Chapter 11: Lost and Found

Six months. One hundred and eighty-two days. Four thousand, three hundred and sixty-eight hours. It felt like a lifetime. A lifetime without Shawn.

His absence had become a dull ache in my chest, a constant shadow lurking at the edge of my vision. I'd thrown myself into acting, auditioning for every play, every drama, every cheesy commercial that came my way. My parents were supportive, even when I landed the role of a singing tomato in a ketchup commercial (let's just say that red was not my color).

But even under the bright stage lights, even when the applause filled the auditorium, a part of me felt hollow, incomplete.

My phone, once filled with our silly texts and late-night confessions, lay abandoned on my nightstand, its silence a constant reminder of his absence. I'd even considered hiring a private investigator, a desperate measure fueled by too many late-night internet searches.

"There's no way someone just vanishes, Eomma," I'd argued one night, my voice tight with unshed tears. "Not without a trace."

My mother, her gaze full of empathy, had simply pulled me into a hug. "I know, Ryung-ah. But you can't let this consume you. He'd want you to keep going, to chase your dreams."

She was right, of course. But knowing and doing were two different beasts entirely.

Then, on an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon, my world shifted on its axis. I was at the bank, a mundane errand for my mother, standing in line and scrolling through my Instagram feed (a guy's gotta stay relevant, even if his last post was a picture of his lunch).

That's when I saw him.

Standing tall and imposing near the entrance, clad in a crisp security guard uniform, was Shawn.

My breath hitched, a strangled gasp escaping my lips. It was him. The same unruly dark hair, now neatly trimmed beneath a guard's cap. Those familiar gray eyes, sharper now, alert and watchful, scanning the room with an intensity.

He was clean-shaven, but a faint shadow of stubble hinted at the passage of time. His jawline seemed more defined, his shoulders broader, his entire presence radiating a quiet confidence that made my heart skip a beat.

And strapped to his hip, gleaming under the fluorescent lights, was a gun.

A wave of dizziness washed over me, the bank floor tilting beneath my feet. For six long months, I'd imagined every possible scenario—accidents, illnesses, even the most outlandish spy thriller plot twists—but nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for this.

He looked…different. Older, yes, but also…hardened. The playful, mischievous glint that usually danced in his eyes had been replaced by something steelier, a vigilance that spoke of a different world, a world I didn't recognize.

Our eyes met across the crowded bank, and for a split second, the air crackled with an electric shock of recognition. His expression, carefully neutral a moment ago, shattered, surprise widening his eyes, his lips parting in a silent gasp.

It was him. And for the first time in six agonizing months, I knew, with a certainty that went bone-deep, that Shawn was real.

He was here.

And I needed answers.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence that had swallowed the bank. Shawn, my Shawn, but…different. Older, yes, but something more. A stillness in his gaze, a seriousness that hadn't been there before. The sight of him, clad in that security uniform, a gun strapped to his hip, sent a jolt through me, a cocktail of adrenaline and a strange, unsettling thrill.

He moved with a purpose now, his steps measured, controlled. Gone was the carefree gait I was used to, replaced by a vigilance that screamed responsibility. He stopped a few steps away, his voice barely a murmur as it brushed past my ear.

"I'll contact you later." His gaze held mine for a fleeting moment, a silent plea in those familiar gray depths. Then, just as quickly, he was gone, melting back into the bank's bustling atmosphere as if he were nothing more than a figment of my imagination.

Except, this time, I knew better. Shawn was real, and he was back in my life, even if it was under the most unexpected, most bewildering circumstances.

Every tick of the clock after that felt like an eternity. I fumbled through the rest of my errands, my mind a chaotic jumble of questions and anxieties. Why was he working as a security guard? Where had he been for the past six months? And why, after all this time, had he reappeared in my life as suddenly as he'd vanished?

The moment the clock struck three, I was glued to my phone, my thumb hovering over his name, a thousand questions burning on my tongue. True to his word, his message arrived precisely at 3:03 PM, a simple "Meet me at our spot. 30 minutes."

Our spot. The little café near the Han River, where we'd shared countless cups of iced Americano under the watchful gaze of the N Seoul Tower. Back then, it had felt like our sanctuary, a secret world where only we existed. Now, as I hurried towards our meeting point, my heart a tangled mess of hope and apprehension, it felt like stepping onto a stage where the script was still being written.

He was already there, nursing a cup of coffee, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the café's window. Even in the dim lighting, I could see the tension etched around his eyes, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched as if he were chewing on words he couldn't quite spit out.

"Shawn," I breathed his name, the word heavy with six months' worth of unspoken emotions.

He looked up, and for a moment, a flicker of the old Shawn, the one who knew how to disarm me with a single crooked smile, flashed across his face. "Hey, Ryung."

He'd chosen his words carefully, I realized, his usual warmth tempered with a new kind of reserve.

The words tumbled out of Shawn, a torrent of explanations and apologies that left me breathless. It was like a dam had burst, unleashing a flood of emotions I hadn't even realized I'd been holding back.

"The last few months at SGA…I couldn't stop thinking about it," he confessed, his gaze fixed on his coffee cup, as if it held all the answers to life's impossible questions. "Leaving… felt like leaving a part of myself behind."

My heart, which had been doing an erratic tap dance since I'd spotted him at the bank, did a slow, painful somersault in my chest. He'd stayed. In a foreign country, thousands of miles away from everything he knew, all because…me?

He explained it all in a rush, his words spilling out in a torrent of guilt and fierce determination. He hadn't wanted to burden me with his uncertainty, his struggle to find his footing in a world that suddenly felt upside down.

"I didn't want to drag you into it, Ryung," he said, his gaze meeting mine, pleading for understanding. "I needed to figure things out on my own, to be independent, you know? To be someone…worthy of you."

He'd used his savings, the money he'd carefully tucked away for university, to rent a small, cramped apartment near his work—a far cry from the modest apartment his family had called home. He'd taken a job as a security guard, the gun on his hip a stark reminder of the responsibilities he now shouldered.

"I know it's not much," he said, a self-deprecating smile flickering across his lips. "But it's a start. I'm an adult now. I have to make my own way."

His words were a punch to the gut, but not in a painful way. They were a jolt of reality, a reminder that the fairytale bubble we'd built around ourselves was bound to burst eventually. We were stepping into adulthood, a world where dreams often collided with the harsh realities of bills, responsibilities, and sacrifices.

And he'd chosen to face it all, here in Seoul, with me.

A wave of warmth, fierce and protective, surged through me. He might have been working a job that screamed ordinary, living in a smaller apartment, but in my eyes, Shawn had never seemed more…extraordinary.

"You didn't have to do any of that," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. The words felt inadequate, but they were all I had.

He reached across the table, his hand hovering over mine for a heartbeat before settling beside it, our fingers brushing. The warmth of his touch sent a familiar current through me, a reassurance that some things, despite the distance and the changes, remained constant.

"I know," he said, his voice softening. "But I wanted to. Because…well, you know why."

He didn't need to say the words. I saw them in his eyes, felt them in the lingering warmth of his touch, in the way his gaze held mine with a depth of feeling that transcended language.

He was here. He was real. And somewhere amidst the uncertainty of our future, a new kind of hope began to bloom, fragile yet tenacious, like a wildflower pushing through concrete. We had a lot to figure out, a lot of obstacles to overcome. But for the first time in what felt like forever, I dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, we could make it work.

Together.