Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rumi left work mere minutes before five.

Some of her students, hungry for singing tips, kept her engaged. Rumi's compassionate heart couldn't resist their enthusiasm, a trait that was both a blessing and a curse. By the time she finished advising a girl who kept talking about her mother, Rumi realized she should have left for her car long ago. But that was the thing with passionate high schoolers - they never stopped talking. And Rumi, committed to her students, cherished listening to their stories. The problem only arose when a child was waiting to be picked up from kindergarten.

And that child happened to be hers.

Her daughter, Zoey, was a cheerful five-year-old with two dark buns on her head, freckles on her cheeks like a galaxy, and a gap-toothed smile. Full of energy and curiosity, she was probably captivated by some book or another activity, not missing her mom for a bit. Because that wasn't the first time her parent had been late. A common occurrence, you could say. It was always either traffic, a piano lesson that got dragged on for another twenty minutes, her students, or a nagging parent asking why their child didn't score higher. And in all honesty, Zoey could care less when her mom picks her up or why she's late again. She always had hands full of things to do, and going home wasn't one of them.

Rumi was acutely aware of that, yet the dull throb of guilt still seeped into her heart like ink into paper. So, after dismissing the last eager student, she hurried to her car, ignoring the sidelong glances from her colleagues. The notion of leaving her daughter waiting alone was simply unbearable.

With a soft hum of the engine, the woman drove into Seoul's streets. When she took a familiar turn into the main road, she was greeted by the soft, slanting light of the slowly sinking sun. As it dyed the roofs of the city, Rumi felt a delayed sense of self-loathing seeping in. It was the third time she had been late this week. Even acknowledging that Zoey didn't mind, coupled with the teachers' reassurances to avoid fretting over it, something stirred deep within her. Something old. A voice she tried to bury a long time ago. One that told her she couldn't do anything right. That she fails at everything. That she is a horrible mother. No matter how much she is going to try, she will always...

"It's fifteen minutes after five. This is YTN News FM..."

Her finger quickly reached for the car's radio. The day had already been chaotic enough; there was no reason to let it spiral into a meltdown.

As Rumi paused her car at the glaring red light, she shot herself a weak glare in the rearview mirror. Her weary eyes, reflecting the stress of the day, held a hint of disappointment as she studied herself. Strands of hair escaped her braid, cascading wildly in all directions like a halo of loose, dancing tendrils. Once neat makeup now smudged around her eyes. And those huge eyebags silently asking her to finally sleep more than three hours per night. She knew they would be asking that question for much longer.

"I might as well star in a horror movie," she muttered to herself before pressing down on the gas pedal again. "I look like I've been run over..."

Those moments made her feel lonelier than ever. She talked to herself because there was nobody else to talk to.

It wasn't much of a secret that Rumi was a single mom.

And when she talked to herself, it was the only way to keep the silence from swallowing her whole. If she kept her own voice around, she wouldn't forget who she was. Wouldn't forget that she existed beyond being someone's daughter, someone's mother, someone's ghost of a dream. That brought her some sense of comfort, even when Zoey told her she was speaking with ghosts because, "Why talk to the soup, Mom?"

When she finally hit the empty parking lot, it was half past five, which meant that the girl was probably sitting alone, and the teachers couldn't go home because of her. Splendid, Rumi. The epitome of "Mom of the Year," truly.

Rumi rushed through the entrance of the kindergarten building, her heart racing not only from the physical exertion but also from the guilt that had been gnawing at her. She spotted a glimpse of her daughter amidst a sea of colourful chairs and cheerful decorations, her little figure lost in a world of whimsy as she swung her legs rhythmically from her seat. Zoey was perched on a small, brightly painted chair, wholly absorbed in a picture book, her small fingers flipping through the vibrant pages, her eyes wide with wonder.

The emptiness of the room, despite its colourfulness, presented a rather gloomy picture. The girl's small frame turned back to the entrance, her head resting in her palm, and Rumi swore she was probably on the verge of sleep.

"Zoey!" she called, her voice breaking the spell of silence.

Her daughter's head snapped up, disbelief flickering across her features for a heartbeat before her face erupted into a radiant smile, illuminating the entire room. The book forgotten, Zoey leapt from her chair, sprinting toward Rumi as if she hadn't seen her in ages. Rumi's heart swelled with relief and joy at the sight of her daughter's beaming face, a moment that made all the day's struggles seem insignificant. It was these moments that made it all worth it.

"MOMMY YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT I DID TODAY!" Per usual, Zoey's excitement didn't know its limits, and Rumi bent down to catch her little girl in her arms. It was almost like a routine to them - a ritual of every day's pickup. Each may looked utterly the same, yet it was a separate experience. Another day meant another story from the playground. Even if Rumi didn't quite understand the hierarchy they had in the sandbox (which, according to Zoey, was very important), she looked forward to listening to all of the adventures. This would have happened at any moment if not for the teacher, who cleared her throat and approached them slowly, like a cautious cat.

"I'm sorry to bother you; I bet you want to go home now."

Rumi blinked, startled at first, but didn't say anything, only lifting her face to let the teacher continue.

"I know it's maybe rude of me to point this out, though I think we both know this has been apparent lately." A small sigh escaped the woman. "It's about the pickup time."

With a swift motion, Rumi got up from her crouching position, Zoey perched securely on her hip. Crimson filled her cheeks before she could even speak up. "Yes, I know. There's so much going on, but I promise this is the last time-"

"Rumi-ssi..."

"-I'll make sure to adjust my schedule to be here on time. I should've done it earlier... Gosh, I'm so sorry."

Rumi was already bowing, and the little girl in her arms mimicked her with a soft chuckle, not really sure what was going on.

"Rumi-ssi..."

A pair of brown eyes darted upwards, meeting the confused face of the teacher in front of her. They blinked at each other in silence for an awkward moment.

"...Yes?"

"I just wanted to suggest extracurricular activities for Zoey. This way, you could have more time to pick her up, and she wouldn't get bored while waiting." With a sheepish smile, the teacher extended her hand. "Here, take this. Maybe Zoey will find something that picks her interest."

Oh. So Rumi wasn't getting scolded. That's new.

She straightened her back and accepted a brochure that suddenly appeared in the teacher's hands. Or had it always been there, and she just hadn't noticed? Well, it didn't matter. A slight frown crossed her brow as she contemplated the possibility. The colourful brochure was glossy and enticing, filled with images and information that promised stimulating activities. Something that sounded perfect for her daughter.

Rumi glanced at Zoey, who was reaching for the paper with a curious look. The corner of her lips tugged upwards.

"I'll... we'll think about it."

"What's for dinner today? Can we have tteokbokki?"

Zoey was bouncing in her booster seat, the leftover energy having nowhere to go. Rumi was checking on her daughter in the rearview mirror ever so often, and each time, she found the girl in a different position. Maybe signing her up for some classes wasn't such a bad idea after all? All that pent-up eagerness needed an outlet. She made a mental note to look at the brochure later. There was a greater question asked.

Dinner.

"I was thinking about kimchi jjigae. How does that sound?"

"That sounds yummy."

"Then we'll have to stop by the store. We're out of gochujang and your seaweed snacks because someone took the whole pack with them and gave it to the whole class."

Zoey pretends to be focused on something happening on the street, but the pink on her cheeks gives her away. "That wasn't me! That was... Derpy!"

Suddenly, the cheerful reflection Zoey expected in the mirror was replaced by the cross-eyed face of her favourite plush toy—a blue tiger with big, bright orange eyes. Wherever Zoey went, Derpy was sure to follow. They were an inseparable pair.

"Sure, Zo... like I didn't see you shoving them into your backpack." Despite the stern voice, Rumi chuckles with a helpless shake of her head. There was no way she could stay mad at Zoey for long - her face was too cute to be angry at. Especially when she was pouting in embarrassment, which she definitely was. The woman didn't even have to check.

"I'm sorry..." the girl mumbled a guilty apology into the blue plushy. Rumi couldn't help but chuckle.

"Baby, I'm not mad. But if it's going to happen more frequently, I'm afraid our budget won't be able to survive this..."

"It won't! I promise!"

There it was; the girl's energy came back, resulting in a soft smile on the parent's face.

She parked the car in front of the local store near their apartment and turned around, sticking out her pinky finger.

"Pinky promise?"

Zoey threaded her smaller finger through Rumi's and linked them together. "Pinky promise!"

"That's my girl."

Rumi stepped out of the vehicle and opened the door for Zoey, offering her a hand, which the girl happily accepted. This earned Rumi a satisfied grin as she found solace in these small moments. Feeling Zoey's little hand in hers and knowing that her daughter trusted her the most brought a strange yet fulfilling sensation in her chest. She felt important and needed, proud to be someone's mom. Although motherhood could be exhausting, she wouldn't want it any other way. It was just her and Zoey against the world.

And right now, it was them against the groceries.

Tugging down at the sleeves of her turtleneck, she took a deep breath in. She was on a mission.

Rumi ran a mental list of all the things they should buy as they stepped into their local store. The ajumma who ran the place greeted them with a nod and a cheerful smile, already accustomed to the sight of a five-year-old tornado bursting through the automatic doors as if she owned the building. Zoey squealed something about snacks and skipped straight into the aisles, buns bouncing behind her.

"Some scallions, mushrooms," Rumi murmured, reaching for her phone to write a memo. "We're also out of tofu, right? Eggs too, and—"

Her words cut off with a yelp as Zoey bolted across the produce section, zigzagging through baskets of apples and neat stacks of greens like it was a personal obstacle course. But Rumi tells herself it's fine. As long as she sees the yellow cardigan, there should be no concern. It's not as if there was a way to stop her from running. So the young mother thinks it's alright.

Until it isn't.

Zoey, on a mission, takes the corner with the momentum of a freight train and the recklessness of a child who'd never tasted consequence. Which was not far from the truth.

"Ugh, Zo!" Rumi rushed forward, muttering a string of barely-censored curses under her breath. "Please don't run in the shop, I beg-!"

And then it happened.

As she rounded the same corner her daughter bolted through, she collided full-body into someone else. Not a cart. Not a shelf. A person. A tall, solid, very real person. Rumi slammed with enough force to stumble backwards a few steps, almost losing her balance. She let out a breathless grunt, hands flailing to catch anything - air, dignity, her sanity. None were available.

