The Right Wrong Number

Sometimes, a mistake is just a mistake. But other times, a wrong number is the only right thing that happens to you all year.

You spend 40 hours a week arranging romance for strangers, so you know better than anyone that the best love stories usually start with some kind of disaster.

And yours was no different.

The first time Cho Miyeon ever texted you, you were just the fake number that her one-night-stand threw into her phone. And the second time, she was drunk-texting you a week later asking if you were sure you weren’t him.

So how ironic is it that she’d also been the girl standing in front of you in your flower shop every week, buying herself flowers to mourn her own love life, completely unaware that the guy she’s been texting nonstop is also the one wrapping them?

“I want it to look exactly like this,” a woman says, tapping a newly manicured nail on her phone screen. “Cascading orchids, but with real blue roses.”

She’s holding a photo of a Pinterest bouquet that defies the laws of nature, and you are trying your absolute best not to laugh. Or cry.

“Ma’am,” you say, wiping your hands on your apron. “Those aren’t real. That’s either photoshopped, AI generated, or manually dyed.”

She blinks at you, offended. “My cousin had blue roses.”

“I’m sorry, but naturally blue roses don’t exist,” you correct her, gently. “Unless you want me to genetically engineer a new species in the back room during my lunch break tomorrow, we’re going to have to use spray paint.”

“Paint?” she asks, horrified. “For my engagement party?”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, possibly right before the part where she’s demanding to speak to the manager of nature. You expect a text from your best friend Minho asking if you want to get drinks later to mourn your newly single status, but instead, it’s a number you don’t recognize.

Unknown

hey ☺️

i think i left my earrings on your nightstand

also, my legs are still shaking 😝

You blink, then look up at the bride-to-be—who’s now aggressively zooming in on the impossible blue roses—then back down at the text. You can’t tell if you feel jealousy or pity towards this person. Legs shaking—so a good night—but no way to contact the person responsible? Well, that’s more action than you’re getting, at least.

pretty sure you have the wrong number

i have a nightstand but no earrings

hope your legs recover though

“So,” you say, slipping the phone back into your apron. “For the roses. We can do white, or we can do paint. Or I can give you a marker and you can do it yourself.”

“Look at all these blue roses on Google.”

The florist life is not nearly as romantic as people think it is. Or at all, really.

Movies make it look like you spend your days gently misting ferns while soft acoustic music plays in the background, but in reality, your hands are permanently stained green, you have thorn scratches on your forearms that make you look like you hang out with feral cats, and you spend half of your time hauling buckets of water that weigh as much as a fully grown female Golden Retriever.

Your family owns Petal & Thorn, a small shop tucked away in a quiet alleyway in Gangnam. It’s not glamorous by any means, but it’s steady enough to pay the bills. Plus, you enjoy the peace on most days.

Lately, though, the quiet haunts you.

Jisoo moved out two months ago and the apartment feels too big now. The silence in the shop used to be tranquil, but now it just feels like an echo of the emptiness at home.

It’s the middle of January, right in the dead of winter, and you’ve gone full-blown workaholic mode. You aren’t just ignoring the looming threat of Valentine’s Day—you’re actively dreading it. Because aside from being the busiest day of the year for a florist, just the idea of facing it alone makes you sadder than you care to admit—but if you stop wrapping bouquets for five minutes, you might actually have to process those feelings, and you simply do not have the time for that.

Not after what Jisoo did to you.

The mysterious wrong number never replies. She probably saw your text, died of embarrassment, and threw her phone into the Han River.

So you forget about her completely.

…Until exactly one week later, when the first snow is threatening to fall.

You’re about six or seven shots of soju deep at a pocha when Minho slams his hand on the table, rattling the empty bottles.

“Okay, listen, you need to stop moping,” he says, pointing a pair of chopsticks at you. “Jisoo wasn’t even that great. Sure, she was hot, but she thought Your Name was boring. Like, come on, she didn’t cry at the twilight scene—matter of fact, she didn’t even tear up! That’s a red flag, hyung. A massive red flag.”

“I’m not moping,” you lie, pushing a piece of pork belly around your plate. “I’m just tired. I had to wrestle a cactus into a customer’s sedan today because she didn’t want to pay for delivery. It was exhausting.”

“You think that’s exhausting?" Minho scoffs, pouring himself another shot. “Try being on dating apps in 2026. I swiped right on four hundred girls last night. Four hundred! And do you know how many matches I got?”

“I don’t know—ten?”

He holds up two fingers aggressively. “Two! And one of them was a bot trying to steal my crypto.”

“Oh no, not the whole 65,000 won of XPR,” you say flatly.

“Shut up, I’ve got more than that.” He knocks back the shot and shudders. “Look, I’m saying it’s a wasteland out here. I have to deal with ghosting and catfishes, and you’re crying over a girl who didn’t appreciate an anime masterpiece.”

“So what, you think I need to suffer with you?”

“No.” He leans in, his eyes almost too serious. “You need a distraction, hyung. A rebound. Something messy to restart the flame.”

You snicker. “A messy rebound is the last thing I need right now.”

“Look, I just need you back in the game, because if I have to go on one more blind date alone, I’m going to become a monk—”

Suddenly, your phone lights up on the sticky wooden table.

Unknown

are you SURE you’re not him?

You stare at it. It’s the wrong number from three weeks ago. You’d almost forgotten about her.

It buzzes again before you could even pick it up.

Unknown

i don’t understand why he would give me a fake number

we had such a good night

he said he wanted to see me again

Minho cranes his neck. “Who is that? Is it Jisoo? She wants you back, doesn’t she?” he asks, looking almost offended. “Tell her you’re busy. Tell her you’re watching Your Name because you don’t think destiny is a hoax.”

“It’s not her,” you say, unlocking the screen. “Just a wrong number.”

But for whatever reason, you don’t put it down.

Maybe it’s the soju, or maybe it’s Minho’s annoying lecture, but you feel a sudden urge to engage with this person again.

still not him

still no earrings

still just a random stranger that you’re exposing all your secrets to

The reply is instant.

Unknown

omfg this is so embarrassing

i’m going to throw my phone out the window

bye

You snort, almost unwillingly.

Minho stuffs a piece of kimchi in his mouth and looks at you like you’re crazy. “You’re smiling,” he says, chewing suspiciously. “Why are you smiling at a wrong number?”

“She’s funny,” you murmur, typing back.

“She? How do you know it’s a girl? What if it’s a catfish scammer trying to steal your crypto?”

don’t throw your phone

not in this economy

just blame the alcohol and move on

Unknown

i’m not drunk!!!

okay actually i had three glasses of wine

but if i don’t drink i might accidentally strangle a client tomorrow lol what are you, a hitman?

Unknown

worse

i help people find their happiness

ah you’re a therapist

i can see why you need to drink then

Unknown

not a therapist but i do double as one more often than i should

what about you? it’s kinda giving ✨ unemployed ✨ only on non-holidays 💁‍♂️

Unknown

don’t tell me you’re a mall santa

You chuckle into your shot glass. Minho looks over, judging you, but you ignore him.

no i’m a florist

but i deal with just as many tantrums

Unknown

wait no way are you serious

im a wedding planner

we’re in the same circle of hell
that explains why you’re drinking

you have to spend your days planning people’s happily ever afters knowing that love doesn’t last 😌

Unknown

damn who hurt you

love hurt me

Unknown

love isn’t even real

take it from a wedding planner

and take it from someone who grows flowers for a living that nothing pretty ever lasts

Unknown

wow marry me

it’ll be the cheapest wedding ever because we’ll both hate it

You laugh out loud this time, and a couple of tables look over.

