Chapter One: The Girl Who Ran Through Time
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Kang Doyeon didn't believe in fate.
He believed in schedules. In punctuality. In the quiet satisfaction of a day that went exactly as planned. As a junior architect at a firm in Gangnam, his life was a series of straight, measured lines—blueprints and deadlines and train timetables that never varied.
He definitely didn't believe in love at first sight.
Until Hongik University Station proved him wrong.
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Day 1 – 8:47 AM
Hongdae was chaos.
Students spilled out of the station like a human wave, backpacks bumping, phones in hands, the smell of freshly baked hotteok mixing with subway exhaust. Doyeon stood near Exit 2, as he did every morning, waiting for his transfer to the green line. His white shirt was crisp. His shoes were polished. His hair was neatly combed.
Perfectly ordinary.
His phone buzzed. A message from his boss: "Meeting moved up. 9:30. Don't be late."
Doyeon typed a quick reply. "I'll be there."
That's when he saw her.
She was running.
Not the casual I'm-a-little-late jog. Full sprint. Her canvas sneakers slapped against the concrete. A light gray cardigan flew behind her like wings. Her hair—dark and slightly wavy—escaped from a messy ponytail. She clutched a laptop bag to her chest with one hand and a half-empty coffee cup with the other.
And she was laughing.
Not at anything specific. Just laughing at herself. At the absurdity of trying to catch a train while simultaneously fighting her cardigan, her coffee, and the laws of physics. At the sheer ridiculousness of existing in a world that demanded punctuality from someone clearly not designed for it.
Doyeon's phone lowered.
She dodged a group of students. Weaved around an ajumma pulling a shopping cart. Jumped over someone's fallen backpack.
Beautiful. Chaotic. Alive.
And then—disaster.
Her foot caught on something. A crack in the floor. Her own feet. Who knows. She stumbled. Coffee flew. The cup sailed through the air in slow motion.
Straight toward him.
Doyeon had exactly one second to react.
He didn't move.
The coffee hit his white shirt. Spread across his chest like a brown flower blooming. Drip. Drip. Drip onto his polished shoes.
The girl stopped. Stared. Her eyes went wide—huge, dark, framed by lashes that seemed unfair.
"Oh no," she breathed. "Oh no no no no—"
Doyeon looked down at his shirt. Then at her. Then back at his shirt.
"I'm so sorry," she said, rushing forward. "I'm so, so sorry. Here—"
She pulled a tissue from her bag. A single tissue. Against an entire coffee. She pressed it against his chest like that would help, then immediately realized how ridiculous that was and jerked her hand back.
"I'm the clumsiest person alive," she continued, words tumbling out. "My mother warns people about me. Actually warns them. She says 'stay three meters away from my daughter at all times.' I thought she was exaggerating but clearly—your shirt—it's ruined—I'm so sorry—"
She was rambling. He should stop her. He should say it's fine or don't worry about it or please stop talking so I can process the fact that you're even prettier up close.
Instead, he said nothing.
Just stared.
Because up close, she was... more.
More everything. More real. More alive. Her eyes—dark brown, almost black—crinkled at the corners when she talked. Her nose had a tiny bump, like it had been broken once. A small scar sat above her left eyebrow. Her lips moved a mile a minute, forming apologies he couldn't hear anymore because he was too busy noticing the way her earrings caught the fluorescent light.
Small crescent moons. Silver. Swinging as she gestured.
"Hello?" She waved a hand in front of his face. "Sir? Are you okay? Did the coffee burn you? Should I call someone? I know CPR. Well, I watched a video once. I probably shouldn't try it. But I could—"
"I'm Doyeon," he said.
She blinked. "What?"
"Doyeon. Kang Doyeon. That's my name."
"Oh." She blinked again. "Okay. I'm Yoon Jiwon. But that doesn't—I mean, your shirt—"
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. It's covered in coffee. My coffee. That I threw at you."
"You didn't throw it. You fell."
"Same result." She winced. "I really am sorry. Let me pay for the dry cleaning. Or buy you a new shirt. There's a store right outside the station, I can—"
The train announcement blared. Her eyes darted to the platform. The doors were open. Closing soon.
She made a noise of pure anguish. "I have to—my job—I'm already late—"
"Go."
"But your shirt—"
"Go." He almost smiled. Almost. "I'll survive."
She hesitated. Looked at the train. Looked at him. Looked at the train again.
Then she did something he wouldn't forget.
She reached into her bag, pulled out a pen, grabbed his hand, and wrote on his palm.
010-5557-9823
"Text me your bank details," she said quickly. "For the shirt. I'll transfer money. I promise I'm not a crazy person. Well, I am, but not the dangerous kind. Just the clumsy kind. Okay bye sorry again!"
She ran.
Through the closing doors. Onto the train. Disappeared into the crowd.
Doyeon stood there, coffee dripping from his shirt, staring at the number on his palm.
A phone number.
She'd given him her phone number.
Well. For dry cleaning money. But still.
He looked at the train doors. At the spot where she'd vanished. At the number again.
