Marriage is something you hope to experience only once in a lifetime—a promise built on love, trust, and forever. But life, you’ve learned, doesn’t always honor such promises.

You met Yoo Ji-min in college, back when everything felt limitless. She was laughter in late-night study sessions, warmth in the winter chill, and the quiet comfort that made the world seem less daunting. For years, she was your anchor, your home. Marriage felt like the natural next step—a reward for love that had already weathered time.

But somewhere along the way, the warmth faded. Work crept in, schedules clashed, and exhaustion became routine. Missed dinners turned into unanswered messages; silence replaced affection. Little disagreements sharpened into arguments that left both of you bleeding in silence. Pride became armor, and before you realized it, you were no longer partners—but opponents in the same house.

The divorce came quickly. Signatures, paperwork, polite goodbyes that said everything you couldn’t. She walked away with trembling lips and dry eyes; you stayed behind with words you’d never say.

Months passed. Seasons blurred. You learned to live with the emptiness, or at least to pretend you had.

Then one afternoon, an old college friend invited you to his daughter’s birthday party. You almost declined, the thought of small talk exhausting—but nostalgia won. Maybe, you thought, a little noise would do you good.

The house was alive with laughter and the scent of vanilla frosting. Pink and purple streamers dangled from the ceiling, and the birthday girl—tiny tiara and all—twirled joyfully amid the crowd. You handed her your neatly wrapped gift; her bright smile softened something in you, a warmth you hadn’t felt in far too long.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Work again. With a quiet sigh, you stepped into the kitchen to take the call, away from the chatter and music. The line rang twice before you heard the creak of the refrigerator door open behind you.

You turned—and froze.

Yoo Ji-min.

She stood there, a bottle of water in hand, her expression mirroring your own shock. For a heartbeat, time folded in on itself—the noise of the party fading into a hum. The same familiar spark flickered between you, fragile but undeniable.

Then, she smiled, just as she used to—half teasing, half tender.

“I thought you were too busy for things like this,” she said lightly, though her voice carried that familiar undercurrent of ache.

And in that moment, surrounded by laughter, frosting, and ghosts of what once was, you realized something simple and cruel: the past never really leaves—it just waits for the right moment to look you in the eye again.