“Wow, I haven’t heard that in a while.” Minho leans back, looking satisfied. “See? I told you. You just needed a distraction. You owe me dinner now.”

“Yeah,” you say, saving her number. You hesitate for a second, then type in ‘Wrong Number’. “Just a distraction—wait, what do I owe you dinner for? You didn’t do anything.”

“I helped you see the light,” he says, waving the server down for another bottle of soju.

It all started as a joke, a way to pass the time between deliveries and botanical consultations.

But as hours turn into days and days bleed into weeks, the slush of winter settles over Seoul, the doom and gloom of Valentine’s Day stops feeling so scary. Wrong Number stops being just a distraction. She starts becoming a routine, something almost like a reflex.

And then, without even realizing it, eventually she’s the best part of your day.

The conversations shift seamlessly. They stop being just about bridezillas and cheating husbands and start bleeding into the cracks of your daily lives. You find yourself taking photos of things just to show her—a stray cat sleeping on a bag of fertilizer, a customer wearing a hat that looks like a mushroom, even the way the light hits the Han River on your way home.

You occasionally ask her for fashion advice, like which tie you should wear to your cousin’s wedding (she votes for the navy one, says the maroon makes you look like a Gryffindor). She sends you photos of three different cake samples and asks you to pick the one that “doesn’t look like it tastes like regret” (you pick the red velvet).

Funny enough, you don’t even know her name, and she doesn’t know yours, but you know she hates the color beige (“it’s the color of sadness, why do brides love it?”), loves every shade of green (you’re certain that, given your line of work, will be your final form eventually), and that she listens to J-rock when she’s stressed because it calms her down.

You also know that for all her confidence, her love life is a graveyard of one-to-two-week flings and almost-somethings. That she dates guys who look like models in photos but can’t hold a conversation to save their lives, and the moment she starts asking for actual vulnerability—or just something an inch deeper than surface level—they all seem to suddenly “not feel it anymore.”

But best of all, she knows you, too.

She knows you think red roses are the lazy man’s apology and that you secretly judge every husband who buys carnations for an anniversary. She knows you have a scar on your left thumb from a frantic Mother’s Day rush three years ago, and that you’re both on a never-ending quest for the city’s best shrimp scampi. In fact, you’ve been comparing notes on every restaurant you’ve tried, though she keeps reminding you that hers is still undefeated—and that you’re an idiot for not believing her.

Most importantly, she knows exactly how long you dated Jisoo (three years, four months, two weeks—but who’s counting?). She knows the exact moment you realized it was over: not when she told you that she wanted to be with “someone more ambitious”, but when you saw her buying coffee with her investment banking co-worker and realized she looked happier waiting in line with him than she ever looked on a vacation with you.

saw an investment banker today
almost threw a cactus at him

Wrong Number

well, did you?

no, i have professional restraint

plus it’s not even the same accountant

Wrong Number

coward

next time aim for the eyes and ask questions later

Wrong Number

ok date update

he brought a coupon to dinner

first date btw

hmm fiscally responsible or just an investment banker?

Wrong Number

not sure but he argued with the waiter over 5000 won

so i’m going to fake my own death before the entree arrives

i have just the flowers for your pretend funeral

Wrong Number

emergency 🚨 

groom just told me he's allergic to lilies

the bride ordered 300 of them

the ceremony is in 6 hours

do i just let him suffer for love???

yes tell him marriage is about sacrifice

but if he’s marrying someone who doesn’t know he’s allergic to lilies that’s his own problem

Wrong Number

lmao you’re evil

and also correct

but i’m switching them to dahlias because im a wedding planner not a funeral director

Wrong Number

ugh just got home

my feet are killing me

weddings are sooo long

if i ever say i want to get married please come find me and slap me

wait i thought we were getting married

Wrong Number

oh i changed my mind

happens all the time apparently

not the first time someone’s changed their mind about me

wishing you the best in your future

Wrong Number

wait no come back

i refuse to be abandoned by the only person in the world who gets me

It’s refreshing, a relationship built entirely in the glowing blue light of a screen, with no expectations and no messy reality to ruin it. You wake up and reach for your phone before you even open your eyes, and even catch yourself smiling in the middle of arranging funeral wreaths, confusing your coworkers.

You tell yourself it’s enough—that you don’t need to know who she is, how she sounds, or what she looks like. Minho wanted it to be messy, but the only thing messy is an actual relationship. Not this—whatever this is.

But then there are days when you realize that a phone screen, no matter how bright, doesn’t have a heartbeat, and as much as you enjoy the banter, the “good morning” texts, and the weird intimacy of sharing your darkest thoughts with a stranger, there are moments when the silence of your apartment gets too loud.

The breakup with Jisoo didn’t just leave a hole in your message inbox, it left a hole in your heart. Sometimes you just miss the sound of someone else breathing in the room or the weight of a hand on your arm. You miss simply looking at someone and feeling your heart race.

And that’s where Tuesday Girl comes in.

You call her that because she appears every Tuesday afternoon around 2:00 PM. She’s the only customer who never asks for advice, or for a bouquet for a lover, or a centerpiece for a mother-in-law; she just comes in, wanders all the aisles, and… breathes.

Today, the bell above the door jingles, cutting through the silence of a Tuesday afternoon. You look up from a bucket of stripping shears, and there she is.

She’s wearing her usual oversized coat and a scarf pulled up to her nose. And as usual, she looks exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, shoulders slumped—but when she stops in front of the dahlias, her expression softens.

You watch her from behind the counter. It’s unprofessional, maybe, but you can’t help it. Even amongst all the aisles of flowers, she’s still the most beautiful sight in the room.

“Rough week?” you ask gently. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to her beyond “cash or card?”

She jumps slightly, looking back. “Is it that obvious?” she says, shoulders relaxing the moment her eyes lock with yours.

“Well, you’re staring at those flowers like you want to cut them in half or set them on fire,” you say, wiping your hands on your apron. “I can’t tell which.”

She lets out a short, breathy laugh. “Both, maybe,” she says, turning to them. “They’re too cheerful. It’s suspicious.”

“They’re ranunculus,” you say, walking just a little closer. “They might look soft, but they’re deceptively high-maintenance, if that helps.”

“Hm… itt does, actually…” she says, picking out three stems. “I’ll go with these today then, just to see.”

“See what?”

“If I can keep them alive longer than 24 hours,” she says, shrugging. “I have a theory that things wilt faster when they’re around me.”

You chuckle, and politely take them from her. “Maybe you just need some maintenance advice,” you say, laying the flowers down gently. “When you get home, cut the stems at an angle with a sharp knife, not scissors—scissors crush the capillaries so they can’t drink.”

She blinks, leaning in slightly, genuinely listening. “Okay. Knife, not scissors. No crushing.”

“Right. And change the water every day. Use cold water,” you instruct, your hands moving carefully as you trim the ends for her. “And keep them away from your fruit bowl.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “My fruit bowl? What did my apples ever do to them?”

“Apples release ethylene gas,” you say, glancing up to catch her eye. “It makes flowers age faster. It’s like second-hand smoke for them.”

She stares at you for a second, and then a slow, genuine smile breaks across her face. “Are you actually trying to protecting these flowers from my killer apples? Shouldn’t you want them to be victims so I can buy more?”