"Hey!" A sharp voice cut through. "Watch where you're going!"

Rumi's eyes flew up in panic. First to dark, serious eyes and then a perfectly deadpan expression that did not look like someone thrilled to have been body-slammed by a frazzled woman with the last bits of her grace. Well, obviously. Rumi just didn't expect such hostility from the person in front of her. She could've sworn the person growled at her in anger.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" The woman stammered, bowing hastily, hair slipping from her braid and sticking to her cheek. "My daughter, she is... Zoey, ZOEY! Come back here!"

In the distance, a triumphant "I found gochujang!" rang out like a war cry.

Already jogging ahead, she turned to the stranger and bowed her head, clasping her hands together in an apologetic manner. "I'm so sorry again!"

She found Zoey crouched by the bottom shelf, proudly clutching a tub of gochujang like she'd mined it from the earth with her bare hands. Her face was the very picture of mischief. Rumi huffed, her knees bending as she caught her breath and squatted beside her.

"There you are..." she muttered, tucking a stray hair behind the girl's ear. "What do I always tell you about bolting off like that, huh?"

"I didn't bolt!" Zoey chuckled. "I sped . You said we needed gochujang, and I found it." She finished her sentence with a proud puff of her chest.

"You're lucky you're cute." Rumi sighed, slumping slightly. "And that I'm too tired to even get mad at you."

The rest of the shopping they spent walking hand in hand. Even if it meant dragging Zoey around, who became very upset with the idea of someone taking away her freedom to run.

By the time they ate dinner, Zoey had managed to wear off her energy.

Her mom thanked every god she could think of. The expected battle for staying longer in the bathtub didn't even occur. There was no trace of her child anymore - only the obedient little girl who let herself be dressed up in pyjamas. She even waited patiently as Rumi brushed her tangled hair, not asking when it was going to be done. Not even once. A miracle, truly.

The apartment was finally quiet, save for the muffled hum of the TV playing reruns of an old cartoon with colours too loud and plotlines too thin. Zoey lay curled up on the couch, Derpy tucked next to her, one sock halfway off, and her damp bangs going in every direction. She was barely upright - slumped, lids drooping, clutching the remote like a relic she didn't want to part with.

Rumi didn't have the heart to turn it off. Not yet.

She was curled beside her, legs folded, laptop covered in pink stickers (Zoey's job), balanced precariously on a throw pillow. The living room lights were dimmed to soft gold, casting long shadows against the scuffed floor and the sagging laundry rack in the corner. Her phone buzzed once, and she sighed before even checking.

Bobby:

How are the lyrics going? We need drafts by next Friday. Anything really. PLS.

The nail-polished fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating to answer. Rumi glanced between her phone and the laptop screen, where a flickering cursor urged her to start writing.

A teacher at the music school by the day and a ghostwriter for idols by the night - that's what Rumi was.

It was something she took right after she got pregnant with Zoey. Celine might have pulled some strings, seeing how desperately young Rumi was looking for a job. They took her out of pity but didn't expect to get eventually surprised. Nobody could predict that a young mother would actually write a song worthy of listening to. And she did because she didn't really have any other choice. Not when...

A tornado of black locks suddenly fell down on her lap, getting her out of her trance. Rumi ran her free hand through Zoey's hair instinctively, her touch soothing. She checked the hour on her phone just to hum in understanding - it was the girl's bedtime. A matter of time when she would drift off to the dreamland.

"Maybe I'll carry you to bed, hm?" Putting her phone away, Rumi whispered, leaning down to press a few kisses to the sleep-brushed cheeks. The girl giggled at that with the innocence only children had. "I can sing you some-"

"Can I stay here?" It came out softly, almost inaudible. Like Zoey was too shy to ask about it, and everyone knew that child didn't know such a word. Which only made Rumi melt into a puddle.

"Like I can say no to you... Of course, you can."

A pause fell on them. Zoey nestled more comfortably, fighting off drowsiness with the last remnants of her willpower. Rumi didn't hesitate for a moment before grabbing the blanket and covering the small body. It was like a second nature. Something she discovered when Zoey entered the world - an overwhelming sense of care.

The silence was comfortable. Enveloping around the two of them like a warm cloth. Rumi went back to writing the lyrics. TV played softly in the background. No words were needed. But Zoey thought otherwise.

"Hey, Mommy?"

Not looking away from her laptop, Rumi's hands dove into the black waves again. "Mmm?"

"I love you."

She blinked down at her daughter, caught completely off-guard. Zoey's eyes were already closed, lashes fanned across flushed cheeks. It hadn't been prompted. Just… soft, sleepy and sudden. And for Rumi, that felt like the best praise that ever existed. A declaration of trust. Trust that she believed she didn't deserve.

And then, moments like this came - and they were everything.

"Sweet dreams, Zo," she whispered, pressing a kiss into her daughter's crown. "I love you, too."

It was loosely after six on the clock when a certain redhead checked her phone.

That evening, Mira had finished her dance session an hour later than usual. After her students went home, she felt like staying and dancing just for herself. This was one of those rare occasions when the studio was empty, and she could dance away her thoughts. Yet, they kept coming nevertheless, especially that one whispering to her that she was out of rice.

So here she was, in a local store, pushing a cart forward. When one thought entered her brain, the rest flooded like a tsunami right after. Apparently, she was out of half of her apartment's assortment.

She was debating which jam to buy when the music in her earbuds changed to the familiar sound of her ringtone.

Incoming call: Bobby

"Jesus Christ..." Mira muttered under her breath when she checked her phone. It was 7th time he called that day. And despite the fact she knew precisely what he wanted, she answered because otherwise, she would feel horrible about herself. "What now?"

"Mira, I BEG YOU! Please consider it."

Mira shuts her eyes closed for a second, hearing a hopeless yell. She takes a sharp breath in and grabs two jars, unable to pick just one flavour.

"I have choreos to do, trainees to train, and I already do dance classes at the studio. There is no way in hell I can squeeze in more. You want me to teach both the children and the parents? Then make the day have thirty hours instead of twenty-four."

"UEBO boys are debuting, so they're off your shoulders. Sirens won't have the comeback until the songs are done." The man in the earbuds sounded desperate to win the redhead over. "Hwan is gone for three months. That's exactly how much free time you're gonna have now. And I know you won't say no to extra cash."

"The money isn't worth the actual hell I would go through."

"Oh, come on, they are adorable little girls!"

"I'm talking about the parents. I can handle the kids, but Lord have mercy, those annoying ass moms are a walking headache." She frowned upon imagining the scene. "I'm gonna enter a shitshow of taking selfies and posting it on Instagram with, at least, ten hashtags. Gossipping while stretching and bragging about whose child is the best. Involuntary, I'll be dragged into this madness with them. Sounds great, really. Totally wanna do it. An offer you just can't refuse."

There was a moment of silence on the other side, which made Mira think she had won the battle. The smirk that appeared on her face lasted exactly five seconds.

"So-"

"What if I bought you snacks for the entire time you have to do this?"

The redhead paused in her tracks, debating the opportunity. Free snacks for three months? She had to be careful with her answer. There was a lot at stake. She was gambling with the unrestricted amount of ramyeon.

"Why should I trust you, huh?"

"Because I'll literally do anything for you, you know that. I really don't need to hire anyone else. Mira, please, please, please, please-"

Mira knew that if she didn't say yes now, she would listen to Bobby's begging for the next few minutes. And, even if she didn't want to admit it, he was right. She couldn't say no to additional money. The group Mira was supervising didn't even know when they would have a comeback, which meant that she wasn't needed as much.

"Gosh, fine. Send me the location and the schedule."

"You. Are. Amazing." Bobby, who sounded on the verge of tears a second ago, suddenly seemed alright again. "Write me a list of the food you want. I gotta go now, byeeeee-"

Mira blinked, only now realizing she had been pacing between aisles this whole time. Her cart sat abandoned by the produce section. Half-full, half-forgotten. She sighed, tossing her phone into her hoodie pocket and dragging the cart along again. She had eggs to buy. A few cans of tuna. Laundry detergent, too. She made a mental note to get snacks for herself before Bobby changed his mind about the bribe.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly. The store wasn't too busy - just the usual background hum of people and quiet pop music leaking through the speakers.

She stopped by another shelf, her hands diving into the spices and picking out ones she needed when-

BAM.

Something - no, someone - crashed into her like a speeding bus.

The redhead stumbled back with a choked gasp, one hand catching her glasses as they nearly flew off her face. The other shot out to steady herself against a nearby shelf, her eyes wide in stunned confusion.

"Hey!" She gawned at the person who bumped with their full force at her. "Watch where you're going!"

Mira was ready to fire off more, but it faltered the moment she really looked at the woman. Her hands were flailing in the air as if she were trying to physically regain her balance, her breath ragged, her entire body radiating exhaustion. Stray pieces of hair clung to her temple, and the deep, bruised circles under her eyes looked like they hadn't seen a whole night's sleep in years.

Before she could even say anything, the woman was bowing to her. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" Her head looking around, searching for something. Or rather someone. "My daughter, she is... Zoey, ZOEY! Come back here!"

It was a matter of seconds before she was gone. The long lilac braid trailed after the stranger like a tail.

Of course. The prophecy had been fulfilled already. The chaos had come to Mira early before the damn parent class even started. She could only shake her head and grab a pack of dried mangoes with mild existential dread.

"This is gonna be hell," she muttered, adjusting her glasses. But she kept her eyes trained on the aisle where the pair had disappeared.

Because, for some reason, she felt a string pulling her towards them.

Chapter Text

The sound of flushing down echoed from the bathroom.

Rumi wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The cool ceramic of the bathroom floor was a stark contrast to the absolute chaos in her mind. She was acutely aware of the rhythmic sound of the water swirling down the drain, each whirl pulling away fragments of her anxiety. It was as if the relentless flow was siphoning off her worries, piece by piece. With a lengthy sigh, she rested her head against the toilet lid, its coolness soothing against her forehead, even as the nausea refused to leave her body. It clung to her like gum stuck to the sole of a shoe – utterly annoying and tough to get rid of.

