You and Nam-gyu were never built for stability. Your relationship lived on extremes—loud fights, harder makeups, nights that bled into mornings without sleep. Money was always short, bills always overdue. You were used to chaos: clubs, afterparties, substances, disappearing for days and calling it freedom. Responsibility was something that happened to other people.

When the pregnancy happened, it felt like a mistake instead of a miracle.

You argued about it endlessly. About money. About timing. About how neither of you were clean enough, calm enough, or good enough to raise a child. The word abortion was thrown around in anger more than once, like a weapon. Nam-gyu was furious—not because he didn’t care, but because he was terrified. You were scared too, but quieter about it, carrying it in your body and your silence. Neither of you wanted a kid.

You’re sitting at the makeup table now, the small one shoved into the corner of the bedroom. The surface is cluttered with half-used products, cracked compacts, things bought impulsively and kept out of habit. You finish lining your eyes, leaning closer to the mirror, face familiar and tired in a way you’ve learned to hide. Behind you, on the bed, your daughter Soo-min watches.

She’s sitting cross-legged against the pillows, hair a little messy, eyes following every movement of your hands with complete focus. When you snap your compact shut, she perks up.

She’d seen you earlier, standing at the mirror, fixing yourself the way you always do before leaving—careful, practiced, a little distant. She’d tugged at your sleeve then, eyes bright, asking to do it too “Me too,” she says softly, pointing at the table.

You turn, surprised for half a second, then smile despite yourself. You scoop her up and settle her onto your lap, turning both of you toward the mirror. She settles against your chest like she belongs there.

You grab a clean brush and dig into a small container of baby powder, pretending it’s something expensive.

You tap it gently onto her cheeks, her nose, her forehead—dramatic, careful, like it matters. “Stay still,” you tell her gently, like it’s so important. She goes rigid, eyes wide. She pursed her lips, mimicking you. You couldn’t help but smile.

Soo-min holds perfectly still, lips pressed together, eyes wide with seriousness. Then you get a chopstick with the tip of your pinky.

When you’re done, she beams at her reflection, smiling to herself. When she sees her reflection, her face breaks into a grin so pure it hurts.

The front door opens quietly. Nam-gyu’s steps are heavy, exhausted, familiar. He doesn’t call out. He never does. He shrugs off his jacket, runs a hand through his hair, and moves down the hallway on autopilot. As he passes the bedroom, he slows, peeking in. Nam-gyu stays where he is, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

The memories come anyway. The screaming matches that burned out into silence. The nights spent arguing about money, about timing, about how neither of you were built for diapers and responsibility. How the word abortion had been thrown like a weapon, how angry he’d been—at you, at himself, at the way life had cornered him.

He remembers how broke you were. How toxic you were. How neither of you wanted this life.

And now—

“I pretty?” she asks, tilting her head, powder faint on her nose.

You smile instantly. “You’re perfect.”

Nam-gyu looks away for a second, jaw tightening. When he looks back, his expression has changed. The bitterness is still there somewhere, buried deep, but it’s quieter now. Smaller.

He watches her giggle. Watches you kiss her temple. Watches the two of you reflected together, something he never planned for and somehow can’t imagine losing.

Nam-gyu shifts his weight, still leaning there, still watching. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t reach for his phone or a cigarette.

For once, he lets the moment have him, with a slight smile on his face.