“I’m just protecting your investment,” you say, feeling a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the shop’s heater.

“My whole three stems,” she says, holding onto her chest. “Saved by the nice man who hates apples.”

You smile. “I just want them to last until next Tuesday at least.”

“I’ll report back next Tuesday then,” she says, tucking the flowers into her bag. “If you don’t see me, it’s because my fruits got arrested.”

“See you,” you reply, watching her walk out into the gray afternoon.

You stand there for a long time, just staring at the door, wondering you’d just broke her Tuesday schedule with your unsolicited plant advice.

Later that night, you’re heating up leftover kimchi jjigae in your quiet apartment when your phone lights up on the counter.

Wrong Number

i have decided to become a nun

dating is a scam invented by restaurants to sell overpriced pasta that isn’t even as good as what i can make

you keep hyping up this pasta that i’ll never get to try

but what happened this time?

Wrong Number

he wore sunglasses inside

the entire time

i asked him if he had an eye infection and he said “no, it’s just a vibe”

i left before dessert

(and before you judge, i paid for my half)

it must’ve been really bad if you didn’t even stay for dessert

Wrong Number

ugh i’m serious

i’m so done with men

they are either boring, terrified of feelings, or wearing sunglasses indoors

as a man, that sounds pretty accurate

Wrong Number

what about you? you never talk about your dating life

you can’t tell me you just arrange bouquets all day and then go home to talk to a stranger on the internet

wait, we’re not even on the internet

You stare at the steam rising from your bowl. You think about Jisoo and the emptiness she left, about the digital comfort of this conversation, and then, about Tuesday Girl and her cute oversized coat.

i mean i kinda have a crush on someone

but it’s not going to happen

Wrong Number

oooh tea??

why not? is she married?

no i don’t think so

she’s a regular customer who comes in every week, doesn’t say much, and just buys flowers for herself

Wrong Number

wait i buy flowers for myself whats wrong with that

but wow a mysterious independent woman who doesn’t need a man

i like her already

so then what’s the problem?

idk she just seems sad all the time

i feel like if i tried to flirt i’d just be bothering her

plus i froze today

i couldn’t even ask for her name lol

Wrong Number

that’s so classic you

ok look, from one sad girl to another, sometimes we want someone to break the ice for us

next time she comes in just give her an extra flower on the house and see if she smiles

you really think that would work?

Wrong Number

i know it will work

trust me i’m an expert on what women want since men clearly have no clue

hmm okay i’ll give it a try

it doesn’t work you owe me pasta

Wrong Number

deal

now entertain me please

i’m in the tub soaking in this new lush bath bomb but my ex’s netflix account just locked me out

tell me about the worst customer you had today

You smile and type out the story, completely unaware that the woman giving you advice on how to woo the sad customer is currently sitting in her own bathtub, looking at the three ranunculus stems in a vase, wondering what the cute florist is doing.

**

Two days later, you’re seeking refuge in your usual sanctuary: a small cafe two blocks from the flower shop. You like it because the baristas all know your order and never seem to judge you for staring at the wall during your lunch breaks.

You’re midway through your coffee, scrolling through supplier invoices, when the bell above the door chimes.

You look up.

It’s her.

Tuesday Girl—but it’s a Thursday, and she’s standing in the doorway of your coffee shop, shaking snow off that same oversized coat.

Panic immediately washes over you. Seeing her in the flower shop is one thing, that’s your turf—you have the counter, the apron, and the professionalism to save you from freaking out—but seeing her here, in the wild, is terrifying. It’s like seeing a teacher at the supermarket.

She steps into the line, waiting behind a guy wearing the most obnoxious puffer jacket you’ve seen in ages. You watch her like a private investigator as she turns slightly, profiling her side profile to you and it is absolutely profiling, sidely. She looks so pretty, so lovely, so sad, but also so unapproachable.

But then, she tries to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, misses, and accidentally pokes herself directly in the eye.

She winces, blinks rapidly, and looks around in a panic to see if anyone saw her—completely oblivious to the fact that you are sitting twenty feet away, watching her with your heart in your throat while trying your best not to die from how adorable she is.

This is it. The universe is giving you a redo. Just stand up and walk over there. Say, “Hey, it’s me, the flower guy. How are the ranunculus doing? Did the apples get them or did the bananas step it up this week?”

Your spark of courage is short-lived when you realize you actually have no idea how to start this conversation. You grip your coffee cup. You shift in your seat. You watch her order something complicated with oat milk.

Ten minutes pass and she turns to scan for a table. Her eyes sweep right over you, and you hunch your shoulders like a reflex, terrified she’ll recognize you—but also equally terrified she won’t.

You watch discreetly as she sits at a table in the corner, pulls out her phone, and vanishes into her own world.

You let out a breath. You failed again.

The frustration burns in your chest; you need to vent, and there is only one person who will understand the specific absurdity of this situation, so without thinking, you pull out your phone. It’s ridiculous and it’s embarrassing, but you absolutely need to tell someone, and there is only one person you tell everything to.

i’m at a coffee shop and the sad girl is here

You look back up at the girl, who’s now typing something on her phone with the kind of smile that has to be reserved for a boyfriend of some sort—it’s too joyful, especially coming from her.

Wrong Number

and did you ask her name this time?

no i’m scared

Wrong Number

omfg

ask her out!!!

what is the worst that could happen?

idk??? she could say no

and then i have to find a new place to buy coffee because i’ll never be able to show my face in this neighborhood again

Wrong Number

you are hopeless

do it right now or i’m blocking you

easy for you to say you ghost everyone

Wrong Number

true

but seriously ask this girl out

you do realize she could be sitting there waiting for you to say something right?

You stare at the screen, and then back at the girl, who’s now sipping on whatever fancy drink she ordered. 

Wrong Number is right. Life is short. You are a grown man. You can do this.

You take a deep breath and place your hands on the table to push yourself up. Today is the day—you are going to walk over there, and you are going to ask Tuesday Girl for her name. Not even divine intervention can stop you from—

The bell above the door chimes again, a little louder than the other times, interrupting your plan.

A man walks in, stopping you in your tracks for no apparent reason at all. He’s tall, wearing an expensive camel coat, and his hair is perfectly permed—basically, the complete opposite of you. He fixes his scarf and scans the room, spotting the corner table, and smiles.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, his voice carrying across the quiet shop.

Tuesday Girl looks up. She locks her phone, slides it into her pocket, and stands up.

“Oh, it’s fine,” she says, offering the man a polite, shy smile. “I just got here.”

You freeze, still halfway out of your chair.

She wasn’t sitting alone because she was lonely. She was waiting for a date.

You sink right back down, your heart dropping right into your stomach, watching as Camel Coat Guy puts a hand on her lower back and guides her toward the counter to get his own drink.

As much as you hate to admit it, they look good together.

nvm

she was waiting for a date

he looks like he owns a yacht

You don’t wait for a reply; you grab your coat and your half-finished Americano and slip out the side door before they can turn around.

You walk back to the flower shop, kicking the slush around the sidewalk with every step, telling yourself it’s better this way—that fairy tales aren’t real, and the sad girl you see on Tuesdays was never going to be yours anyway, no mater what Wrong Number had to say about it.

“You’re moping again,” Minho says, skating backwards past you with infuriating grace. “You’re bringing down the entire vibe of this establishment. Look—that child over there is crying because he sensed your sad boy aura.”

