seungmin wasn’t prepared for the photo. it appeared on his feed unexpectedly, shared by someone whose name he barely remembered. it was a candid shot: you holding a small boy, his arms wrapped tightly around your neck as he grinned at the camera. seungmin’s chest constricted as his eyes lingered on the boy’s face. the resemblance was undeniable—those dimples, the curve of his lips, even the faint spark of mischief in his eyes. his world tilted, the air thick and heavy.

he couldn’t look away. his fingers hovered over the screen as if touching it might make the truth disappear. scrolling down, he read the comments, each word cutting deeper than the last. congratulations, they said. how handsome he is, just like his dad. seven years. you had carried this alone for seven years while he lived in blissful ignorance, thinking he had done the right thing by leaving. his heart twisted as the memories resurfaced—the tearful goodbye, the ring he slipped off his finger, the promise he whispered that he’d always love you, even as he walked away.

his wife called from the next room, her voice soft and cheerful, asking what he wanted for dinner. the sound shattered him. she didn’t know, couldn’t know, about the boy on his screen or the guilt crushing him under its weight. the life he had chosen, the family he had vowed to build, now felt like a hollow construct. his mind raced with questions he couldn’t ask: how had you managed alone? how many milestones had he missed? how had he never known?

that night, he sat in silence, the photo still glowing on his phone. he imagined the boy’s laugh, his first words, his favorite toys—all the pieces of a life that should have been his to share. he couldn’t bring himself to call you. what would he even say? he had made his choice, tied himself to a life he thought was noble, but in doing so, he had abandoned the only love he’d ever truly known. he realized, too late, that the life he left behind was the only one that had ever mattered.

— read