It was maybe three or four in the morning; she didn't bother to check. It didn't really matter anyway. She knew there wasn't much sleep coming for her after this. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on her breathing. Deep breath in, and then long out, letting out all of her worries. It didn't help, not at first, but she knew it was far better to try again.

Nightmares weren't a common occurrence these days. Mainly because whenever Rumi would fall asleep, it would be by accident. Usually on the couch, with the laptop still open. Her body would pause at some point, urging her to rest, resulting in an overworked mom in a questionable position, snoring a little as she flipped over to the other side. But because it was the weekend, Rumi had the privilege of falling asleep in her bed at a reasonable hour. Those were the nights she was scared about the most. When she was fully relaxed, she was the most vulnerable. And that's when they came. Nightmares. Reminding her just how badly she was screwing up her life. How far she'd fallen from who she was supposed to be. And worst of all, whispering the one thing she feared most: that she was a terrible mother.

They weren't nightmares per se. They were flashbacks. From that time, her life was completely different. When everything wasn't falling apart, or maybe when it actually was. Rumi no longer knew for sure.

Feeling that nothing was trying to get out of her stomach anymore, Rumi got back on her feet, coughing into the back of her palm. A sniff cut through the stillness, followed by the quiet stream of water steadily running from the faucet.

Splash.

Cold droplets fell from Rumi's cheeks back down the ceramic sink. She watched them trailing down her skin in the reflection of the large mirror in front of her. Her hair was finally down - no tight braid holding it in place. The lilac waves cascaded down like a waterfall. She looked calmer, less stiff. And that was a rare sight. She ran her fingers through her locks - maybe to soothe herself, maybe to untangle the nonexistent knots.

Rumi didn't know what to do but stare at herself.

For the first time in months, she wore a tank top. The nights were growing warmer as late spring crept into Seoul, and in the privacy of her home, there was no reason to hide. Not anymore. Zoey stopped asking about them a long time ago.

The scars.

Faint, white stripes that started on her upper arms, where she had the most of them, flowing down to the forearms with a few lines on her wrists from a time she never talked about. They softened with time, along with that urge. They were nothing but whispers – never really disappeared, but stopped screaming.

Rumi traced one line with her finger. A chill ran down her spine.

Her arms were only the beginning – a starting point in the quiet map of scars etched across her body. Her stomach, thighs, legs… a road of pain she never meant to draw.

She felt she was awful. Cruel, even. For having them on her body. The guilt hit her in the smallest ways, like when Zoey asked if they could go to the beach with eyes full of hope. And Rumi just smiled, and said, "Maybe next time," knowing damn well there won't be any next time. The thought of crowded sand, the sun on her bare skin, people's prying eyes – it made her stomach twist. What kind of pathetic mom couldn't take her daughter to the beach? What kind of mom made excuses over and over until even Zoey stopped asking?

"Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic." She whispered like a mantra. Like a prayer. Like a goddamn fact. So she remembers how much she fails her child. "I'm so pathetic. God…"

The bathroom light flickered overhead, snapping Rumi out of her trance. She blinked as if waking from a dream she didn't mean to fall into. Her reflection stared back at her – drained, hollow-eyed, too familiar. Without thinking, her arms crossed over her chest, hands clutching at her upper arms as if to hide the scars. As if that could make them disappear. The cold tiles beneath her bare feet suddenly felt too sharp, the air too still. She couldn't keep looking at herself. Not like this. With a shaky breath, Rumi turned away from the mirror and flicked off the light, plunging the room into soft darkness as she stepped out.

She stood in the hallway for a moment, debating between sleeping in her room or maybe staying up curled on the couch. Both of those options meant she was bound to stay alone. And that meant more thoughts creeping in, more regrets flooding her head and beating herself up for the things she couldn't change. But there was one place that wouldn't let any of this happen.

The door to Zoey's room creaked open with a soft groan as Rumi peeked inside. All she could see was a messy tuft of black hair poking out from beneath the covers. A couple of pillows had slipped to the floor, landing beside Derpy and the well-loved bunny plush, Carrot – its fabric worn thin from years of cuddles. The room was bathed in the dim orange glow of the crescent moon lamp on the bedside table. Zoey never slept without it. Rumi lingered in the doorway, her fingers resting on the frame, torn between heading back to her own bed or crawling in beside her daughter, just for a little while.

The girl's room was small and cosy in a way that made Rumi's own large, empty bedroom feel even lonelier. The bed that she shared with no one felt emptier than ever. And the nightmares – God, she couldn't face them again. Not tonight.

Ah, screw it. Zoey's bed was big anyway.

As quietly as it was possible, she tiptoed inside. She hesitated for a moment, looking down at her daughter's sleeping form. The peaceful face, the steady breathing, the little pout… Rumi couldn't help but smile.

Sometimes it still didn't feel real. That this small, perfect human being belonged to her. That, despite everything – every single bad decision, every night she thought she'd never make it – Zoey was here. Safe. Healthy. Perfect. Asleep in her own bed, with her tummy full, surrounded by stuffed animals and soft dreams. Despite all odds, somehow, they were doing decent. Maybe Rumi was slightly overworked, but seeing Zoey's sleepy pout made it all worth it.

She would do anything to make Zoey's life better than hers.

Rumi slipped under the covers slowly, the bed dipping beneath her weight with a soft creak. The warmth hit her immediately, a contrast to the cool air of the hallway. She moved carefully, trying not to wake Zoey, adjusting herself to get more comfortable. Her head propped on her hand, elbow nestled into the pillow as she lay on her side, watching like a hawk over the steady rhythm of her child’s breathing.

For Zoey, she had to be strong. Unmovable. Fierce. A familiar wave of protectiveness surged through her, but beneath it was something heavier. The ache she never spoke about. The fear she kept locked tight behind her ribs. Rumi had become a master at swallowing her storms, tucking away the panic attacks, the bad thoughts, the unbearable loneliness. She smiled when she needed to, stayed quiet when the weight got too much, and told herself over and over that Zoey didn’t need to see that side of her. That strength meant silence. That if she unravelled, even just a little, the whole thing might fall apart. And Zo deserved a mother so much better than her – someone who had it all figured out. Rumi didn’t. Not even close. But staying strong? That was the least she could do. For them. For Zoey.

Not even a full minute passed before Zoey stirred, her small body instinctively turning in her sleep and pressing up against Rumi’s side. Tiny hands reached out, bunching up the fabric of her mother’s tank top – an unconscious search for something familiar to hold onto, something steady. Rumi responded without thinking, her hand finding Zoey’s back in a gentle, reassuring touch. The girl’s eyes fluttered open in surprise. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Mom?"

Rumi felt how the corner of her lips tugged upwards. She ran her fingers through Zo’s bangs, pushing them aside lest they bother her. "Hey, bug." Her body shifted closer to Zoey’s, though she wasn’t sure if she was offering comfort or quietly asking for it. She looked down at the sleep-brushed face with so much love that it hurt. "Go back to sleep. I'm just here to steal some of your warmth."

"Mhm…" Zoey was already sleeping again when she mumbled a response. Her parent had to bite inside of her cheek to stop herself from chuckling at how adorable it was.

Rumi let out a slow breath, resting her forehead lightly against her daughter's. She pressed a kiss to Zoey's temple, then another to her cheek. God, she was ridiculous. Wasn't it supposed to be the kid crawling into the parents' bed? But here she was, seeking safety in the steady rhythm of Zoey's breathing and in the barely-there scent of strawberry shampoo. So she pressed a few more kisses to the girl's head. Like she was trying to soak in the comfort and the proof that Zoey was real and here.

Maybe it was kind of pathetic. Perhaps it didn't matter.

Rumi pulled the blanket a little higher and closed her eyes, letting herself melt into the warmth beside her.

Because maybe, just maybe, it was alright to be scared just for one night.

[Five years earlier]

"You're what!?"

Celine paced back and forth, her nails digging into her palms hard enough to leave crescent marks. She breathed in short, ragged pants, her fury evident. But there was more beyond that anger – something vulnerable. Fear. Rumi only caught a glimpse of it before Celine turned towards her with a look that screamed: I want an explanation.

"I..." Rumi hesitated at first. Of course, she was completely aware of how this conversation would go. She even prepared herself beforehand. Tried to visualise every possible response Celine could have. She practised her answers in front of the mirror. But when the anger spilt in the room, Rumi forgot how to speak. Cat got her tongue, leaving her with a shaking body. Her hands, trembling, hovered near her lower belly – protective, instinctive. She didn’t even realise she was doing it.  

"She's pregnant." A male voice echoed in the room. The words rang out too calmly, too rehearsed. A strong hand slipped behind Rumi’s lower back. She didn’t lean into the touch, but she didn’t pull away either. She didn’t know what to do – her entire body had gone stiff. Still, she clung to it, the contact, the illusion that he was here with her, for her.

Jinu.

They met while leaving the studio where they were both trainees. He bumped into her with such force that Rumi nearly went flying. She was cursing under her breath, gathering all of the things that were scattered on the sidewalk. He didn’t help. Not at first. She didn’t even look up, didn’t need to. People didn’t stop for her unless she was dancing perfectly or singing at her best. Invisible unless useful. But when he actually knelt down next to her, stacking the notebooks into a neat pile, she felt heat rising in her chest. Someone stopped for a second, just to help her. And he chatted with her. Asked for her name. Complimented her braid.

It was all it took – Rumi was sold.

They started meeting up in secret – their company prohibited dating. They met after midnight, in secluded parts of Seoul. There were talks, coffee, shy kisses and locked fingers. Sharing the past, the present and hopes for the future. Soft promises and loud confessions. It was them against the world.

It was forbidden – and perhaps that’s why it tasted so good. What was wrong was also thrilling.

When the pregnancy test showed two lines, they weren’t even dating for a whole year. Rumi felt like her whole life had fallen apart. All of those years she spent training, she couldn’t throw them away like that, could she? Jinu found her there, curled in on herself on the bathroom floor, cheeks raw from hours of crying. He didn’t say anything at first. Just knelt beside her, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I got you. We’ll figure this out," he whispered. "This has to mean something… right?"

