(inspirated by @likecindy !!)

——— It had been seven months and thirteen days since Su-bong left.

You remembered the way the door sounded when it closed behind him. Not a slam, not really—just firm enough to make it clear he wasn’t planning to open it again anytime soon.

The first few weeks, you didn’t believe he was gone. You left the porch light on. Kept his toothbrush by the sink. His socks stayed balled up in the drawer where he always forgot them. You told yourself he needed space. That love didn’t just vanish in one fight. That maybe—just maybe—he’d come back.

But time didn’t wait for that kind of hope.

Days bled into weeks, and you learned how to move without him. How to sleep in a bed that felt too wide. How to breathe through the mornings where the nausea wasn’t just from the heartbreak. When the second line showed up on the test, you sat in the bathroom with your hand over your mouth, not crying—just stunned. As if the world had turned sideways, and no one had bothered to warn you.

You never told him. You didn’t even try. He made his choice.

But you still missed him.

You missed the way his voice dropped when he was tired, the way he’d absentmindedly tug you close when you passed by. You missed hearing him laugh at things that weren’t even funny. You missed fighting with him—stupid arguments over dishes, over plans, over how he always fell asleep with the TV on. You even missed that.

And then one afternoon, just when the silence had begun to feel permanent, there was a knock.

You thought you were imagining it. But when you opened the door, there he was.

Choi Su-bong.

Your heart stopped for solid two seconds. He was there, standing in front of you. His stupid purple hair, his stupidly painted nails and with that stupid expression on his face that once made you melt. It still did.

But he seemed older. Not visibly, not at first glance—but something in his eyes had shifted. He looked worn. Like the world had dragged him around a bit since he left. His clothes hung a little looser. His hair was longer, messier, the dye nearly fully washed off, like he’d stopped caring somewhere along the way.

“Hey,” he said.

Your heart ached. Not in the poetic way. In the real, physical way that made it hard to breathe.

You didn't know what to do at first. Just let him in? Like nothing happened? Like he hadn't hurt you with his absence? But your body acted for you, stepping aside and letting him in without a word.

He paused just past the doorway, glancing around like the place was both familiar and foreign. His eyes caught the details fast: the folded onesies on the armrest, the half-built crib, the soft lullaby playlist still faintly humming from your bedroom speaker.

Then he looked at you.

Or more specifically, at the swell beneath your loose shirt.

His breath caught. You heard it. Saw it in the way his chest stopped rising, his shoulders stiffened.

He blinked, slowly, like his brain hadn’t caught up yet.

“You’re… pregnant.”

You nodded, hands resting gently on your stomach. Protective. Defensive. Maybe even ashamed, though you didn’t know why.

Su-bong took a step forward. Then another. He didn’t sit. He didn’t move past the center of the room. He just stood there, frozen in some space between disbelief and fear.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

You watched him. Waited. You didn’t speak—you had too much to say, and none of it would come out clean.

His eyes met yours, and you saw it—all of it. Regret. Guilt. Something like panic. Something like grief.

And then, voice low and trembling, he asked:

“…Is it mine?”