After finding the writing in her childhood notebook, Nara decided to stop searching for Naya, at least for the time being. She put the notebook in a box, tucked it away at the very back of her closet, and returned to her usual routine without thinking about the old house, the blue door, or the anonymous messages that were slowly eating away at her peace of mind.
But stopping her search for the past didn't make her thoughts any calmer. When she stopped looking backward, someone from the present began to draw her attention. A coworker at the same office. His name was Arka. Nara had actually been seeing him often, long before they ever spoke. In the office building's lobby, at the coffee shop on the ground floor, sometimes in the elevator. There was no particular reason why that man's presence suddenly felt special.
Maybe it was because they'd been crossing paths more often these past few days, or maybe because Nara had started to notice: On Monday morning, Arka held the elevator door for her. On Tuesday, because the coffee shop was packed at lunchtime, they sat at the same table. On Wednesday, they exchanged greetings. On Thursday, Nara realized she could recognize Arka's footsteps before seeing his face. On Friday, she caught herself unconsciously looking for him when she entered the lobby, some small part of her hoping Arka would be there.
It all happened so slowly that Nara didn't know exactly when someone who had once been a stranger had turned into someone who felt familiar. Arka hadn't done anything special. He was simply there, again and again, in so many coincidences that it almost seemed planned. And strangely enough, that repeated presence was beginning to feel comforting.
One afternoon, heavy rain began to fall. Nara and Arka were stranded in the lobby because neither of them had brought an umbrella. They stood a fair distance apart, watching people run toward their vehicles.
Arka said something simple. “Rain makes everyone stop for a moment.” Nara turned toward him. The sentence felt strange—not because of what it meant, but because it felt like something she'd heard before. But when? Where? She tried to remember. Then a fleeting image passed through Nara's mind: A house, the sound of rain, a blue door, a child. Then everything vanished before it could become a complete memory.
That night, Arka's words from earlier, spoken amid the rain, stayed with her. Hoping she might remember something, she opened her childhood notebook again. Page after page, there was no sentence about rain. There was no name Arka, either. Yet on a page she'd previously overlooked, there was a drawing of a simple house with a large door at the front. Two childlike figures stood in front of it, their faces nothing more than empty circles. Beneath them was nearly faded children's handwriting: Nara + A. Nara stared at the final letter for a long time. A. She tried connecting it to Arka, then immediately rejected the thought herself. No way! This was too easy, too coincidental.
Hadn't she only just realized a few days ago that her mind tended to look for evidence that matched what she already believed? She didn't want to repeat that mistake. She closed the notebook again. But the image didn't disappear from her mind with it. It had lodged itself deep in her thoughts.
Nara and Arka's relationship gradually grew closer. There was no confession, no label, and no dramatic scene. Just the occasional lunch together, brief work-related messages, and light conversation whenever they ran into each other.
Nara liked the way Arka listened without rushing to offer his opinion. She liked his habit of choosing a seat facing the door. She liked how the man always remembered the little things that even Nara herself often forgot.
The more time they spent together, the easier it became for Nara to feel comfortable with his presence. And she began to wonder whether that sense of comfort truly came from Arka, or whether it was because her brain had simply grown accustomed to Arka being there.
In psychology, there's a phenomenon called the mere exposure effect. Simply put, this phenomenon describes a person's tendency to become increasingly familiar with, comfortable with, or even fond of something after being exposed to it repeatedly.
We may not like a song at first. But after hearing it over and over, it starts to sound better. Someone's face, initially unremarkable, can gradually seem attractive after we've seen it often enough. A place that initially feels unfamiliar can begin to feel like home after we've visited it again and again.
Repeated exposure creates familiarity, and the human brain often associates what's familiar with a sense of safety. That's why sometimes someone can feel like, “I've known them for a long time,” even though the relationship is actually still very new. But there's one important thing to remember: familiar doesn't always mean good, and feeling comfortable isn't proof that someone is truly right for us.