She had no real reason to keep the child. Her whole life was gravitating towards one goal: to become an idol. Yet, the way Jinu kept repeating that everything would be alright and that they could absolutely do it, made her think that having a baby was… exactly what she wanted. He made her believe that her whole life was decided for her, and this was her first real choice – him and the baby.

Rumi had no clue that choosing that life meant giving up a whole sense of self. She was giving him an upper hand. Feeding him something he was craving deep down. Something he never truly spoke about. Control.

To her, it was choosing herself for once. But standing in front of Celine, she couldn’t help but shrink under the weight of that choice. Celine’s eyes were wide, disbelief spilling from them like a wave. Her lips parted, like she was about to scream, but nothing came out. Rumi told herself Celine just didn’t understand. That she never had. That all of her anger and disappointment wasn’t about love but control. Celine didn’t want what was best for her. She just wanted to choose for Rumi.

"You are going to debut soon, and you come to me and say you're with child!? Do you know how insane it sounds?" Celine finally said after a brief pause. Her hands were flying up and down, fingers clenching into fists and loosening up. She was right – it did sound insane, even for Rumi.

Jinu tightened his grip on her waist but said nothing. His hand rested there like an anchor, heavy and possessive, and for a moment, Rumi told herself it was grounding. That his presence meant something. That was enough. But deep down, she wished he’d say something. Something soft. Reassuring. Something that proved she wasn’t alone in this. Yet, he stayed silent in contrast to Celine, who was unravelling by the second.

"Okay, it's fine. It's so fine!" She reached for the phone and immediately started scrolling, searching for something. "We can still fix it. Nobody will hear about this. I'll arrange the visit at midnight. There's this one clinic. They dealt with-"

Rumi interrupts her. Eyes shut, fists clenched. "I... don't want to fix this."

The room fell so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

"What?"

"I said, I want to keep it."

"Rumi. Rumi. Do you hear yourself?" Celine reaches Rumi in two strides, cups her face and looks dead in her eyes. "You worked for years. This is your biggest dream. It’s just a little mishap we can fix, I promise."

"It’s my decision. Not a mishap. Not a problem to fix." Rumi almost barks her response, but her voice cracks at the end.

Celine let out a frustrated groan, throwing her head back like the ceiling might have the answers she couldn’t find. "Jinu, talk some sense into her. She’s throwing her whole life away."

Jinu didn’t flinch. His voice came out smooth, rehearsed. He even smiled politely. "This is something we chose to do. And we’re doing this together."

Celine stared at him like he’d lost his mind. Then looked back at Rumi, her head shaking helplessly. "Dear God… what would your mom say about this?"

That’s when Rumi snapped. She took a step back, from her, from Jinu’s arm, from the reality that was in front of her. "Nothing. Because she’s not even here, Celine."

"Saja Boys are debuting in three months. I have to find a trainee to fill your place for Huntrix." Celine gave up, feeling this wasn’t a battle she could win. "What the fuck are you guys doing? This isn't some romance novel. It's real life. Wake up."

But when you’re twenty, you think you know everything. You confuse recklessness for bravery, ignorance for love. Nothing can stop you because you are young and fearless. Well, Jinu was, and Rumi chose to believe him. That was her first mistake.

Jinu had no plan to do this with her.

The pregnancy wore her down in ways Rumi hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion. No, the worst part was the loneliness. The silence between her and Jinu grew thicker with every passing week. He stopped touching her belly. Stopped asking how the baby was doing. His words, once soft and promising, became clipped and distant. And when he was home, he was barely. Half-glances and distracted nods replaced conversation. He didn’t even look at her the same.

They fought more. About little things at first – missed appointments, unopened text messages, laundry left to pile up. But the arguments always ended the same: Jinu throwing up his hands, walking away, muttering some curses under his breath. Sometimes he’d vanish for days, claiming last-minute practices or company schedules.

The worst part? He never once said he didn’t want the baby. But he never said he did, either.

When she started showing, it was Hae-jin who went with her to her checkups. Chaewon, who sat on her bathroom floor when the cramps came early, whispered words of reassurance while Rumi sobbed into a towel. The girls she trained with, sang with, danced with, and dreamed with – stepped in like it was the most natural thing in the world. They took turns walking her home, bringing her soup, holding her hand. They were the first ones to know about the gender. And Jinu? He was too busy getting his abs spray-tanned for teaser photos.

Rumi wanted to believe it was just pressure. That debut was eating him alive. That things would get better once the baby was born. She told herself those lies over and over, until they stopped sounding like lies and started sounding like survival. But deep down, she knew. Knew that the boy who once kissed the crown of her head and said "We’ll figure this out together" had already decided not to.

The moment Rumi’s whole life changed wasn’t when she got pregnant. No, it was an inconspicuous Saturday night with baby Zoey nearing her first birthday and her overexhausted mom folding laundry in the living room.

Their child was sleeping soundly in the nursery, the sink was piled high with dishes, and the coffee Rumi had made for herself had gone cold. The back pain didn’t want to wear off for the third day in a row. Her periods came back, storming through her body like thunder, messing up with her twice as much. She was barely managing. The dark circles beneath her eyes had become a permanent fixture, deepening in shade with every sleepless night. Zoey was a loud one, no doubt about that. Jinu had taken to sleeping on the sofa bed in the living room for whatever reason that he could come up with. Rumi stopped caring.

The pile of neatly folded clothes was growing slowly. Rumi took her time, tried not to rush. Last time she did, Jinu complained about wrinkled shirts. When she did things the way he wanted, they argued less. He would look at her more, praise her more and even help around. So she decided to swallow her pride, at least she tried, and attempted to make it work. She was desperately waiting for him to change, to finally take care of their child, so maybe if she tried hard enough, some miracle would happen.

Even though Zoey was their kid, it was her responsibility. Jinu occasionally tried to help, but after the time Rumi asked him to buckle Zo into her booster seat and found her instead draped haphazardly in a blanket, she decided it was safer to keep him at a distance, for Zoey’s sake.

The door opened with a bang.

"I'm home."

Rumi flinched. Her fingers hovered for a moment too long, hesitation slipping in like a shadow. She didn’t rise, didn’t go to greet him. Frankly speaking, she didn't want to see his stupid face or listen to whatever happened in the studio. Deep down, she just prayed he would leave her alone and go to sleep. Yet, luck wasn't on her side that day.

The silence lasted for a full minute before Jinu paraded into the room with a groan. He didn't greet her, didn't kiss her like he used to; instead, he took off his sweaty shirt and tossed it on the fresh laundry. Rumi stared at it as it landed, blinking once, then twice, before finally looking at her boyfriend.

Jinu didn't get a hint and started talking. "Could you wash it for tomorrow? The dance practice needs to be in all blue. Probably they'll record it." He gave a sheepish laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Completely slipped my mind, and I wore it today."

"I already did a load of colours today," Rumi said, carefully. She didn’t trust her voice to do more than that. Besides, Zoey was sleeping in her room, and she definitely didn't want to be bothered by her parents arguing.

"Can't you do it again?"

Rumi had to take a breath before answering. She didn’t know if Jinu was dumb or was trying to get on her nerves. Either way, it made her blood boil. "Are you seriously asking me this?"

"Gee, I'll wash it in the sink then. No need to get angry." He answered with a roll of his eyes and paced to the kitchen while shaking his head. "Wait…"

He sniffed the air, brows furrowed.

"Did you burn the rice again?"

It was just the period making her angry, Rumi told herself, trying to justify Jinu’s behaviour. He was tired too. He didn’t mean to be rude... right? Right!?

"The rice cooker is barely working." She paused to inhale sharply. "So, answering your question, yes, I did burn the rice."

Jinu gave a soft chuckle, rubbing his neck. "It's fine. I'm not even that hungry."

She stared at him. "That's not the point."

"Okay, okay," he said quickly with his hands slightly raised. "Sorry, baby, I’m just... really tired. But you’re doing a great job, yeah?"

Rumi didn’t reply. She pressed her lips together and went back to folding the clothes. A beat of silence.

"I think I’ll hit the bed," Jinu said, already heading out of the kitchen. "I’ll help with the dishes tomorrow."

She didn’t look at him. "You said that yesterday."

He stopped in the doorway. "Did I?"

"You did." Her voice was tight. "And the day before that."

He exhaled through his nose, almost amused. "Alright, Rumi, don’t start–"

Something cracked. It wasn’t loud, not at first, more like the quiet sound of something delicate giving way under pressure. Rumi had always put up with it, always swallowed the sigh, bit back the retort. But that night, with her body aching, her nerves frayed, and Jinu tossing out careless words like burnt rice and throwing dirty shirts on the floor, something finally snapped. It was small, but final. And before she could stop herself, the words were already leaving her mouth.

"No, I will start." She turned towards him, eyes sharp now despite the tiredness behind her gaze. "I haven’t slept properly in weeks, Jinu. Months, actually."

"Yeah, well, neither have I–"

"You take naps between rehearsals. You sleep through the night. I’m the one up with her. I’m the one doing everything."

"You always make me out to be the bad guy! You just keep complaining," he snapped, then regretted it instantly. "Rumi, I didn’t mean–"

"You never mean it," she scoffed, her voice rising. "You just do it, then walk away."

Jinu raised his arms defensively, seeing that his girlfriend wasn't willing to leave him alone. "Jesus, what do you want from me?"

"To finally start caring. To take care of things around. To take care of Zoey."

"I do take care of her," Jinu shot back. "But I literally just got home after twelve hours of dancing, and God forbid I want to sit down for five minutes."

"I'm tired as well, Jinu. I don't get the luxury of sitting down and resting. I work, I take care of Zo, I cook, I clean, I wash your stupid shirts, and I still try to smile through all that, while you do what exactly?"

"Work, Rumi. Some people actually work."

"I do work as well. I tutor the kids, I write the lyrics. For your little group as well, in case you’ve forgotten."

"Jesus Christ… we're managing just fine." Jinu sighed, running his palm across his face. "Please, let's drop it. It's not worth it to have this conversation."

That was it. That broke whatever self-control Rumi had left. The arrogance was enormous. So casual, so dismissive. Something in her chest clenched, tight and hot, and before she could swallow it down like she always did, it surged up and out.

