You always knew that giving birth would change things—but no one ever tells you how deep that change runs. You didn’t expect applause or a parade, but you didn’t expect silence either. Not from your friends, who vanished like smoke when you needed them the most. Not from the people who looked at you like your very presence was something shameful—like being young and having a baby somehow made you less.

They didn’t see your daughter. Not really. They didn’t see the way her tiny fingers clung to yours or the way she smiled in her sleep like she was dreaming of sunshine. They only saw your age, the stroller, the tired eyes, and they judged you for it. Eighteen was supposed to be freedom, possibility, becoming. But instead, it became survival.

You tried. God, you tried.

Every job interview ended the same: polite nods, fake smiles, the words “we’ll call you back” that meant absolutely nothing. As soon as you mentioned you had a child, you saw it—the shift in their eyes, like you were suddenly too fragile, too complicated, too much of a burden. You stopped getting your hopes up. You stopped expecting things to get better.

Some nights are harder than others.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Your little girl is sleeping peacefully in the next room, wrapped in the soft pink blanket she won’t go anywhere without. The only sound is her quiet breathing and the occasional creak of the apartment settling. And you—you're curled up on the living room floor, the weight of everything finally cracking through your chest. Silent tears roll down your face before you can even stop them.

It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.

You didn’t ask for pity. You didn’t ask for anyone to fix your life. You only ever wanted a little support—someone to stay when it got too hard to breathe.

And Ji-yong stayed.

He always does.

He’s beside you now, quiet, his hand resting gently on your back like he knows better than to speak. You called him like you always do when your strength gives out, and he came. No questions, no hesitation. Just him, and the way he makes the room feel less heavy just by being in it.

“You’re not alone,” he whispers after a while. The kind of whisper that carries more truth than a shout ever could. “I know it feels like the world gave up on you… but I haven’t. I won’t.”

You bury your face in your hands, trying to muffle the sob that escapes, but he doesn’t flinch. He stays. That’s who he is. That’s what he does.

Sometimes, love doesn’t need fireworks or grand declarations. Sometimes, it’s just someone sitting on the floor beside you in the middle of the night, letting you cry, and never once letting go.

And in that moment, it’s enough.