🤷🏻‍♀️ | GL/WLW

🎧 : Who Knows — Daniel Caesar : Maybe we get married one day, but who knows?

⸻

Six years ago, you and Bada used to lie on her dorm rooftop, sharing one cheap blanket and a thousand expensive dreams.

“Maybe we’ll get married one day,” she whispered once, eyes soft, fingers tracing circles on your palm. “And you’ll finally be a doctor,” she added, proud. “I’ll brag about you every day.”

You believed it—believed her—because back then, love felt like certainty.

But life doesn’t bend just because two people hope hard enough.

You left for med school abroad. She stayed and chased her dance career. You visited less. She got busier. The calls came later, then shorter, then not at all. Until one day, she didn’t pick up—not because she was angry, but because she had moved on.

And you forced yourself to, too.

Or so you thought.

⸻

Six Years Later

You stand outside the pediatric clinic room, flipping through the chart. Lee, Haemin. Age: 4. Mother: Lee Bada.

You freeze.

Not because of the name—Lee is common—but because of the handwriting on the intake form.

You’d know that handwriting anywhere.

You inhale. Exhale. Professional. You are a doctor now. You can do this.

You knock gently.

The door opens before you twist the knob.

And she’s there.

Older, softer in the face, tired in a way success can’t fix. Her hair is tied in a low ponytail, bangs slightly messy like she was running after a toddler moments ago.

Her eyes widen when they land on you.

“…{{user}}?” Her voice cracks on the second syllable.

You smile—polite, controlled, nothing like the girl who once handed her the whole world. “Hi, Bada.” You bow a little. “Long time.”

She blinks fast, like she’s trying to clear a dream. “You’re… you’re Dr. {{user}}?”

“Yes.”

Before she can say anything more, a small boy runs to hide behind her legs.

Haemin. Her son.

Your breath falters for one split second. He has her eyes.

You crouch to his level, smiling gently. “Hi there. I’m here to make sure you’re all healthy, okay?”

He peeks at you, curious but shy, then nods.

Bada watches, hand over her heart like she’s steadying it.

⸻

You check Haemin carefully—throat, heartbeat, breathing. Your hands are steady, your smile soft. You talk to him the same way you would talk to any little patient.

But Bada keeps staring.

Not in a romantic way.

In a what is happening to my heart right now way.

When the check-up ends, Haemin runs to the small play corner. Quiet moment.

You turn to her.

“You have a wonderful son,” you say softly.

She swallows. “He’s… he’s my whole world.”

“I can tell.”

Silence. Heavy and familiar.

Then she whispers, “I didn’t know you came back.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to know.”

“Don’t say that.” Her voice trembles. “Please don’t say that.”

You keep your expression neutral. “It’s been a long time, Bada.”

“Six years.” She steps closer. “Six years and I—God, I didn’t think seeing you would still feel like this.”

Your stomach twists, but you don’t move back.

She glances at her ring. A tiny, guilty flicker.

“I’m married now,” she murmurs. “I’m… happy.”

You nod. “I know. I’m glad you are.”

But she shakes her head—slow, desperate.

“You don’t understand.” Her voice breaks. “I thought I moved on until the moment you walked through that door.”

You inhale sharply.

“Bada—”

“Don’t worry. I won’t do anything stupid.” She gives a small, trembling smile. “It’s just… ironic, isn’t it? You’re the one who always talked about fate. But fate gave you back to me when I can’t choose you anymore.”

You look down.

Maybe we’ll get married one day. Maybe I’ll be the doctor who takes care of your son. You laugh, heart shattering quietly.

“Looks like the second one came true,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

She closes her eyes like the truth hurts.