“He’s crying because he fell on his face,” you mutter, clinging to the railing. “And I’m not moping. I’m fighting for my life on these rentals.”

“You’re moping about fumbling a girl you see every week.” Minho spins, spraying a fine mist of ice onto your shins. “So what if Tuesday has a boyfriend with a nice coat. Big deal. What about the girl you’ve been texting non-stop? Isn’t she a candidate?”

“Who?” you say, pushing off the wall to attempt a wobble that vaguely resembles skating.

He shrugs. “I don’t know her name. I don’t even think you do.”

“Oh, her—I don’t, actually,” you say, right before slipping.

“Yeah, well, what’s wrong with her?” he asks, unfazed that you just fell the hundredth time.

“Nothing, she’s great.” You pause, sitting on the ice, thinking back to the endless texts. “Honestly, she’s the funniest person I’ve talked to in years. We have really great chemistry, but… she doesn’t even feel real. Sometimes it feels like she’s just… pixels on a screen.”

“So make her real,” Minho says, skating circles around you, both literally and figuratively. “She lives in Seoul, doesn’t she? Why haven’t you guys met yet? It’s been weeks.”

“It just hasn’t come up,” you say defensively, brushing the ice off your gloves. “And we don’t want to ruin the vibes. Right now, everything’s perfect. No expectations, no awkward silences. If we meet, reality messes everything up. What if we have zero chemistry in person? What if she chews with her mouth open? I’d rather not ruin the friendship.”

“Wow, hyung—you are a coward,” he declares, shaking his head.

“What? How?”

“You are protecting a fantasy because you’re scared.”

“Whatever,” you grunt, getting back up. “I’m happy with what we have.”

He stops in front of you, blocking your path. “Okay, forget the pixels then. Look around. We are at Lotte World. The happiest place in Seoul. Surrounded by eligible women who are likely freezing and in need of body heat.”

You look around at the sea of school uniforms and cat-ear headbands.

“Minho, they’re all high schoolers. If I hit on anyone here, I’m going to jail. And if I go to jail, I won’t be able to tex—I mean—I don’t have time for prison.”

“Not everyone,” he corrects, straightening his coat and narrowing his eyes, scanning the crowd like a predator on the Discovery Channel. “There—target acquired. Three o’clock, by the skate rental. No uniform, expensive coat, looks like she needs saving from a bad day.”

You look. A tall woman is standing by the rental counter, looking rather impatient, but she is indeed an adult.

“Observe,” he says confidently. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

He glides over to her. You watch from a safe distance, gripping the rail, as he stops with a flourish and smiles—that stupid, dimpled smile that usually only works on ahjummas. He gestures to the ice, points to the concession stand, and then leans in with what he probably thinks is swag.

The woman stares at him. She doesn’t smile back; she just points toward the exit, where a man holding two toddlers is walking toward her.

Minho’s smile freezes. He nods, bows deeply—twice—and skates back to you at high speed.

“Well?” you ask, even though you already know.

“Husband. And twins.”

“Nice.”

“Okay, maybe it’s really over for the both of us.” He leans against the rail next to you, slumping his shoulders. “Valentine’s Day is next week, hyung. Next week. We are going to watch Jujutsu Kaisen together while the rest of Seoul goes to Michelin-rated restaurants with their lovers, aren’t we?”

“We’ll survive,” you say, holding back a sigh.

“Will we?” He rubs his face. “It’s been so long since I went on a proper date, I think I’ve lost all my rizz.”

The sigh finally comes out. “You never had any rizz to begin with.”

“I’m drying up here,” he whines, ignoring what you just said. “At this point, I’m essentially a monk with better hair.”

“Same here,” you say, watching all the couples holding hands, skating together around the rink. “We might as well spend Valentine’s Day at a monastery.”

He looks at you. “How long has it been for you? Since Jisoo?”

You stare at the ice, scuffed and scarred by a thousand blades. “Yeah,” you admit quietly. “It’s been a while.”

The apartment is quiet, as usual. You’re lying in bed, watching the light from your phone illuminates the ceiling while Minho’s words rings in your ears. 

How long has it been for you? Since Jisoo?

It has been a long time. The emotional intimacy with Wrong Number is satisfying, yes, but after seeing Tuesday Girl with her date, and hearing Minho complain about his dry spell, you are suddenly painfully aware of the physical loneliness.

Your phone buzzes, and sadly, that alone is enough to send something tingly through you.

Wrong Number

so my friend just told me i have virgin energy because i wouldn’t let a guy buy me a drink the other night

me? virgin?

i’ve never felt more insulted

You smile. Her timing is just always impeccable.

well is she wrong?

Wrong Number

EXCUSE ME?

whose side are you on?

i’m just saying

you talk a big game for someone who spends her saturday nights talking to a florist she never met

Wrong Number

wow

for your information i have seen the inside of three different bedrooms this month

You blink. You actually feel a weird hint of jealousy, which is ridiculous because you have no right to it. At all.

congratulations

enjoy your happiness

and orgasms

Wrong Number

i can assure you there is no happiness involved

and definitely no orgasms

i wake up and i just want to leave so i can talk to you

clearly i am broken

The jealousy vanishes instantly, replaced by something strange but warm. I just want to leave so I can talk to you.

you’re not broken

i’m just so interesting you can’t help it

Wrong Number

if this is rizz then i can see why you’re single 😑

anyways what about you

when was the last time for you

a while

Wrong Number

how long is a while?

pre-pandemic?

pre-iphone?

shut up

like a month before my ex left so like four months ago

honestly i think i’ve forgotten how to do it

if i meet a girl tomorrow i’d just disappoint her the way all the guys are disappointing you

Wrong Number

doubt it

you have nice hands

You stare at the text. You have nice hands. It’s the first time she’s ever complimented you physically—but she’s never even seen you.

you don’t even know what my hands look like

Wrong Number

florists always have nice hands

good at handling delicate things without breaking them? sign me up

Your mouth goes dry. Is she flirting with you now? At a time like this?

You try to think of a reply, but she’s already typing again.

Wrong Number

anyway

we’re a tragic pair

one of us is starving and the other one is eating garbage

we should probably fix that

Wrong Number

yeah

we probably should

Neither of you reply after that. The silence that follows isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s mutual. It’s the silence of two friends too afraid to across the line, but too curious to see what’s on the other side.

Valentine’s Day in a flower shop is anything but romantic.

By 2:00 PM, you’ve stripped thorns off six hundred roses, written “I love you” on cards for men who definitely do not mean it, and mediated an argument between a husband and a mistress who accidentally ordered from the same account. Your hands are scratched up, your apron is covered in green slime, and the only reason you are still standing is thanks to the three espressos and your sheer hatred towards Saint Valentine for selling his soul away to capitalism.

One of your co-workers conveniently called in sick last minute, so Minho volunteered to help. He’s barricaded behind a wall of baby’s breath in the backroom, frantically wrapping bouquets like he’s diffusing bombs.

“If I see one more teddy bear,” he yells over the sound of the cooler humming, “I am going to strangle it!”

“Just focus!” you snap, cutting a ribbon with your teeth. “We only have twenty minutes before the 5:00 PM rush.”

That’s when your phone buzzes on the counter.

You wipe your wet hands on your apron and check it, expecting a supplier update—or at the very least, a funny text from Wrong Number to make everything better.

It’s neither.

