The night was unusually quiet.
MK sat on the rooftop of his house, knees pulled close to his chest, his phone glowing softly in his hands.
> Mi-un: Are you awake?
MK: Yeah… couldn't sleep.
Mi-un: Me too. Wanna call?
MK hesitated. His chest ached—not just from his illness, but from the weight of what he hadn't told her.
But he pressed the call button anyway.
The sound of Mi-un's voice under the night sky felt different—closer, softer.
"Hey," she said, her hair slightly messy, like she had just woken up.
"You look tired," she added, tilting her head.
MK smiled faintly.
"Just… thinking about stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
He hesitated for a moment, then looked up at the stars.
"Do you ever think about… what would happen if one day we couldn't talk anymore?"
Mi-un frowned, a little worried.
"That's a weird thing to say. Of course we'll keep talking. Why wouldn't we?"
MK swallowed hard, forcing a laugh.
"Yeah… you're right. Just… random thoughts."
For a while, they both just stayed quiet, listening to the faint sound of wind and crickets.
Then Mi-un smiled.
"Look at the sky. Do you see Orion? It's clear tonight."
MK turned his camera toward the stars.
"Yeah. Same sky, right?"
"Same sky," she repeated softly.
For a moment, MK felt as if the distance between Nepal and Cambodia disappeared.
Her voice, the stars, the silence — everything felt connected.
After the call ended, MK didn't go downstairs.
He opened his notebook and began writing again, his handwriting a little shaky.
> "Dear Mi-un,
If one day my voice can't reach you anymore,
I want you to remember this sky.
I want you to know that I was looking at the same stars,
wishing I could stay here a little longer.
For you."
Inside the house, his older brother quietly watched him from the window, worry in his eyes.
He didn't interrupt — just let MK sit there under the stars.