Rumi snapped.

"We? Maybe you do, I certainly don't." She was furious. Tensed shoulders, brows narrowed, and fist clenched. "Do you sleep three hours per day? Do you feed her? Rock her to sleep? Do you even do anything for her? For me?"

"I do support you, stop saying that I don't. You know that’s a blatant lie."

"I don't care about your stupid money and text messages. I mean real parenting. Like waking up in the middle of the night because she's crying. Changing her diapers. Balancing her on your hip while doing three other things at once. I do that. You don't."

He snorted under his breath. An actual, sarcastic chuckle.

"Are you serious right now? You’re laughing at me?"

"Because you're acting like a child."

Before Rumi could even think about it, the words slipped themself. "Get out."

Jinu sighed, like it was a normal occurrence in their household. Another hysterical outbreak. "Baby, you're tired. You don't know what you're talking about."

But Rumi was done pretending it was fine. Done nodding and smiling and swallowing her frustration like it didn’t matter. Because it wasn't fine when she was raising two children, with the catch that one of them was a fully grown man who still expected a gold star for rinsing out his mug. Enough was enough. The force with which she stood up was enough to make her braid sway behind like a tail. She finally faced him with her body, but couldn't meet his eyes.

"Get the fuck out."

One step forward.

"You know you'll be calling me in an hour, right?"

Another one.

"I fucking said, get the fuck out of my apartment!"

Jinu didn't move. In fact, he just crossed his arms on his chest and scanned his girlfriend with a half-amused gaze.

"You think anyone else is gonna put up with you?" The words cut deep. The temperature in the room fell below zero. "Think about it twice. You wanted this life. No one else is going to love you with all your shit. I don’t think you want to do that. I don’t think you want me out of this apartment."

A book flew across the hallway. It missed him. Barely.

"I’m warning you, Rumi. I’m trying to be nice."

Anger was an emotion Rumi didn’t let herself feel most of the time. It took too much space, burned too hot, and left too much behind to clean up. It swallowed her whole. It made her feel like she was slipping, like the ground beneath her had turned to water. No grip, no breath, just this rising tide inside her chest. She was drowning in it. There was no escape. Once she entered, she would burn everything to ashes.

She finally faced Jinu. He was standing tall, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He didn’t need to raise his voice to command the room. But something was different this time. Rumi didn’t shrink back. She didn’t look away. She straightened her shoulders, even though her knees felt unsteady.

"Should I call for the police to escort you out?"

"You’re acting like a child. Get a fucking grip."

"Can't you even admit you're doing a shit job as a dad? As a partner?"

"Christ, Rumi… I do my best. It's not that easy for me either. But no matter what I tell you, you're going to turn it against me. Like always."

"Okay fine. Go on, then – tell me how amazing you're doing your best. When was the last time you fed her in the middle of the night? When was the last time you let me sleep? Do you even know what she sounds like when she cries at 2 a.m.?"

"Rumi, stop it, I'm serious."

"You treat this place like some motel, treat me like some maid you can boss around and–"

"Just shut up!"

He snapped. Rumi barely had time to react before his fist went flying. She flinched, instinctively recoiling, eyes squeezed shut. Her heart stopped for a breathless second. This wasn’t the first time Jinu would get aggressive, but he never raised his hand to her. Not until now. Or so she thought. The blow didn’t land on her. Instead, it slammed into the wall beside her with a deafening thud. The plaster cracked, the knuckles deeply buried in the hole.

Rumi's breath was fast, laboured. She could hear her own heartbeat, loud and rapid. Her hands trembled. Her whole body trembled. A cold sweat spread across her skin. She felt nauseous. Disoriented. Her mind struggled to catch up with her body’s panic. Had he meant to hit the wall? Had he missed on purpose? Did it matter?

She looked up slowly, her vision sharp despite the blur of fear behind her eyes. They locked gazes. Jinu looked surprised himself – apologetic even.

"Rumi, I'm… I'm so sorry… I- I snapped, I'm- I'm just tired, I didn't mean to–"

"If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police." Despite the tears rolling down her cheeks, Rumi’s voice was sharp, confident. "And if you do something, I swear to God, your pathetic idol life will end right now. Get the fuck out of here."

He hesitated at first, thinking that maybe Rumi would back down. Eventually, he did leave.

Jinu left and never came back, leaving his crying girlfriend on the floor with a screaming child in their once shared apartment.

One blue shirt – that's all it took.

To her own surprise, Rumi did get a few hours of sleep in her daughter's bed. Though she woke up with a sore neck and a slight bodyache, she still slept better than on most days. The nightmares didn't find her in the room with pink walls and too many turtle toys. She could've sworn she dreamt about one.

Saturday slipped into their apartment with soft rays of morning sun. Lazily tearing through the cream coloured curtains. It was those soft moments with faint steam clouds from the mug and the gentle buzz of a waking Seoul just beyond the window. The TV hummed quietly on the news channel that no one in particular was watching.

Once she got pregnant, Rumi started to watch the news like crazy. It felt like something a proper adult would do. Did she enjoy it? Not really. But somehow, staying well-informed gave her the illusion of control. Something to cling to when everything else felt unpredictable. The habit stuck, even now, though most days she barely registered what the anchors were saying. The only part that ever truly held her attention anymore was the weather. She’d find herself mentally planning Zoey’s outfits while the weather presenter spoke, matching cardigans to temperatures and rainboots to cloud icons without even realising it.

Rumi was fresh out of the shower – lavender waves damp from the water, cheeks flushed from the heat, and clothes clinging to her still-wet body. She was bustling around the kitchen barefoot with a spatula in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. No hoodies, no long sleeves, no shorts that covered all her thighs – in the solace of their little apartment, she finally felt free.

Saturdays were the best.

Rumi checked the hour on the microwave, humming under her breath. It was almost nine, which meant that Zoey was most likely going to wake up in the span of twenty minutes maximum. That also meant that Rumi should turn the kettle on, so the tea had some time to cool down before Zo could drink it – no burned tongues, no tears falling down on the kitchen tiles. A scenario that happened way too many times.

She poured water into the kettle and pressed the switch. It clicked softly. Checked what was in the fridge, pretending to debate her choices, but she was reaching for the eggs anyway. Emptied the bottle of its last bits of oil into the pan while switching the rice cooker to the warm mode.

While waiting for the pan to heat up, Rumi scribbled a list of tasks onto the whiteboard stuck to the fridge. A quick grocery list, house chores, finishing her drafts, checking her school email… It was a lot for one day. She paused, pen hovering mid-air, debating how to squeeze in a walk to the park – Zoey had been asking all week with those wide, pleading eyes.

By the time the kettle clicked, signalling the water had heated up, Rumi was already reaching for a mug, just as the soft patter of sleepy footsteps padded behind her.

"Mornin'…"

With messy bed hair, eyes still closed, and Derpy dragged behind her, Zoey entered the kitchen, clearly not happy with the fact that it was morning already. Rumi couldn't help herself and reached to mess with the dark locks even more. Morning Zoey was the most adorable Zoey.

"Morning, baby. Had a good sleep?" Rumi felt a small face nuzzling the inside of her leg. The still-sleepy cheeks gave a comforting warmth. Zoey mumbled something incoherent into her shorts and hugged her thigh, trying to get closer. Rumi shook her head, but with the softest smile she had reserved only for her daughter.

"Maybe go lie on the couch then, hm? I'll find the good blanket."

A headshake.

"No?" Rumi replied, amused, cracking two eggs into the pan. "You wanna stay in the kitchen with me?"

A nod.

"Should I pull up the high stool?" Another headshake, "No?"

With a grunt, Rumi moved to grab a lid to cover the sizzling eggs. Even then, Zoey didn't let go of her, latching onto her leg like a koala.

"You're going to make me fall over," Rumi muttered with a half-smile, but there was no real heat behind it.

She tried to shuffle across the kitchen, dragging her daughter along like an extra limb. Zoey clung tighter, face pressed against Rumi’s thigh, her little arms wrapped tight. It was like trying to cook with a small, affectionate anchor wrapped around her leg.

Rumi gave up after an unsuccessful attempt to reach the trash bin. "Alright, young lady, you gotta help me out here. I have no idea what you want."

Zoey didn't reply with words; instead, she shot her arms up, knowing her mom would get the message. And she did, obviously. 

"Ah, of course." In one swift motion, Rumi gently peeled Zoey off her leg, just enough to scoop her up and rest her on her hip. The little one groaned in protest, still half-asleep, but didn’t resist. Rumi pressed a kiss to her hairline and reached for her coffee with her free hand, cradling the warm mug like a lifeline.

Lukewarm coffee, eggs covered, tea steeping, Zoey clingy but not crying – small victories. The day looked promising.

As she leaned against the counter to take another sip, something bright caught her eye.

A brightly coloured brochure from Zoey’s kindergarten peeked out from beneath a pile of post. She took it out from her bag the night before – “Creative Movement & Dance for Ages 4–6!” – circled in pink marker by her teacher, along with a sticky note that read "She already twirls through story time. Just saying!"

Rumi glanced at her daughter, who was now leaning against her shoulder, still quiet but awake enough to be nosy. "Hey, bug? What do you think about dancing?"

Zoey blinked at her, then gave a small, sleepy smile. "Dancing fun…" she mumbled, before nuzzling into Rumi’s neck like a cat.

With a crooked smile, Rumi hoisted her a little higher and turned toward the fridge. She grabbed the whiteboard marker and scrawled a new line under her growing to-do list.

Mira was absolutely right.

The kids were absolute sweethearts, even with that one girl who couldn't stop talking. The real problem was with their parents. Moms, to be exact. The worst type – the Gangnam moms. With bags pointlessly expensive, big sunglasses and the attitude Mira couldn't handle for more than five seconds.

They tried to bribe her into letting them into the dance hall, probably to start a competition to see whose child is the best. Mira didn’t budge. Not even when the threats started, mentions of CEO husbands, private connections, and cards that never declined. Like she didn’t carry a black card herself. She met it all with the same cool, deadpan stare. Not a twitch of her expression changed. And when she was done humouring them, Mira simply stepped back and closed the door in their faces with a crisp smile: polite, practised, and razor-sharp. It was crazy how worked up those women could get.