Kim Jisoo

hey, i know it’s been a while, but i’m in the neighborhood. do you think we can talk for a bit? maybe over dinner?

after you get off, of course.

Your stomach drops—and so does your phone and the flowers you were working so hard on. Your brain starts malfunctioning as you stare at the screen on the counter. The timing couldn’t be worse.

You should say no, of course. You should ignore her, even, but the exhaustion makes you weak, the loneliness makes you desperate, and the memory of three years together makes you hesitate just long enough to confuse yourself.

You need backup. You can’t do this alone.

SOS

code red

the ex just texted saying she wants to talk

The response takes about a minute, but it’s the longest minute of your life.

Wrong Number

WHAT

no!!!

absolutely not

tell her to go away

she’s already in the neighborhood so she’s probably coming to the shop

i think she wants to get back together

i’m so tired i might actually cave

Wrong Number

DON’T YOU DARE

you are weak

yes we already knew that

Wrong Number

ugh don’t do this to me!!

i’m finally gonna go on a date with someone decent but i WILL leave to save you if i have to

what no

don’t ruin your night for me

Wrong Number

i’ll ruin my night to make sure you don’t ruin your life

what’s the name of your flower shop and what time do you close?

You casually tell her, just for the hell of it, and put the phone down. She’s joking, obviously—she’s not actually going to leave a date to come save a stranger she’s never met. It’s just your usual banter.

Right?

By 8:00 PM, the rush has finally died down. Minho went to go drink away the trauma with a foreigner he found on Hinge, and the shop is empty and quiet, still smelling of crushed stems.

Your hands are ready to defy you completely, but you decide to make two more bouquets before retiring for the day.

The first one is simple; you’ve made it so many times that it’s muscle memory by now: pale pink roses—Jisoo’s favorite.

The second bouquet is something you’ve never really done before: four stems of pink ranunculus, surrounded by wild greenery, tied with a large ribbon.

You don’t really know why you’re making it. You don’t even know if she’ll like it. She’s probably not even coming—she’s on a hot date, after all. But if she does show up, maybe it could be a thank you for the digital moral support. Or maybe, deep down, you’re hoping that Tuesday Girl might walk in on a Saturday to get herself something for Valentine’s Day and you can finally give her the extra flower like you’d promised Wrong Number you’d do.

The bell above the door doesn’t jingle, but a knock rattles the glass.

You look up.

Jisoo is standing outside, breath fogging up the glass as she waves at you.

she’s here

You slip your phone back into your apron, take a deep breath, open the door, and let the past back in.

She looks exactly the same as the day she left.

“Hey,” Jisoo says with a soft smile, shaking the snow off her coat. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning back against the counter like it could save you. “It has.”

You don’t invite her to sit or offer her tea; you just stand there, in front of the two bouquets you made.

She walks toward you and turns to the roses. “You still remember,” she says, reaching out to touch a petal. “My favorite.”

“Just old habits,” you say, clearing your throat. “I made so many in the past.”

“You did.” She looks up at you, eyes wide and suspiciously sincere. “I’m really sorry for hurting you. I didn’t realize what we had was so precious until I experience life without you. You really loved me, didn’t you?”

You did. You loved her in the only way you knew how. By shrinking yourself to fit into the spaces she made for you, by nodding along to everything she wanted without argument, and wearing shirts she picked for you even though you hated them. It was a love filled with swallowed opinions and unyielding compromise, but it was also a love filled with everything you had to give.

And in the end, everything still wasn’t enough.

“What happened to the investment banker?” you ask quietly. “You said he was so ambitious and perfect.”

She takes in a breath. “I know how shameful it sounds for me to say this, but it turns out he was only perfect on paper. A nice car, a big apartment, reservations at all the places I couldn’t get into,” she says, looking down. “But he didn’t know how to make me laugh. He didn’t know to ask for extra cucumber banchan without me telling him to, or that I need exactly three pillows to sleep. He didn’t care about my day, or rub my feet when I’ve had a long one.”

She looks at you, almost pleading. “He wasn’t you,” she finishes softly.

“I thought that was the point,” you say—not bitterly, just honestly.

She reaches across the counter and covers your hand with hers. “I know this sounds crazy, but I want to try again,” she whispers. “I know I screwed everything up, but I want to fix this. I don’t want to live without you. It doesn’t matter what I gain—all of it means nothing without you.”

You study her big, beautiful eyes, almost getting lost in them like you’ve done so many times in the past. The crazy thing is that she actually sounds sincere for once.

God, it would be so easy. You could easily say yes. You could hand her the flowers and go back to a life that makes sense—a life where you don’t have to be lonely on Saturday nights or holidays.

But then you look at her hand on yours, and realize… you don’t feel anything. Not for her, at least. The only thing you do feel is that itch in your heart; the burning curiosity of what it would be like to hold Wrong Number’s hand just once.

And from just that, you finally understand that your heart does remember how to yearn, just not for Jisoo. Not anymore.

You pull your hand away gently. “Jisoo,” you whisper, your voice almost shaking. “I don’t think—”

The bell above the door screams like a siren as it’s thrown open, and a gust of freezing wind sweeps into the shop, hitting your face.

You look up. Jisoo turns around, startled.

Your heart immediately skips a beat and a half. It’s… Tuesday Girl..?

You can’t recall ever being more shocked in your life, but you also can’t ignore that she looks absolutely stunning, even more so than usual. Actually, she looks so insanely pretty that it physically hurts you. She’s wearing a black dress under an open coat, her hair is curled and perfect, and she looks like she just walked out of a very expensive fashion shoot.

But she’s also breathless, her cheeks are flushed from running in the cold, and her eyes are blazing and alert in a way you’d never seen before.

She stands in the doorway, scanning the room, shoulders rising and falling with every breath. Her gaze lands on Jisoo, where they linger for a few seconds, and then they shift to you.

She freezes. And so do you.

The puzzle pieces clash together violently in your head as you watch the realization also wash over her face in slow motion. She looks at the sign hanging on the window, then she looks at her phone, and then she looks at you.

“No way,” she breathes.

She walks up to the counter, her eyes glued to your face with a mix of both horror and wonder. You watch like a deer in headlights as she stops right next to Jisoo, ignoring her completely.

“It’s you?” she asks, her voice pitching up. “You’re Flower Boy?”

You stare at her. “And you’re Tuesday Girl?”

“I was surprised when you told me the name of the shop, but I thought you just coincidentally worked here!” she says, throwing her hands up. “I didn’t think you were him! I thought I was coming to save No Earrings, not the guy I—” She catches herself, her eyes widening, cheeks flushing a furious, lovely pink. “The guy I buy flowers from.”

Jisoo looks between the two of you, confused. “Who is she?”

Wrong Number finally turns to Jisoo, for just a second. “I’m the upgrade,” she says simply, and turns back to you, slamming her hand on the counter.

Jisoo blinks rapidly. “I’m sorry, wha—”

“I just walked out on a date!” she says, cutting her off. “I left a perfectly nice man who held the door open, didn’t wear sunglasses inside, and actually asked me questions about my job. I left him with the check—well, only because he said he owns three apartment buildings—and then I ran three blocks in these stupid heels because you texted me saying you were going to do something stupid.”

