The train dissolved.
I opened my eyes to... a subway again. But not the one I’d just left. This was older. Stained tiles. Cheaper ads plastered on the walls.
And there he was. . Younger .
Slouched in the priority seat, one leg bouncing lazily. Face swollen, knuckles bloody, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. I wanted to punch him. Or maybe hug him. Hard to tell.
And then—her.
A girl stood before him. Fierce, sharp-tongued, fire in her eyes. She wasn’t pretty in a delicate way—she was striking. Demanding the room notice her.
Her brows knitted, lips curled in irritation.
"Get up," she snapped, pointing to the frail old man standing nearby. "Can’t you see he needs the seat?"
My younger self tilted his head back, smirking through swollen lips. He rolled his tongue against his teeth, a punk move, itching for a fight.
"Tch. Who the hell are you to order around?" he muttered, voice rough.
The girl’s eyes blazed hotter.
"Soone with more manners than you."
A hush fell over the train. Passengers watched but stayed silent. The old man shifted uncomfortably.
Younger clicked his tongue. "Lady, I got here first. You don’t like it? Let him sit on the floor."
Her fists clenched. She looked ready to punch —him—across the face.
"I said get up. He’s an elder. If you’ve got even a shred of decency left, you’ll move."
The present , floating above like a useless ghost, felt his chest tighten. Because I knew that fire. That righteous stubbornness.
Han Ji-a.
"Are you blind or just stupid?" she snapped. Chin up, her eyes burned with a kind of fire I hadn’t seen before.
She clutched the strap of her schoolbag like a weapon, ready to swing it at my thick skull if she had to. "That old man needs the seat more than you. Move."
"Tch. Who are you, my mother? Mind your own damn business."
From above, I groaned, pressing my phantom palms to my face. "God, I was unbearable. Soone should’ve shoved out of that train window."
Ji-a wasn’t the type to back off. "I said—"
"Fine. Whatever. Old man, sit down before this loudmouth bursts my eardrums."
The elderly passenger shuffled down gratefully, thanking with a bow. Ji-a’s expression softened for him, then hardened again when her eyes slid back to . She smiled, triumphant.
And of course, because sixteen-year-old was a genius, I had to ruin it.
I jabbed a finger in her direction.
"Listen, girl. Don’t ss with again. Got it?"
Spectral wanted to slam my head against the ghostly subway pole. "Holy hell... Did I seriously—? Ugh. No wonder she wanted to strangle back then."
By the ti we reached school, the sun had risen high enough to bleach the gates in gold. My younger self walked with that half-limp swagger I thought looked cool back then, ignoring the stares.
Classroom chatter rose as we entered. Everyone buzzing about the rumored transfer student.
The horoom teacher cleared his throat. "Everyone, quiet down. We have a transfer student joining us today."
The door slid open, and there she was again—Han Ji-a, standing tall in front of thirty curious faces.
Her voice was steady, practiced. "My na is Han Ji-a. Nice to et you all."
The boys whispered to each other imdiately: "She’s cute."
The girls murmured: "Her uniform’s neat, she must be a nerd."
Every pair of eyes followed her, except mine. My younger self already slouched in his chair, pretending to nap.
The teacher scanned the room. "The only available seat is beside Shin Ye-Jun. Please sit there."
The air shifted. A ripple of murmurs. So chuckled, others hissed under their breaths. Everyone knew my reputation. And everyone knew she’d just walked into the worst possible seating arrangent.
"Lucky ," Ji-a muttered, sliding into the chair.
I groaned theatrically, propped my elbow on the desk, and shut my eyes. If the world wanted to burn, I wasn’t watching.
The teacher didn’t even scold . They’d given up on long ago.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Ji-a staring. Sharp. Disgust plain as day.
And up above, as a ghost, I felt that stare pierce straight into both tilines. "Yeah... I know. Disappointing then. Disappointing now. You were right."
Classes blurred past, my old self drifting through them half-asleep, half-resentful. Ji-a raised her hand often, her answers crisp, her handwriting neat. Every teacher praised her within minutes. She was what I wasn’t—bright, sharp, disciplined.
At one point she leaned toward , whispering, "You’ve been asleep for two hours. How do you even—"
I cracked an eye open, muttered, "You’re noisy even when you whisper," and went right back to sleep.
Her sharp inhale said it all.
After school, the alley behind the gym filled with shadows and smoke.
Two of my so-called "friends" lit cigarettes, the smoke curling in lazy ribbons above their heads. Hana—back then still "one of us," not yet the traitor she would beco—leaned against the wall with a smirk.
And ? Sixteen-year-old sucked down nicotine like it made tougher, older, invincible.
That’s when she appeared. Ji-a.
She just saw a glance and left without even being noticed.
The 26 Y/O froze too, I’d never let her see this side of to her but she knew about it. Why didn’t she ask about it before.
"Damn..." my spectrum self muttered from above, clenching ghostly fists.
That evening, the mory shifted.
Our apartnt building. Eight floors stacked tight, a single cranky old lift that rattled like it might give out any second.
Inside our ho, silence. No mother waiting at the table. Just a sticky note on the fridge, written in cold strokes of pen:
"Take these sweets to the new neighbors. Mom."
I stared at the note for a while.
So younger trudged down the hall, a box of sweets dangling carelessly from one hand. He knocked. No answer.
The apartnt door was locked, the place silent.
"Tch. Whatever." He crouched down, left the box neatly at the threshold, and walked away without a second thought.
Up above, I sighed.
"She was probably at her café shift. Working her ass off while I wasted mine in alleys, thinking smoking made tough."
The next morning.
I was about to leave for school, shoes untied, bag slung half-heartedly over my shoulder, when the door across the hall creaked open.
I turned.
And there she was. Han Ji-a. Hair tied back in a ssy ponytail, still adjusting the strap of her schoolbag, her eyes still sleepy.
The girl who scolded on the train.
The girl who was forced to sit beside in class.
The girl who saw smoking in an alley.
Now, the girl who lived right across the hall.
Younger muttered, "Ah, hell..." under his breath.
Up above, I just laughed bitterly, almost fondly.
And so it began.
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