Mira always denied the fact that she liked children. Even better – she loved them.

Adults lie. They flatter. They gossip. They manipulate. Kids, on the other hand, just blurt things out. When her pants are weird or when her hairstyle is cool, they'll say it. No filter, no hidden motive. They are blunt, exactly the same as Mira is. They find it funny or cool. Or at the very least, they don’t take it personally. Mira’s awkward silences or intense stares don’t faze them.

Kids liked Mira, and Mira liked kids. But she kept that secret to herself. It was something delicate and private. For various reasons.

After thirty minutes of dancing with a bunch of five-year-olds, Mira called for a quick break. Some of the little ones ran to their moms, and some stayed in the room chasing each other around. The redhead left the room under another staff member's watchful eye and jogged through the building looking for a vending machine. One of the girls, whose parents weren't present, forgot her water. Mira didn't even think about it twice – she just simply bought it.

Mira crouched to grab the bottle from the vending machine’s bottom tray and stood up with a small grunt, flipping her hair as she turned back toward the corridor.

But of course, Mira's luck was certainly not on her side. Life would be too good if she had one day, one good day, without anyone messing up with her short temper.

Someone who was rushing through the halls certainly did not expect a tall person to suddenly grow from the ground. They barreled straight into Mira’s side with a solid thud, the kind that knocked the air out of both of them. She staggered a step, barely managing to keep her grip on the cold water bottle, while the other person let out a startled, breathless curse, arms flying in the air to catch their balance.

Despite the annoyed groan that Mira let out, because why was bumping into her a recurring event these days, her free hand grabbed the stranger's waist, pulling them onto their feet. Their glances intertwined.

The stranger happened to be a woman. With brown eyes opened wide, scanning Mira's face in disbelief and slightly parted lips as if she meant to say something, but was too shaken to form any words. Mira, for her part, didn’t move right away, shocked as well. Held her hand firm on the woman's waist, making sure she didn't fall over. But with the moment dragging for a little too long, she became very aware of how close they were. How warm she was. How soft.

And how ridiculously good she smelled, like floral shampoo, cherries and a hint of vanilla.

Her fingers twitched slightly before she let go, clearing her throat and stepping back. Casual. Totally casual. Like she hadn’t just been hit by another stranger for the second time that week and momentarily lost her grip on reality.

Lavender hair. That’s what did it.

Held back in a braid, slightly undone from the rush, a few strands clinging to flushed cheeks. The redhead stared just a second too long, her eyes flicking from the soft slope of her jaw to the dark circles below her eyes. Her expression didn’t shift, but inside, her brain short-circuited for half a breath. She looked familiar. Too familiar.

Then it clicked.

"God, excuse me, I'm- I'm such a klutz these days." The stranger bowed rapidly a few times, eyes going up and down in panic. "The dance class. Is it over? Did I miss the pickup time again? Do you know anything? Do you even work here!? Gosh, are you one of the–"

But Mira wasn't even listening to her. Before she could even register it, her thoughts spilt out loud. "You've got to be kidding me… It's you."

"What?"

"It's you," Mira said again, blinking once. Then twice. She almost laughed at how ridiculous it was. Key word: almost. "From the shop. Last Friday. You walked into me with the force of a tank."

"I did not!" The woman pouted with theatrical flair, planting her hands firmly on her hips like she was ready to argue her case in front of a jury. Her brows knit together in disbelief, lips parting like she couldn’t believe she was even being accused. That lasted seconds before her face went pale. Eyes going wide, hands flying to her cheeks. "Oh my God, yes, I did."

Mira raised a brow, unimpressed. This had to be a joke, or the universe was playing some games on her. How did one stranger collide with her twice? With nine million people living in Seoul, the possibility of meeting the same person twice was vague. Nonexistent. Yet, here they were.

The woman took a half-step back, already flustered. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking–"

"Clearly." A click of the tongue. "Do you always crash into people, or is it just me you've got a personal vendetta against?"

"Huh?"

"Maybe next time try looking where you’re going instead of floating through life like you’re in a daydream." Mira exhaled with a slight shake of her head. She reached into her sweats pocket to grab her phone and check the hour. "It's still going – the class, I mean. We're finishing at five. Thirty more minutes."

"Oh God, cut me some slack… Wait, WHAT?! We?"

"Do you even know what you signed your child into? Did you even bother to check who is running the class?"

Mira studied the stranger with a flicker of doubt. There was something about the way she seemed so distracted, so out of sync with what her daughter was signed up for, that rubbed her the wrong way. To Mira, it screamed careless, or worse, indifferent. She’d seen too many parents like this, those who shuffled their kids from one activity to the next without really caring, as if signing them up was enough to tick a box and wash their hands of any real responsibility. And Mira? She had nothing but hate towards those parents.

The mom, still looking disoriented, after a silent pause, finally asked. "You're the dance teacher!?"

But Mira didn't say anything else. She just rolled her eyes, muttered a few obscene curses under her breath, and went back to her dance class, leaving one mom alone. Completely lost.

Oh, how she despised those stupid moms.

On Fridays, Rumi had only one morning class and was free to go home. She usually used that time to clean around the apartment or finish the lyrics draft that needed her instant attention. That time, however, was one of those rare moments when they had a brainstorming session at the studio.

She loved it when it happened. Last-minute call to head into the studio for a few hours of writing lyrics, mixing music, chugging down energy drinks and eating tons of unhealthy snacks. More than anything, she loved seeing Hae-jin and Chaewon again. Now they weren’t bandmates, just collaborators, and obviously, still best friends. Rumi could always count on Hae-jin to bring ridiculous coffee orders and gossip from the trainee dorms, and Chaewon’s notes were always the perfect mix of blunt and brilliant. The session had been good. She’d laughed more than she had in days.

By early afternoon, Rumi was slipping out of the building with her notebook tucked under her arm and her bag slung lazily over one shoulder. The studio was only a ten-minute walk from her apartment, and she figured she had just enough time to stop for a coffee before heading home. Something warm to sip while checking her emails or writing another set of lyrics that won't ever get a green light. She stood in front of the studio's building, fishing her phone from her bag to check the time, when someone stepped up beside her.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Towering, really. Rumi barely spared them a glance until the colour of their hair caught her eye – vivid, unmistakable red. That same red she’d seen twice before, in the most awkward, stumbling circumstances. Her heart dropped into her stomach. She looked up fully this time, squinting in disbelief. The same deadpan expression, the same pair of sharp eyes and one annoyingly good jawline.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"No way." She said without thinking. "No freaking way."

Chapter Text

Inyeon.

Eight thousand layers of fate, woven through countless past lives. A red thread connecting two souls, tangling their destinies together. By this concept, brushing a stranger's shoulder is no accident – it's the thread pulling the souls closer. In one life, you might pass your lover in the rain without a second glance. In another, you might ask them for directions, unaware of the centuries that have led to that single moment. Each encounter brings you closer. A glance. A touch. A word. Until finally, the thread draws taut – and the two of you stand face to face. People say that for every married couple, there are at least eight thousand layers from their past lives that led them to each other.

Meeting a total stranger on three completely different occasions had to mean something, right? But could your soulmate be a mom with a lilac braid and absolutely no sense of balance? Someone definitely way older, with a child, and probably also a rich husband and a golden retriever waiting for her back home?

That thought occupied Mira's mind more than she'd like to. The worst part was that it had only been a day since she saw her. Nineteen hours, if she wanted to be precise. Because yes, each time that stranger popped into her head, she started checking the hour. Like she was counting down for something she didn't know about yet. Like her unconsciousness knew better than her, which only made her think she was going crazy – and the day barely started.

It was hard not to think about her.

Sometimes you meet the same strangers, yes – when you take the same bus after work, or when you shop in the same store every Friday night. But the chances of meeting the same woman twice, when nothing was connecting them, were almost nonexistent. Mira dropped by that store because it was near the studio. But for some reason, the universe wanted her to be there – because if not for that collision, she wouldn't pay any attention to a lilac braid trailing behind one certain mom. The universe wasn't done laughing at her yet. A week later, in a completely different place, there it was – the same purple hair. The same startled face. The same body barging into hers.

Mira was perfectly sure that the universe, or God, or some spirit, loved to bully her. She was asking for one, just one, relationship that didn't feel like she was drowning. But no, of course not, they sent her… whatever that was.

She could pretend all day that romance was something she hated, lie about how love was nothing but a disappointment or talk about family being her worst nightmare. Yet, at the end of the day, it was her, fuzzy socks, a facial mask and a sappy kdrama playing on the enormous TV in her too-big-for-one-person apartment.

Not a lot of people knew that the grumpy tower reputation Mira kept was mostly just for appearances. A completely different girl lived in her apartment – it was surely not the "I make my trainees cry just by looking at them" person. It was someone softer. Someone who liked reading romance novels and kicked their feet when the characters kissed. Someone who had fairy lights. Fairy lights. No one with fairy lights was emotionally stable.

Mira wouldn't call herself a hopeless romantic per se… but she definitely was a lovergirl.

A lovergirl with nobody to love. How ironic was that?

That was the catch – despite all that secret yearning, there was a wall that Mira had built. But what can a girl do when all the love she’s ever known comes wrapped in slammed doors and whispered arguments through the walls? Mira grew up in a house full of expectations but empty of comfort. Somewhere between the silent dinners, the late-night shouting matches, and the constant pressure to be someone she didn’t want to be, her idea of love rotted into something sharp and exhausting. Real life wasn’t a romance novel or a K-drama; it was disappointment dressed as family, and Mira had had more than enough of that.

Being alone was easy. No one to disappoint, no one to yell, no one to leave bruises that couldn’t be seen. Mira liked the quiet of her apartment, the way her footsteps echoed against the hardwood, the way the world couldn’t reach her here. Solitude meant safety, and safety was enough… most of the time. But on some nights, standing in the centre of all that polished emptiness, she felt the weight of something missing. She could buy anything, and yet the apartment always felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for someone else to fill the space. Another pair of footsteps to echo in the hall.

Love. That was the only thing her credit card couldn’t buy.

