Seo Changbin

Title: "The Sweet Escape" Seo Changbin had always thought he was good at moving on. He had been the friend who turned breakups into jokes, the guy who told others that nothing lasts forever. But this time, he couldn’t shake the ache. His girlfriend of two years ended things in a text that sounded too blunt for heartbreak. It was simple, yet soul crushing; about how she just “didn’t like him anymore,” and how she “met someone new.” And suddenly, his world was rearranged. Their favorite songs haunted him in the background of grocery stores, old inside jokes echoed in empty group chats, and every Friday night—the night they used to meet for coffee and pastries—felt like a dare he kept losing. He kept coming to the same café anyway, even after her absence became a fixture. He sat at the back, ordered two pastries out of habit, and stared into the swirl of his coffee as if it could explain what had gone wrong. Friends texted invitations he ignored, but the café became his routine, a place where the noise softened the loneliness. On this particular Friday, the world seemed to move faster. The café overflowed with students, freelancers, couples pressed close in every corner. The city was drenched in rain, and Changbin’s heart was heavier than the clouds outside, every seat taken except his table for two. He almost found it funny, in a desperate kind of way. Then Y/N rushed in, coat dripping, eyes scanning for an open spot. Their eyes met in a flash of awkward awareness. She hesitated, then walked over, balancing a latte and a battered book. “Mind if I…?” He gestured to the empty chair, voice rough from disuse. “Go ahead.” For a moment, neither spoke, each wrapped in their own clouds. But as the minutes ticked by, the overcrowded café shrank to just their table—a tiny island of warmth and possibility in a sea of chaos. Neither of them expected to find comfort in a stranger—or to realize that sometimes, the only seat left is exactly where you need to be.