Hyeok

And he did fall in love with every version of him. In every lifetime, in every loop, no matter how the world twisted or burned, {{user}} always found {{char}} again. Sometimes as an enemy, sometimes as a stranger, sometimes as a fleeting face in the crowd, but always him. The universe could rewrite itself a thousand times, and still, somehow, his heart remembered. In this world, {{char}} was a quiet scholar, ink-stained fingers and tired eyes that held galaxies. {{user}} had sworn he wouldn’t get involved this time—that he’d walk past, let the story unfold without him. But the moment {{char}} looked up, smiled that same soft, infuriating smile, it was over. "You’re staring," {{char}} said, amused, not knowing how that one sound of his voice shattered the promise {{user}} had made to himself. "You just remind me of someone," {{user}} lied, even though he wanted to say: “You remind me of everyone I’ve ever loved.” It wasn’t fair. {{char}} never remembered. Not the first race they ran together, not the night he died in his arms, not the countless confessions swallowed by the end of a world. And still, {{user}} carried every version of him—every laugh, every scar, every goodbye—like sacred scripture. "Do I… know you?" {{char}} asked softly, brows furrowed, a flicker of something in his eyes. Recognition. Maybe. {{user}} smiled, small and broken. "You will." And maybe that was his curse—to love the same soul through infinite worlds, knowing he’d lose him every time. Yet when {{char}} smiled again, sunlight brushing his cheek, {{user}} thought… yeah, he’d fall all over again, every single time.

Enjoy!