And no matter how hard she tried to convince herself she didn't need it, her soft heart would tell her otherwise. It was bruised, with deep cuts and a lot of disappointment, but it was hopeful; even though Mira guarded it behind tall, thick walls. It was still there, longing for someone to love it whole.

So holding to the idea of inyeon was somewhat comforting. Maybe, somewhere out there, there was someone who would see past the walls she’d built. It was easier to believe the universe had a plan than to admit she was just waiting quietly for something to change. Looking for love on purpose just sounded like volunteering to get her heart stomped on. Believing in fate meant she didn't have to search – it would find her when it was meant to.

Which was exactly what was happening.

On Fridays, Mira would spend the whole day in the studio. Trainees in the morning, girl groups at noon, boy bands on early evenings and after that – a session for herself to polish choreographies in making. In other words, she barely had time to see the outside world. The only break that was longer than ten minutes was in the early afternoon. She had forty minutes to spare, and she had to use them wisely.

Thus, her destination was a nearby café that sold overpriced drinks and cute pastries.

The trainees were extremely annoying that day. Somehow, they couldn't tell right from left, lost a sense of rhythm after the first hour, and Mira ended up losing her patience first thing in the morning. Skipping her coffee wasn't the best choice – she needed caffeine in her veins immediately. So when the session finished, the redhead was almost sprinting to the exit.

As she stepped outside, Mira dug her phone out of her sweats, eyes glued to the screen, hunting for a playlist that could talk her down from irritation. She was jumping from one to another, trying to find a perfect tune. Skipping everything too upbeat, too emotional, too loud. Her one hand scrolled the screen while the other was putting her earbuds in.

She never walked without them – that was the rule. Music made the world feel distant, manageable. People didn’t try to talk to you if you had headphones on.

Mira stopped by the door, shifting weight from one leg to another. Her thumb hovered over a lo-fi playlist she’d heard a thousand times, but something made her hesitate.

It struck her. That smell. Cherries and vanilla. Oh no.

No, no, no, no. Please, no.

That couldn’t be. That wasn’t the same mom occupying her thoughts for the last few hours, standing right in front of her like some walking hallucination. No way. This was just the universe playing its favourite game. It was a stupid cosmic joke. It was keeping her on edge, teasing her with signs until she snapped. There were millions of people in the city. Coincidences happened all the time. Anyone could smell like vanilla, cherries and the same floral shampoo.

But when Mira finally looked up from her phone, she froze.

"No way. No freaking way."

Of course, it was her. The world, clearly, had decided to bully her personally.

The same lilac braid. The same startled deer-in-headlights face. The same expression that screamed Oh no, not again – which, frankly speaking, was something yelling in Mira's brain as well.

Great. It was just great. Fantastic even.

Mira thought for a moment that maybe that strange woman was straight-up stalking her. Because how else did this keep happening? Once it was an accident. Twice was a coincidence. But three times? No, the redhead didn't believe in accidents. It had to have a purpose. There was no other way.

So she did what any self-respecting avoidant would do – she ran away. Because absolutely no part of her was volunteering for a conversation with her fate’s latest joke. Nope. Mira would dip, like she usually did when things got out of control. It was safer that way, even when curiosity piqued her.

When she finally came back, after spending a few minutes pretending to rummage around the studio for a wallet she very much had in her pocket, the lilac-braided menace was gone. Vanished. Thank the gods. Nothing was stopping her from getting her coffee anymore. Finally. Maybe the universe wasn’t completely out to get her after all.

Yeah, no. Life would be too beautiful.

The same braid was standing in her favourite café, in the same queue, at the same fucking time. She was checking her phone, tucking a few stray strands behind her ear, and Mira hated the fact that she thought it was cute. God, it was so embarrassing – thirsting over a mom, probably in her thirties, who had a child and was most likely rich and rude. They were never nice. Never.

Somehow, when the line moved forward, the big, tired, brown eyes scanned the space. Mira caught that gaze and regretted it immediately. And then – oh no – she lifted a hand, wiggling her fingers in a small, almost shy wave, like she was trying to catch the redhead’s attention without scaring her off. She even sent her a smile. A real smile.

Mira’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. Her eyes quickly snapped to the menu board, like it was the most interesting thing in her life.

Yeah, inyeon my ass. She thought bitterly. The eight-thousand-layers-of-nonsense. Sure. A frazzled, clumsy, not-pretty-at-all mom in a coffee line. Great. Perfect. I lied. I don’t believe in that anymore. It’s stupid. It doesn’t exist. Nope. Not real.

Frankly speaking, Mira had no idea why it was stressing her that much.

She was grumpy, looked emotionally constipated with a default deadpan expression and exactly zero fucks to give. She wasn't scared of people – people were scared of her. But here she was, biting her lower lip, crossing arms over her chest, and ignoring one specific person. For some unfathomable reason, the lilac-haired stranger was getting under her skin. And not in the usual, irritation-based way. In that strange, soft and intoxicating way, which was dangerous. Softness was dangerous.

So it was easier to find reasons to hate her. Like thinking she was a bad mother. She probably was. She had to be.

The line finally moved, and Mira reached the register to order the longed-for coffee.

"One iced americano." She said plainly, taking out the earbuds, hand flying to her sweats for a wallet.

"Sure." The barista, a high-schooler at best, smiled at her, pressed something to the register's screen and looked behind Mira. "Next person, please!"

The redhead moved a few steps but quickly walked backwards, her expression still the same – maybe eyebrows slightly raised.

"Uh, you forgot to charge me."

The girl looked at her with a surprised face. "Oh, that woman over there paid for yours, too. She placed thirty won, said it's for your drink, and the rest is a tip. I thought you knew each other."

"What? Who–" Mira's eyes followed where the barista's hand pointed. There she was. Once again. Barging into her life in the worst ways possible. Sitting with her back towards her, chin propped on her left palm, while her right hand was writing something. Oblivious to the turmoil she was causing Mira in that moment.

The redhead thanked the girl under her breath, stepping aside to wait for her drink. She hovered by the pickup counter, one hand in her pocket, the other pretending to scroll through her phone. Should she say something? Maybe the universe was trying to show her a sign? Or… maybe this woman was just buttering her up. People didn’t buy coffee for strangers out of pure kindness. No, this had a purpose. A secret motive. She was probably trying to bribe her. Maybe she wanted her kid to get special treatment in class, to always be in the front row, to get extra praise. Mira could practically see the parent politics forming in her head.

The blood boiled in her veins. She finally understood all those smiles, the kindness, paying for coffee… maybe even the second collision wasn't an accident after all? A scenario she saw millions of times – with the difference that people were more direct with her. Maybe for the best; Mira hated mind games. This one was dressed in a knitted cardigan and smelled incredibly good. But that was on a side note.

Was confronting her a good decision? Mira didn't know. But she took the coffee and marched ahead anyway. 

One lonely purple braid, sitting in the middle of the coffee shop, had no idea there was a pissed-off tower closing in fast. Mira wasn’t great at subtlety or patience, and she definitely wasn’t great at keeping stuff to herself either. If something was bothering her, she would address it out loud – stranger or not.

"Okay," The cup hit the table with a dull thunk, the ice rattling violently against the plastic. "What the hell do you want from me?"

"Jesus Christ!" The woman placed her hand on her chest, closing her eyes for a brief second. A shaky exhale left her lips. "You scared me."

"You paid for my coffee because you knew I would come to ask. Easy way to initiate a talk. I know this tactic; a lot of people used that on me." Mira paid no attention to the surprised face and continued talking. "What do you want, huh? But I can guarantee you the answer is going to be no."

There was a pause. Silence. Very awkward.

"What are you talking about?"

The redhead blinked slowly, completely unfazed. Of course. Classic. Pretend innocence, act like you have no idea what’s going on. Then suck up to your victim and get what you want. Well, not today. Mira had to be straightforward. She was pissed enough for one day.

"Aren't you trying to bribe me like the rest of your gang?"

The woman tilted her head, baffled. "What gang?"

Mira’s jaw tightened. Was this woman for real? The whole wide-eyed, soft-voiced confusion thing was either Oscar-worthy acting… or she was genuinely clueless, which somehow made this even more annoying.

"You and the rest of the dancing moms squad."

They looked at each other for a few seconds. Mira, with her eyebrows raised, the stranger wth her lips parted mid-thought. A silent standoff until the woman's eyes went wide.

"What!? No!" she finally blurted out, hands flying in the air as if to physically shake off Mira's assumptions. "I was being nice." She hesitated, cheeks turning into a shade of crimson. "And maybe I was also apologising for bumping into you… two times already."

Mira didn’t move, just blinked at her, completely caught off guard.

"And it's also a thank you!" the woman added in a rush, like she needed to unload the evidence before Mira sentenced her. "For buying my kid water. She told me yesterday."

Oh. Oh.

"Oh..."

So, first of all, Zoey was her daughter. That actually made sense. In a way, they had the same oblivious energy radiating from both of them. Like sunshine that refused to notice they're standing in the middle of the storm. Second of all, it wasn't anything that Mira assumed. No bribe, no ulterior motive, no secret scheme to buy her off with caffeine. Just a clumsy mom who apparently said thank you with coffees and nervous smiles.

Which, honestly, was worse. Because Mira had already built an entire narrative in her head, with vivid imagination of the whole family dynamic. Now she just looked like a villain in a sitcom.

"I didn't know kindness is such a red flag." A nervous laugh broke the silence. "I also didn't know there was a gang of moms?"

"Sorry, I'm just used to…" Mira cleared her throat. "So you're… not bribing me?"

"Absolutely not. I just assumed you wouldn't want to talk to me. Very understandable, I crashed into your shoulder two times already." She looked at Mira with an apologetic smile. "I thought paying for your coffee could do the trick. I… didn't want to barge into your personal space. Again."

"You kinda did."

"Yeah, I just realised." Another nervous chuckle. Mira started to think this was how she coped with stress. "I didn't know how to approach you. You deserved an apology. Plus, I'm in your debt."

"Debt?"

"For the water."

"Ah, right."