And for the first time in years, Kang Doyeon smiled.
Really smiled.
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Day 1 – 11:47 PM
He didn't text her.
He told himself he would. Told himself he'd wait a few hours, be polite, send a simple message. "This is Kang Doyeon. The coffee victim. Here's my bank details."
But then he'd look at the number and think about her eyes. Her rambling. The way she'd grabbed his hand so casually, like she'd known him for years.
And he couldn't do it.
Because sending a message meant the conversation would end. And he wasn't ready for it to end.
So he didn't text.
He just lay in his small studio apartment in Mapo-gu, staring at his palm like the number might disappear if he looked away.
It didn't.
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Day 2 – 8:47 AM
He went to Hongik Station early.
Told himself it was coincidence. He needed to pass through anyway. The coffee incident had nothing to do with it.
He waited near Exit 2.
Eight forty-seven came and went.
Eight fifty-two.
Nine o'clock.
Nothing.
He went to work. Stared at blueprints. Drew nothing useful.
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Day 3 – 8:47 AM
He was there again.
This time, he admitted why.
She didn't appear.
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Day 4
Nothing.
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Day 5
He stopped going.
Told himself it was pathetic. Told himself to forget her. Told himself she probably didn't even remember him—just another clumsy moment in a lifetime of clumsy moments.
He focused on work. On his routines. On the safe, predictable lines of his life.
It worked.
Mostly.
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Day 7 – 8:47 AM
He was at Hongik Station.
He didn't even remember deciding to go. His feet just carried him there. Exit 2. Same spot.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And then—
There.
She was walking. Not running this time. Calm. Collected. Hair in a neat ponytail. Different earrings—tiny stars. She carried her laptop bag properly, walked at a normal pace, looked like a completely different person.
She passed within three feet of him.
Their eyes met.
She looked right through him.
Kept walking.
Didn't recognize him at all.
Doyeon's heart cracked. Just a little.
He should say something. Should call out. Should remind her.
But his voice was gone. His feet were frozen. His courage had evaporated.
She boarded the train. Left.
He went home.
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Day 7 – 11:47 PM
He stared at his ceiling. At the water stain in the corner that looked like a cloud. At the number on his palm—fading now, after seven days of washing.
He should text her. Tonight. Right now.
He reached for his phone.
Stopped.
What if she doesn't reply?
What if she does reply but only to send money?
What if she has a boyfriend?
What if—
His phone buzzed. His mother. Asking if he'd eaten.
He texted her back. Yes. He'd eaten. Ramyeon. Alone. As usual.
Then he fell asleep.
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Day 8 – 8:47 AM
His alarm went off.
He checked his phone.
Thursday, June 13. 8:47 AM.
He sat up. Frowned.
Thursday? But yesterday was Thursday. June 13. The day she'd walked past him. The day he'd done nothing.
Today should be Friday. June 14.
He checked again.
Thursday, June 13. 8:47 AM.
His blood went cold.
He opened his calendar. The meeting he'd had yesterday—Thursday's meeting—was still there. Scheduled for today.
He checked his messages. The conversation with his mother. Gone.
He checked his palm.
The number was there again. Fresh. Dark. Like it had just been written.
Doyeon stumbled to his window. Looked outside. Same street. Same buildings. Same ajumma walking her same dog.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his boss: "Meeting moved up. 9:30. Don't be late."
The same message. Word for word. From seven days ago.
Doyeon's hands shook.
He showered. Dressed. Grabbed his bag. Walked to Hongik Station.
Exit 2.
He waited.
And waited.
And then—
Running footsteps.
A girl in a gray cardigan. Canvas sneakers. Messy ponytail. Half-empty coffee cup.
She stumbled.
Coffee flew.
Hit his shirt.
She stopped. Stared. "Oh no—"
Doyeon looked down at his chest. At the brown stain spreading. At the girl who had no idea she'd done this before.
And he laughed.
Not a small laugh. A full, desperate, slightly unhinged laugh that made her take a step back.
"Are you okay?" she asked carefully. "Did you hit your head? Should I—"
"I'm fine," he said. Still laughing. Couldn't stop. "I'm completely fine."
She eyed him warily. "You don't look fine."
Doyeon looked at her. At her worried eyes. At the small scar above her eyebrow. At the crescent moon earrings swinging as she tilted her head.
"No," he said, softer now. "I'm really not."
She frowned. "Because of the coffee? I'm really sorry, I—"
"It's not the coffee."
"Then what—"
He opened his mouth to explain. To tell her about the loop. About the week. About the number on his palm.
But the train announcement blared. Her eyes darted to the platform.
"I have to—" She bit her lip. Pulled out her pen. Grabbed his hand.
010-5557-9823
"Text me," she said. "For the shirt. I mean it."
She ran.
Doyeon watched her go. Looked at the fresh number on his palm.
And for the first time in his perfectly scheduled life, Kang Doyeon had no idea what came next.
But he knew one thing for certain.
He was going to see her again.
Even if it killed him.
Even if it took a hundred tries.
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