You cover your forehead. “Why would you—”

“Because you told me not to let you be weak!” She points a finger at you like she’s disciplining a dog. “You told me to stop you if you ever tried to go back to the past. So here I am, stopping you—”

“Excuse me,” Jisoo finally cuts in, her voice sharp with disbelief as steps forward, reclaiming her territory. “I don’t know who you think you are, but what do you mean stop him? You’re just some random girl—you don’t know anything about him!”

Wrong Number finally turns to look at her. She doesn’t flinch or back down; she just raises an eyebrow like it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.

“I don’t know him?” She lets out a dry laugh. “Are you sure about that? Where do I even start? Let’s see—I know he hates red roses because they’re lazy. I know he has a scar on his left thumb from a Mother’s Day rush three years ago that still feels weird when it rains. I also know he’s terrified of birds because a pigeon attacked him when he was seven. I know he puts hot sauce on his popcorn. I know he reads the end of a book first to make sure his favorite character survives.” She pauses briefly, then slowly continues. “And I know he stays up until 2am staring at the ceiling wondering if he’s good enough for anyone to stay because of someone.”

She takes a few steps closer to her, voice dropping even lower. “But what about you, Jisoo?” she asks, tilting her head. “What do you know?”

Jisoo flinches, taken aback. “W-what?”

“You dated him for three years. So tell me. What does he actually want to do with his life? What’s his dream?”

Jisoo falters, glancing at you for help. “Well… h-he wants to expand the shop, of course. He wants to… make it bigger. More successful.”

Wrong Number lets out a loud scoff, and shakes her head, looking at Jisoo with something close to pity. “You don’t know him at all,” she says simply. “He wants a really big garden to grow nothing but wildflowers because they’re the only things that don’t need perfection to survive. He wants a quiet life where he doesn’t have to impress anyone.”

“Well, I—”

“You think he isn’t ambitious because he doesn’t want a big franchise or own multiple rental properties or work with mega corporations,” she says, sounding almost offended on your behalf. “But his ambition is to just be happy—and that’s so much harder than just being rich.”

Jisoo opens her mouth to argue, but no words come out. She looks at you, stunned, realizing she never asked what actually makes you happy.

Wrong Number leans in, her gaze completely unwavering. “I know him better in three weeks of texting than you did in three years of dating, without ever even meeting him. So don’t tell me I don’t know him.”

Jisoo recoils as if she’s been slapped. She looks at you, waiting for you to deny it or defend her. You don’t.

Wrong Number turns away and steps closer to you, ignoring Jisoo completely now. “Do not take her back,” she says, her voice cracking just a little, the anger softening. “You are not a consolation prize for a failed relationship. You are not a backup plan for when someone gets tired of being lonely or neglected by their new partner.”

She takes a shaky breath, her eyes searching yours, as if desperate to make you understand.

“You’re the guy who protects my flowers from imaginary fruit crimes because you want them to live longer. You’re the guy who stays up to 3am with me to debate whether or not a zombie apocalypse would fix the housing market crisis. You’re the guy who believes that I can make the best shrimp scampi in the city without ever demanding to try it. You’re the only person who can make me laugh when I’m crying in a bathtub. You never met me and you treated me more like a person than all the people I’ve went on dates with. You actually care about what I have to say and remember things about me. You’re funny, you’re understanding, you’re witty, you’re kind, and you’re…”

She stops, as if hesitating to finish the sentence.

“You’re the best part of my day,” she finally says. “Every single day.”

Silence descends on the shop.

You look at the two women standing in front of you. There’s Tuesday Girl—the soft, sad eyes you fell for in person, but you also see Wrong Number—the friendship, fire, and humor you fell for in the dark.

Somehow, they’re the same person. They always were. And she left her first decent date in months to come fight for you, to tell you things that no one’s ever said about you—things that you don’t even think you deserve to hear, but she says it with so much sincerity that you have no choice other than to believe it.

You don’t answer her with words; you reach behind the counter and pick up the second bouquet, holding them out to her.

“I made these for you,” you say quietly.

She stares at the flowers, eyes widening. Her tough exterior crumbles as she looks from the flowers to your face, and a slow, disbelief-filled smile spreads across her face.

“Why did you make this?” she whispers. “How’d you know?”

“I didn’t.” You swallow. “But you promised me that the extra flower would make you smile.”

And smile, she does. “I guess I don’t owe you pasta then.”

“I’d still like to try one day.”

She takes the bouquet, then looks at Jisoo, who’s standing there like she’s just seen a ghost.

“I think that you should probably go,” Wrong Number says, clutching the flowers to her chest.

Jisoo looks at the carefully wrapped ranunculus, and then at you. “Right,” she says tightly. “I can see that I’m interrupting.”

She walks out without looking back. The bell jingles one last time, and then silence returns, but it’s not empty silence anymore.

Wrong Number looks at you. You look at her.

The air between you is filled with tension, embarrassment, and excitement—all built off of weeks of non-stop banter, shared secrets, and spilled confessions.

“Your hands look exactly like I imagined,” she says, her voice shaking a little.

You look down at your hands, then back up at her. “I still don’t know your name,” you say softy. “I wasn’t brave enough to ask last Tuesday. Or Thursday, before your date came and snatched you from me.”

She smiley, and it’s just dazzling.

“It’s Cho Miyeon,” she says, looking up at you with soft doe eyes. “And for the record, the guy on Thursday did not own a yacht.”

You tell her your name, and she repeats it to herself while smiling at the flowers, as if it sounds like poetry to her.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Cho Miyeon,” you say, as the butterflies begin multiplying in your stomach.

“Happy? I blew up my Valentine’s Day date for you,” she says, unbothered. “He’s definitely not calling me back.”

“Good. Because I was hoping you’d be free.”

“Oh really? And what did you have in mind?”

“Well,” you say, glancing down at your apron covered in green slime and sap. “I need to go home and change first. I’ve been wrestling roses for twelve hours.”

“I’m okay with that,” she says, giggling. “I like your apartment. Or, I like the pictures I’ve seen of it.”

“You’ve seen like two at most.”

“That’s enough for me. I have a good imagination.” She raises a finger. “You know, since we don’t have any reservations, let’s just go to the grocery store and get pasta ingredients so I can rock your world.”

“You left an expensive dinner with a guy who owns three apartment buildings so you could stay in and make shrimp scampi for some guy you just met?”

She nods, as if it’s the easiest question to answer. “Yeah. And it’s the second best decision I’ve made all year.”

“What’s the first?”

“Texting the right wrong number,” she says, lightly scrunching her nose.

You smile and reach out to flip the sign on the door to Closed.

“By the way, how are the other flowers doing?” you ask.

“Still thriving and ready to meet their four new friends,” she says, hugging the bouquet.

“Welcome to the fortress of solitude,” you say, flipping on the lights and setting the grocery bags on the counter.

The trip to the store down the street from your apartment felt more like a vivid dream than reality—Miyeon in a long coat and a fancy date-night dress, pushing a shopping cart while debating the differences between butter brands while you tried not to look like a guy who had just been rescued from a rom-com climax—although you pretty much are. She’d insisted on the expensive parmesan (“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right”) and you’d insisted on the garlic bread (“It’s non-negotiable”), and somewhere in the frozen aisle, you’d realized you were having more fun buying pasta ingredients than anything you did all year.

Miyeon steps in and looks around slowly, taking in the overflowing bookshelf, the gray sofa, the framed photos, and the jungle of potted plants in every corner.

“It’s nice,” she says, turning to you with a grin. “Not a single beige wall in sight and lots of green. I approve.”

