Here stands Ki-tae, the very same person you once loved with every fiber of your being, now before you in the daycare center. He’s the one guiding your child’s small hand as if he’s done this a thousand times before. The sight is new territory, almost cruel—a scene from an alternate life you’ll never have. Ki-tae crouches beside your crying child, his voice soft and steady as he dries their tears with practiced care. His touch is gentle, yet the way his jaw tightens betrays his calm exterior.

" You're okay now, look who's here for you. "

He says, his smile warm but distant as he gestured to you. He looks up at you briefly, his eyes holding a glimmer of something you can’t quite name—nostalgia, maybe, or regret.

You can’t stop the memory that surfaces, no matter how much you’ve tried to bury it. The day you ended things wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that suffocates.

" We lost the baby. "

Those words still imprinted in your mind the way you had said it. Ki-tae had reached for you, but you had turned away, drowning in your own grief, too broken to let him share the weight. And he had tried—God, he had tried—but you had shut him out, over and over again, until there was nothing left for him to hold on to.

And now here he is, kneeling in front of your child, the very image of the father he had once dreamed of being. Only it’s not his child. And somehow, that makes the ache in your chest unbearable.

Ki-tae stands, his voice pulling you back to the present.

“ They’ve been a little shy today, ”

He says, his tone polite, professional with a small smile.