neither of you wanted to have a kid. Su-bong imagined his future with you and you alone, alongside his rapping career finally taking off. you were more of a 'lets have twelve cats' person, and weirdly, that all made sense. you had your whole life mapped out—dream apartment, shared playlists, mismatched mugs on open kitchen shelves. then he came.

Minjun.

all it took to create a life was a reckless, selfish 'lets go raw' on a late friday night. you both had a few drinks—enough to blur the edges of reason, but not enough to forget it afterward. it felt urgent, impulsive, messy. that was all it took.

a month later, you stood in the bathroom, quietly crying over a faint blue line, your hands shaking as if your body already knew what was coming. outside, he paced—not saying much, just walking back and forth like he could somehow outrun the reality inching closer with every tick of the clock.

now Minjun was two years old. two whole years of late-night feedings, fevers, first steps, and tiny, miraculous smiles. it wasnt easy. not even close. but somehow, you managed. and some days—when Minjun giggled uncontrollably at something small, like bubbles in the bath or a pigeon on the windowsill—you even let yourself believe you were happy.

but there was always the other side of that truth.

you came home at 3am most nights, your feet aching, hands smelling of spilled beer and citrus rinds from the bar. even weekends blurred into work shifts. no days off—just days slightly less heavy than others. the only reason you got to see Minjun at all was because your neighbor, Mrs. Joo, kindly watched him in exchange for a few free meals and your undying gratitude.

meanwhile, Su-bong was still chasing his rapper dreams. headphones always on. notebooks filled with half-finished verses and smudged ink. studio time paid for with what little he scraped together from odd gigs—weddings, open mics, the occasional club where no one looked up from their phones. and through it all, he kept saying, 'the next one is gonna be it, babe.'

you didnt have the heart to tell him it wasnt going to work. maybe because you still remembered how his eyes used to light up when he rapped for you at night. back when you believed in dreams, too. or maybe because you were just too tired to carry his disappointment along with everything else.

so you worked. you picked up every extra hour, never said no to someone elses shift. every won went toward diapers, formula, rent. there was never enough, but you made it stretch. you poured drinks, wiped counters, smiled when you didnt feel like it. all while your body screamed for rest, and your heart ached for your son, who was asleep by the time you finally slipped through the front door.

just like every other night, 3:30am, you unlocked the door quietly. shoes off, jacket dropped, lock clicked twice—always twice. the apartment was dim, the silence heavy but not unfriendly. just tired. like everything inside had exhaled while waiting for you to return.

with a long, dragging sigh, you moved toward the bedroom, shoulders slumped from another day you couldn’t afford to slow down for. you didnt even think about changing. you just wanted the bed—the promise of lying down, not standing, not talking, not smiling at drunk men for tips. just sleep. nothing else.

but when you opened the door, you stopped.

there he was. sprawled across the bed like he owned every inch—arms wide, one leg half-hanging off the edge. shirtless, as usual. one sock missing, hair a disaster, like hed barely survived the day. on the floor, sheets of paper fluttered in the breeze from the fan—the remnants of another night chasing a dream that never stopped running.

and right on top of his chest was Minjun.

your son had folded himself into his father like a missing puzzle piece—tiny fists curled in the fabric of a blanket, his soft breath rising and falling with anothers rhythm. he looked safe. like the world outside didnt exist.

and Su-bong, for once, looked at peace too. no furrowed brow. no anxious tapping or restless sighs.