“I told you,” you say, locking the door behind you. “Sadness is banned in this household—well, except for the guy living in it.”

She laughs, but you’re suddenly really aware of your own appearance. You’re still wearing your work apron, there’s a streak of green floral foam dried on your forearm, and you definitely smell like twelve hours of crushed stems and stress. You feel gross, and for the first time in a long time, you desperately want to be something better than gross for someone.

“Okay,” you say, untying the apron. “I need twenty minutes to scrub the Valentine’s Day off my skin. Do you need help with prep?”

Miyeon drops her purse on the counter and takes off her coat, revealing the entirety of her black dress. It’s sleek and tighter than you thought, hugging every curve she has like it was proud to be on her body. Your jaw wants nothing more than to drop to the floor, but you clench onto all the muscles in your face like your life depends on it.

She catches you staring anyway. A small, knowing smirk plays on her lips.

“Go shower,” she says, walking to the kitchen like you’re the guest. “You look like you’re about to collapse. I got this.”

“Are you sure? I can chop—”

“Just go,” she commands, pointing down the hall with a head of garlic in her hand. “I’m going to rock your world tonight.”

Heat rushes to your face. “U-um—”

“With the best shrimp scampi you’ve ever had,” she quickly adds. “Now, go!”

You make it to the bathroom and strip off the apron in record time, taking possibly the fastest shower of your life—less of a relaxing wash and more of a frantic scrub—partly because you smell like a greenhouse, but mostly because leaving her alone in your kitchen feels like waking up from a dream, and you’re terrified that if you take too long, she might disappear before you get back.

You step out of the shower and immediately go into panic mode. You dry your hair aggressively, trying to style it into something intentional without looking like you tried too hard. Then, you pull open your closet and stare at your clothes like you’ve never seen a shirt before. 

Too casual. Too fancy. Too… florist.

You finally grab the “nice” button-down you usually save for weddings to match her dress, fumbling with the buttons because your hands are shaking—just a little. It feels ridiculous to be this nervous in your own home, but it feels important. It’s your first date. You want to look like the guy she deserves, not just the guy she settled for because he’s good at making jokes over text messages.

The smell hits you the moment you step out: garlic, butter, and lemon. It’s rich and intoxicating, and somehow exactly like how you expected your first dinner to be.

You walk into the living room and freeze.

Miyeon is standing at your stove, tossing pasta in a pan. She’s kicked off her heels, and she’s humming along to the J-Rock song you mentioned to her a few days ago.

It hits you like a wave of déjà vu—again, somehow. You’ve never seen this before—Miyeon in your kitchen, cooking dinner—but it feels nostalgic. Like a dream from a future you’ve been waiting to live or maybe a memory from a previous life.

She turns around, holding up a wooden spoon, and pauses when she sees you. Her eyes sweep over the crisp shirt, the styled hair, the effort—if it could be called that. A slow, shy smile spreads across her face.

“Wow,” she says softly. “You look… good.”

You adjust your cuffs, suddenly shy. “Well, it is a first date. I didn’t want to be underdressed next to… that.” You gesture to her dress.

“I’m wearing this because I didn’t have time to go home,” she teases, her eyes dancing. “You’re wearing that because you’re trying to impress me in your own living room.”

“Is it working?”

She leans back against the counter, biting her lip to hide a grin. “It’s a little formal for last minute pasta on the couch… but yeah, it’s working.”

“Good,” you say, walking over to stand beside her. You lean in to smell the pan, your arm brushing against hers. “Wow, it looks and smells incredible. You weren’t joking.”

“It’s my one life skill besides predicting which marriages won’t last.” She turns back to the stove, satisfied. “Now grab the plates. I’m starving, I left the dinner before the appetizers even came out.”

You eat at the coffee table, sitting on the floor with your knees bumping together. The pasta is perfect—garlicky, buttery, and exactly what you needed after a twelve-hour shift of wrestling roses. A bottle of white wine sits between you—cheap stuff you two bought for cooking but decided to also drink instead, and somehow, it tastes better than anything you’ve had in years.

For a few minutes, you just eat in comfortable silence, passing the wine bottle back and forth. It’s surreal. For weeks, you’ve eaten dinner with your phone propped up against a water glass, texting her. Now, she’s right next to you. You can see the way she pushes the shrimp around her plate to save it for last, and the way she scrunches her nose when she laughs.

“You know,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence. “This feels kind of weird.”

“What does?”

“Just us. Being here. I feel like I’ve been sitting on this floor with you for weeks.”

You nod, leaning back against the couch, twirling the stem of your wine glass. “It feels like we skipped the first ten dates.”

“We did,” she laughs softly, her cheeks flushed slightly from the wine. “It’s like we already know everything about each other so there’s nothing left to talk about.”

“And yet I didn’t know your name until an hour ago,” you say.

She smiles, shaking her head. “It’s backward. Everything about us is backward.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No.” She looks at you, her eyes soft in the dim light. “I think it’s the best thing that’s happened to me all year.”

She takes a sip of wine, then clears her throat as if the moment got a little too soft, too fast.

“Okay,” she says, putting her glass down. “So I’ve been meaning to ask—do you have a TV or do you just stare at your plants for fun?”

“Oh, I have a projector,” you say, pointing to the ceiling. “And Netflix, Disney, Coupang Play… pick your poison.”

She hums, looking at the blank wall. “What’s your favorite movie? The one you can watch a hundred times and never get sick of.”

You hesitate. You think about saying something cool, like The Godfather or some obscure indie film to impress her, but you promised her honesty a while ago.

“You’re going to judge me,” you warn.

“Try me. I unironically love Twilight, I have no room to judge.”

“Okay.” You take a breath. “Your Name.”

She freezes; her fork stops halfway to her mouth.

“The anime?” she asks, eyes widening. “Kimi no Na wa?”

“Y-yes,” you say defensively. “The animation is incredible, and the soundtrack—”

“No way,” she interrupts, putting her plate down. “That’s my favorite movie.”

You blink. You think about Minho’s rant from months ago—‘Jisoo didn’t cry at the twilight scene! That’s a red flag!’

“Are you serious?”

“I’m serious,” she says, her face lighting up. “Two people connected across time and space who don’t know each other’s names, searching for each other? It gets me every time.”

She looks at you for a second. “It kinda reminds me of us in a way,” she admits, and then laughs. It sounds really nice. “We’re watching it together. Immediately.”

You smile. It’s the final piece of the puzzle falling into place.

“Your Name it is,” you say, dimming the lights.

You pour the last of the wine into each of your glass, and start the movie.

For the next two hours, you sit side by side in the dark. At first, there’s a respectful distance between you. But somewhere around the body-switching montage, you feel her shoulder press against yours, and by the time the comet appears in the sky, her head is resting on your shoulder.

At the twilight scene—the moment when Taki and Mitsuha finally see each other on the mountain—you feel Miyeon shift. You look over. She is literally weeping; silent, genuine tears streaming down her face.

You don’t laugh, you just reach out and take her hand, and she squeezes it back without saying a word or even looking away from the screen.

When the credits roll, she sniffs, wiping her eyes carefully with her finger.

“Don’t judge me,” she says, laughing to herself. “I told you. Every time.”

“I’m not judging,” you say softly, squeezing her hand. “I think it’s cute that you like it that much.”

She turns to look at you, her eyes red-rimmed yet still beautiful. She smiles, then catches her reflection in the dark window.

