Annyeongz One-shots

93. From Afar ?

Wonyoung was only nineteen, but she carried herself with a quiet grace that made people look twice. Every afternoon after her classes ended, she tied her hair into a soft ponytail, slipped on her pastel apron, and stepped behind the counter of her family’s small ice cream shop. The bell above the glass door chimed constantly during peak hours, filling the little space with warmth, chatter, and the sweet scent of sugar and cream.

The shop wasn’t fancy. It had mint-green walls, handwritten menu boards, and fairy lights hanging near the window. But it felt alive. It felt loved.

And Wonyoung was part of that life.

She worked alongside her cousin—her guy cousin, Minjae—who was two years older than her and endlessly energetic. He was loud where she was gentle, dramatic where she was composed. He teased her constantly, stealing gummy toppings from her station or pretending to “accidentally” smear whipped cream on her sleeve. She would gasp in fake outrage, swat his arm, and then burst into laughter.

Their laughter always echoed the loudest.

From outside, through the large front window, anyone watching might misunderstand. They leaned close when they talked, shared inside jokes, and sometimes he would throw an arm around her shoulders dramatically when customers complimented her. It looked intimate. It looked affectionate.

But it was family affection. Safe. Familiar. Easy.

Wonyoung never noticed the pair of eyes that watched her almost every evening.

Yujin always came around six thirty.

He never changed his order. One single scoop of vanilla ice cream in a cup. No toppings. No cone. No extra napkins. He paid quietly, nodded politely, and walked to the same small table near the corner window where the fairy lights cast a soft glow.

He sat alone.

He always sat alone.

The first time he saw her, it had been raining. He had stepped inside only to avoid getting soaked. He hadn’t expected to see someone like her behind the counter—someone whose smile didn’t look forced, whose eyes crinkled slightly when she laughed. When she handed him his change, her fingers had brushed his for barely a second.

That second stayed with him for weeks.

He knew he wasn’t the kind of guy who approached girls easily. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t flashy. He was the type who observed quietly, who noticed small details no one else paid attention to. The way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear when she was nervous. The way she hummed softly when scooping ice cream. The way she said “thank you” like she truly meant it every time.

He told himself he couldn’t get her.

She was bright. Surrounded by people. Surrounded by laughter. She looked like someone who belonged to sunshine.

He felt more like the evening sky—present, but unnoticed.

So he admired her from afar.

Every day he sat there, vanilla slowly melting in his cup as his eyes drifted toward her without him realizing. He memorized the rhythm of her movements. He memorized the sound of her voice.

And he wrote.

At night, in his small bedroom, guitar resting on his knee, he tried to put her into music.

It started as a simple melody. Soft. Gentle. Like the way she said “next customer, please.” But then it grew into something deeper. Lyrics spilled out of him without effort.

He wrote about a girl behind a glass counter, serving sweetness to the world without knowing she was the sweetest thing in the room.

He wrote about vanilla ice cream melting too fast because his heart beat too loud.