she misses nothing. With her neatly pinned silver hair and her impeccable, modest attire, she exudes the aura of a wise matron who runs her domain with quiet authority.

"Yes?" Sana asked, forcing a small smile.

Mrs. Oh tilted her head, studying her. "You've been quiet today."

"I'm always quiet," Sana said lightly, though the words felt heavy in her mouth.

"True," Mrs. Oh said, her lips quirking into a faint smile. "But this is a different kind of quiet. Something on your mind?"

Sana hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the book in her hands. She could feel Mrs. Oh gaze on her, steady and unyielding. It reminded her of someone else, someone she didn't want to talk about.

"I'm fine," she said finally, her voice soft but firm.

Mrs. Oh sighed but didn't press further, her expression though, said she didn't believe it. "Alright, dear. But you know where to find me if you need to talk."

Sana nodded, grateful for the older woman's understanding.

As Mrs. Oh walked away, Sana let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding. She focused on the stack of books in front of her, letting the simple task ground her. It was easier this way – to keep moving, to stay busy.

…

Later, as she walked back to her apartment, Sana's thoughts drifted again. She thought about her classes, the canvas waiting for her at home, her part-time job at the library that helps clearing her mind, and her occasional web design gigs that pays most of her bills. Yes, she was a busy, productive young adult.

But beneath it all, there was him.

She hated how he lingered in her mind, how the memory of his voice and the weight of his gaze stayed with her. It wasn't like her to dwell on people, to let anyone close enough to matter. But Ji-Hoon – there was something different about him.

Maybe it was the sadness in his eyes, the way it mirrored her own. Or maybe it was the way he'd made her feel seen, even if only for a moment.

It didn't matter now.

They were strangers again, and that was that.

Sana unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside, the familiar silence wrapping around her like a cocoon. The two bedrooms were her sanctuaries, each serving a different purpose. One was her personal retreat, the other was her studio – a world of its own. The living room was compact, its layout simple yet efficient. The kitchenette tucked into one side, was separated by a narrow counter where she often perched to eat her quick meals. The balcony, though small, was her favourite spot, where she could watch the city lights flicker against the night sky.

She set her bag down on the couch in her living room and walked to her studio, where her easel stood. The canvas was blank, waiting.

She picked up a brush, dipping it into the paint without thinking. The colours came to life beneath her hand, a swirl of blues and grays blending into something she couldn't quite name. her movements were quick, almost frantic, as if trying to paint away the ache in her chest.

When she finally stepped back, the sky outside had darkened, and the image on the canvas surprised her.

It wasn't a park, or a bench, or anything that reminded her of him. It was just a blur of light and shadow, of shapes and lines that didn't make sense but somehow felt right.

Sana set the brush down and wiped her hands on her jeans. The ache was still there, but it was quieter now, buried beneath layer of paint and effort.

She didn't know if she'd see him again, and she told herself it didn't matter.

She was used to things and people that hurt.

The next day, as she walked across campus to her first class, Sana felt the familiar weight of her sketchbook in her bag. She'd brought it with her, even though she didn't have time to sketch today.

Her classes were fine arts-focused – painting, drawing, even a bit of sculpture. She'd chosen this path because it was the only way she could express herself, the only way she could let the chaos inside her out.

Her professors often praise her work, calling it raw and emotive. They don't even know that every stroke of her brush was a scream she couldn't let out, every line a tear she refused to shed.

As she sat in the lecture hall, her mind wandered again. She thought about the park, about Ji-Hoon, about how stupid it was to miss someone she barely knew.

But even as she tried to push the thoughts away, she knew they will always come back. Because deep down, Sana knew she wasn't just painting to express herself.

She was painting to remember.