“Oh god,” she winces, touching her cheek. “I look like a raccoon. I need to go fix my makeup.”

“You don’t have to. I think you look bea—um—fine. You look fine.”

She stands up. “No, I’m not letting you see me like this.”

“Alright, well—bathroom is down the hall, first door on the left,” you say, pointing. “But you already knew that when you demanded I go shower earlier.”

“Well, there’s only so many places it can be.”

You listen to her footsteps retreat as you look at the empty plates and the projected image of the comet fading on the wall, suddenly realizing that you’re smiling so hard your face hurts.

“Hey!” she calls out a moment later, breaking your little daze. “I found them!”

You pause. That wasn’t the bathroom door; it was the bedroom.

“Huh?” You dry your hands and walk down the hall.

The bedroom door is open, and the bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, amber glow over the unmade bed and the wooden nightstand. Miyeon is standing by your bed, looking at you with a mischievous grin.

“You found what?” you ask from the door.

“My earrings,” she says simply. “The ones I left on your nightstand.”

You squint at the empty nightstand, then back at her. “What earrings?”

“Scroll back to the beginning of our texts,” she says, her voice dropping to a playful purr. “I left my earrings on your nightstand, remember?”

She looks up at you; the laughter fades from her eyes, replaced by something a little softer, a little heavier.

Then, slowly, she reaches up to her ear, undoing the clasp of her actual earring—a long, elegant gold hoop with a diamond drop—placing it gently on the nightstand. It makes a soft clink against the wood. Then, she takes off the other one, placing it beside the first.

“There,” she whispers, biting her lower lip.

You look at the earrings gleaming under the lamp light, then back at her.

“I guess I can’t be No Earrings Guy anymore.”

“I guess not,” she says, a small, teasing smile playing on her lips. “If I text you tomorrow, you’ll reply, right?”

“Yes,” you say, walking closer to her—so close that you can smell her perfume as clear as day. “I’ll say, ‘You have the wrong number.’”

She laughs, but the sound is cut short as you lean down. “Don’t you dare,” she breathes. “Are you trying to cosplay as my one-night-stands?”

“As you can see, I have one nightstand, but I’m not gonna be your one-night-stand.” You wrap your arms around her waist, pulling her closer. “I’d like to see you again and again, if that’s okay with you.”

Her shoulders relax in your embrace. “Every Tuesday?”

“Maybe a little more than that,” you correct.

“Mm… I’d like that,” she says, brushing her nose against yours. “I have a request though.”

“What is it?”

She smiles and leans into your ear. “Will you… make my legs shake, though?”

You can feel her breaths brushing against your face at this point. “Is that what you’re thinking about? After all we just went through tonight?”

“Been thinking about it every Tuesday,” she says, teeth tugging at her upper lip.

A gust of courage pushes you forward as you lean in to kiss her. She tastes and feels exactly the way you imagined she would during all those late nights staring at your phone. It feels like the universe is finally clicking into place, like this is the final piece needed for a completed puzzle. Like closing a loop, the way your lips press against hers with a hunger that’s been building all evening—all your life, even. It’s a yearning that’s tested distance and time, like your tongue’s been searching for hers across timelines and phone screens, through flower shops and lonely apartments.

She sighs into your mouth—a soft, surrendering sound—tangling her fingers in your hair as if to anchor you here, in this universe, with her. It’s the kind of kiss that rewrites history. It erases every wrong number, every missed connection, every failed relationship, every awful date, every lonely Tuesday that came before it.

And when she pulls you towards the bed, you know one thing for sure: neither of you is ever going to be lonely again.

six months later

The air in the hotel ballroom is thick with the scent of expensive candles, too much hairspray, and the distinct, high-pitched frequency of a bride on the verge of a breakdown—a sound you know so well.

“I said ivory!” a voice hisses from the head table, where the wedding party is trying to take photos. “This is clearly cream! Does nobody listen to me?”

You shift the last box of centerpieces onto the back room, wiping your hands on your apron. The ceremony is over, cocktail hour is in full swing in the hallway, and you’ve been in the flower business long enough to know when to make yourself invisible during the room flip.

You scan the chaos, looking for the one person actually holding this circus together.

You spot her standing in the shadows near the service entrance, leaning against the wall.

Miyeon looks exhausted. Her clipboard is dangling by her side, and she’s watching the scene unfold with the blank stare of a war general who has seen too much combat.

You walk over, sidestepping a server who is rushing to refill the buffet, and when you get close, you nudge her shoulder gently.

“You look like you’re contemplating murder,” you whisper.

Miyeon jumps slightly, then looks up. The professional mask melts away instantly, replaced by a genuine, tired smile that lights up her whole face.

“I’m contemplating arson,” she corrects, her voice hushed. “If I hear the word ‘napkin’ one more time, I’m lighting the tablecloths on fire.”

“Well, the hydrangeas are set,” you say, gesturing to the centerpieces. “And I even found those specific baby’s breath stems you texted me about at 2:00 AM.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” She leans her head on your shoulder for a fleeting second, stealing a moment of peace. “This wedding is a freaking disaster. The groom is already drunk out of his mind, the bride absolutely hates the lighting that she picked three times, and I’m pretty sure the mother-in-law is currently crying in the bathroom because the seating chart ‘disrespects her ancestors.’”

You chuckle, looking out at the groom, who is looking a little too wobbly for 6:00 PM. “I give them six months.”

“Generous,” she murmurs. “I was thinking two.”

“So,” you say, checking your watch. “What’s the plan after this? Should we go try that new pasta place that opened by our place? Or do you want to watch a movie? I’m sure you have lots to cry about after this.”

She laughs, the sound bright and clear over the DJ doing a mic check. She checks her own watch, then looks back at the bride, who is now aggressively directing the photographer.

“Technically, my job is done,” she says, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes. “The reception is starting, so the coordinator takes over now, and we should go. But…” She bites her lip, looking toward the corner of the room.

“But what?”

“It’s an open bar,” she says, sliding her hand into yours, lacing your fingers together. “And I kind of want to stay and watch it all burn down. Don’t you?”

You look at her—messy hair, tired eyes, and that same spark of trouble that hooked you from the very first text—and you squeeze her hand.

“Alright,” you say, leaning back against the wall with her. “Front row seats to the disaster it is.”

“You’re the best boyfriend in the world, did you know that?”

“Why?” you ask, watching the best man stumble over a microphone cord. “Because I also find entertainment in watching other people fall apart?”

“No. Because you’re just you.”

“And you’re just you.”

“I know,” she says, an adorable smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “And you love that.”

You wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against your side. “You’re right,” you murmur into her hair. “I do love you.”

She leans into you as the DJ announces the grand entrance, resting her head on your shoulder. “I love you more.”

“I thought you promised not to lie to me,” you say, kissing the top of her head.

“Never broke it.”

You watch the couple burst through the doors toward a future that’s probably doomed, surrounded by thousands of dollars of flowers and perfectly color-coordinated linens.

Most people spend their entire lives searching for The One. They go on bad dates, swipe through endless profiles, propose just for the sake of it, and plan perfect weddings, desperately trying to manufacture a happy ending.

But not you.

You didn’t have to search for anything. You just had to reply to a text sent to the wrong person.

You look down at Miyeon, who’s currently whispering a bet on how long until the best man trips, and realize you’ve already won.

Most love stories are complicated, messy, and full of wrong turns.

But not yours.

Because sometimes, a wrong number leads you to the only right person.