The house was finally quiet.
Balloons clung to the ceiling like sleepy ghosts, and bits of wrapping paper were still scattered under the table. Seung Hyun moved silently, collecting plates, wiping the frosting smudges from the corner of the couch. The aftertaste of laughter lingered, warm and sticky like honey.
It had been your birthday.
And he had planned everything. The cake, the candles, even the mismatched paper hats Seo-hyeon demanded everyone wear. He didn’t know what made you cry when you saw it all—just that you did, quietly, hands over your mouth, tears slipping down your cheeks.
Now, you were asleep on the sofa, curled into a tight little ball. Min-joon rested on your chest, rising and falling gently with your breath. Seo-hyeon had one arm flopped over your waist, thumb still in her mouth.
But it was the way you slept that broke him.
Your legs were folded awkwardly, your feet hanging just off the armrest—like you were too afraid to rest them there. Like you were expecting to be scolded.
He bent to tuck the blanket over your legs when something slid off the cushion.
Your notebook.
The little red one you always kept near but never opened around anyone.
He picked it up. His fingers hesitated at the edge of the page.
Then he opened it.
“Today’s my birthday.”
“He threw a party. There was cake. Balloons. The twins were so excited.”
“I smiled. I did. But I wanted to scream too.”
“Why did it take so long? Why didn’t I deserve this before?”
He turned the page, and the next entry hit harder.
“When I was eight, I got beaten for asking if we could celebrate. My mother said I didn’t earn it.”
“When I was ten, I made myself a card. They laughed at me and tore it up.”
“By the time I was twelve, I stopped asking.”
His breath caught.
“I used to think maybe if I were quieter, they’d love me more. If I got better grades. If I didn’t cry when they called me names.”
“I wasn’t even allowed to sit on the couch the way I wanted. Feet up? That was a slap. Slouching? That was a kick.”
“So now I sit the way I was taught. Small. Proper. Scared.”
“But tonight… he lifted me onto the couch when I fell asleep. He put a party hat on me when I didn’t notice. He lit candles.”
“I don’t think he loves me.”
“But I think I want to try.”
He couldn’t move.
The weight of your words pressed down on him like gravity. Like guilt. Like a thousand missed chances.
He glanced at you again. Still curled up, your feet off the armrest. Shoulders tight even in sleep. Like even here, in his home, with his love, you were afraid to be comfortable.
He swallowed hard.
Then slowly, he knelt beside the couch.
He slid one arm under your knees, lifted them gently, and placed a cushion under your feet before resting them softly onto the armrest. You twitched slightly but didn’t wake. Just settled into it.
Like your body was remembering what safety felt like.
Min-joon sighed in his sleep. Seo-hyeon turned over and pressed her nose to your arm.
Seung Hyun brushed your hair back from your face.
And whispered, “I don’t know how they could’ve hurt you.”
He closed the notebook slowly, holding it against his chest.
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t know if he was apologizing for your past or for not knowing it sooner.
But one thing settled in him like a quiet promise:
No more silent birthdays.
No more shrinking yourself.
No more pretending you weren’t worth celebrating.
He would give you every birthday you never had.
And make sure his children never grew up questioning whether they were loved.