Mira looked at that face. Really looked this time. The slightly raised eyebrows, tired but hopeful eyes, lips parted softly, showing a tiny bit of her teeth, which was adorable for some reason. God, what was happening to her? One minute, she was barking at this stranger like an angry dog; the other one, the cat got her tongue, because the woman in front of her was looking at her like a lost puppy.

She bought her coffee. She thought about apologising. She actually made an effort. It felt… nice. Weird in a way Mira couldn't explain, but definitely nice. It's been so long since someone actually wanted to do something – not because they had expectations – but just because. That soft, genuine energy made the walls around her chest shift uncomfortably.

Okay, maybe she still believed in inyeon. Just a little, though.

With a defeated sigh, she took the seat in front of the stranger, leaning back on the chair. Trying to look like she didn't care. Like she wasn't dying from the embarrassment inside because she assumed something completely different from what was the reality. Like she didn't accuse the woman in front of her. With ego confidence on top of that.

Mira took a slow sip from her straw, eyes half-lidded. "Thank you. You really didn't have to, unnie."

The woman’s eyes widened, clearly scandalised. "Unnie?"

"Well, you're a mom, so–"

"So you just assumed I'm older? You don't know how old I am! You could as well be my unnie."

They stared at each other before the woman muttered a sheepish 'Sorry'.

"Doubtful." Something interesting was in that outrage that made Mira lean forward and play along. "But okay then, how old are you?"

"I turned twenty-six in January."

Mira smirked. "Ha. I win. I'm twenty-six in June. You are my unnie."

"Shit. I mean, crap. I mean, shit." The stranger ran a palm across her face. "Sorry, God. When you have children, you're so used to biting your tongue."

Mira just watched the woman fumble at her own curse words and felt how the corners of her lips curl into a genuine, amused smile. A soft snort even escaped her, which was rare enough to be considered a national holiday.

Maybe this woman wasn’t the stuck-up, careless adult she had assumed. She was awkward. She got flustered over nothing. She was… kind of endearing, actually. And most shocking of all, she was Mira’s age.

Then it hit her.

The person in front of her, the menace with lilac hair and dark circles under her eyes, was twenty-six. They were basically the same age. But she had a kid. That was six at best. So she was twenty when she had her baby. Maybe twenty-one. It didn't matter, really. When Mira was outdrinking her colleagues in bars at three in the morning, that woman was rocking her baby to sleep. They were the same generation, probably grew up with the same TV shows and pirated the same K-pop albums in high school.

Six months wasn't much in theory, but the gap suddenly felt enormous. Not in years – but in the completely two different worlds they lived in.

The dark circles underneath those brown irises, the hopeful but cautious gaze, the tensed shoulders… now it all made sense. But Mira was always the first to judge and regret it later.

"Do I have something on my face?" the woman asked, interrupting Mira's train of thought with genuine confusion.

She was staring. Way too long, it seemed.

"Yeah," Mira muttered before her brain could stop her, "a reality check, I guess."

"Huh?"

Did she say that out loud? Oh, she did. She definitely did.

"Sorry." Mira blurted, heat creeping up her neck. She had to say something. Anything. Anything to cover up the slip-out. "I just imagined you're one of those annoyingly good-looking moms who age backwards. You think they're twenty but are almost forty."

Both of their cheeks went red immediately.

"God, it sounded so bad. What I meant is that you look amazing. I really like your face."

Fantastic. That's even worse. What the hell, Mira!?

"Oh." The woman blinked rapidly, mouth agape, then stumbled upon her own words. "Sorry. Yes. I'm happy–?… I mean, thank you. Yes. Thank you."

Thick silence followed, broken only by the soft hiss of the coffee machine. Mira sipped her americano, looking everywhere but toward the lilac-haired woman across the table.

A rhythmic tapping pulled her attention back to the table. She glanced up and finally noticed the pen in the woman’s hand, nervously drumming against the edge of an open notebook. Pages filled with neat, slanted handwriting that peeked out from under her palm.

Mira hummed with curiosity and took this as an opportunity to drive away from the awkwardness that had settled around them.

"You write?"

The woman fidgeted at the corner of the open page, almost protective. Her gaze dropped to the notebook before she gave a sheepish nod. "Oh, yeah. I write lyrics. I'm a ghostwriter."

The redhead blinked. "Wait so–"

"Yeah, that's why I was at the studio."

"I do choreos for them."

"Seriously? No way!" A short laugh, genuine this time, Mira thought. "That’s actually hilarious. We’ve probably passed each other a dozen times and never noticed."

"So… we're sort of coworkers?"

"Seems like it." The woman said, though her tone carried a mix of amusement and wariness, like she wasn’t entirely sure if that was a good thing yet. But she smiled nevertheless.

For a brief second, Mira felt that spark of irritation again – that it was ridiculous for someone who’d been stressing her out for days to suddenly be sitting across from her, sipping coffee and smiling like this was normal. She should be angry. She should be annoyed, maybe even a little hostile. That was the script she’d prepared. But the longer she looked at her, at the lilac braid slipping over one shoulder, the faint dark circles under her eyes, the way her smile softened her whole face, the harder it was to keep that script going. This wasn’t some smug adult with a secret agenda. She was awkward, easy to fluster, and apparently bad at taking compliments. A mom, yes – but also a woman who looked like she hadn’t slept properly in years and still managed to look… nice.

Okay, she looked beautiful.

And suddenly, all that irritation Mira had for this strange woman was gone. She was so worked up for nothing. There was a thought crossing her mind that she could still be a horrible parent, but with each passing second, she believed it even less.

"I'm Rumi." The woman suddenly extended her hand across the table. "Ryu Rumi."

"Kang Mira." Without second thought, Mira took it, relishing in Rumi's warm hands. "Wait… Ryu Rumi?"

"…Yes?"

Each second was getting better. The stranger wasn't exactly a stranger anymore. Mira knew that name.

"Oh my God. You wrote Star Shaped, right? I love that song." Mira's excitement slipped through, but at this point, she didn't care anymore. "I did the choreo for that one."

"God, right! I loved the choreography. You do know how to make the dance go popular. It was all over the internet. My daughter even tried to learn it." Rumi grinned, leaning in and pretending to shove the invisible microphone toward Mira. "So, Miss Viral Choreo, how does it feel to have your work crash the whole internet?"

The redhead looked down at the hand, then back at Rumi. Usually, Mira would just send a person a judging side eye and scoff at their antics. This time she didn't. She decided to indulge herself in that strange banter, leaning forward to speak into the microphone, a big smirk playing on her lips.

"Ryu-ssi, you tell me. The song was a total hit. How does it feel to be a successful woman?"

Rumi laughed, eyes closing. "Oh, please. I was a part of the team, so I can't take all the praise." She tapped her chin, eyes wandering. "I only wrote the bridge and the second verse. Some of the pre-chorus… maybe the whole pre-chorus?"

"Those are my favourite parts," Mira replied with a serious expression. "Those were the internet favourite parts. Stop being so humble."

"You give me too much credit. Let's talk about you."

"Me?"

"Well, you’re the Kang Mira. I’ve heard your name tossed around the studio more times than I can count, so I'm not gonna lie, I am kinda curious about you."

"And I am kinda scared," Mira smiled, hiding behind her cup. "But go on."

"You're choreographing for a crazy amount of money – or so I've heard. How come you're running a dance class for preschoolers?"

Mira blinked. Looked to the side. Took a sip of her americano. Bit the inside of her cheek. Didn't answer. Couldn't. Which only made Rumi grin.

"Ohhh," she said, teasingly. "It's a secret."

"It's not. I'm replacing my colleague until he's back from his trip."

"Then why didn't you say that?"

"Because I didn't have to."

"Right."

There was a pause in which Rumi was thriving and Mira was dying.

"Stop smiling."

"I can't. You're literally a softie with a murderous gaze."

"Excuse me!?"

"Sorry." Rumi bit down her smile. "I meant that you're soft with kids. Despite all the looks."

"I am literally not."

"That's why you bought water for Zoey?"

This woman didn't even know her, and she was teasing her in broad daylight. What was even worse was that Mira allowed it – it's been a while since someone would dare and poke her like that. It was… weirdly refreshing.

"Look, she said she lost her bottle, she was dehydrated, and I can't have a child fainting."

"Ah, right." Rumi had this dreamy look on her face. Like she knew something Mira didn't. "So, you don't like children?"

"I wouldn't say I don't like them. I'm… okay-ish with them."

"You're a terrible liar."

Mira groaned, setting her cup down. "God, fine! Is it really that weird that I like kids?"

"No," The woman replied easily, leaning back in her chair. "I think it's cute."

"Please stop," Mira said, pointing a finger at her with mock warning. "I need to keep my appearances. Nobody can know. My trainees would eat me alive."

Rumi laughed, covering her mouth with one finger, her expression playful. "Alright, alright. It'll be our secret."

Despite herself, Mira felt her lips tugging upwards. Mostly because Rumi's laugh was infectious, but maybe also the word cute had ways to fold her. She hated that it worked on her.

Before she could fire back with something witty, her pocket buzzed against her thigh, vibrating insistently. One glance at the screen made her groan.

"Crap, I gotta go. I have another session in ten." She quickly stood up, grabbing the cup with her, but still took a second to look at Rumi."Thanks for the coffee, unnie."

"You're welcome. And I'm sorry again. For ramming your body."

"Apology accepted." Mira chuckled, then after a moment of hesitation, added a little quieter, "It was nice… talking to you."

"Likewise."

After bowing a few times too much, Mira turned on her heel and headed towards the exit. There was this strange feeling pooling in her chest. The one when you're excited about something, though she was sure there was nothing to be excited about.

She was halfway to the exit when she heard Rumi again. "Hey, um…"

Mira turned almost immediately, breath catching in her throat. "Yeah?"

"I like your glasses."

Oh, God. She was giving her a compliment. Why? This was bad. This was extremely bad. The whole image of a rude, rich, and neglectful mom was crumbling in Mira's head. No, Rumi, don't do that. You have to hold the illusion that you're mean. Otherwise, you'll keep making a certain heart skip a beat. And that certain heart wasn't sure if it was ready for that.

"I like your braid," Mira said with a small smile, then quickly added, as if to forget she actually said it. "Try not to bump into me next time."

"No promises."

In that moment, the only thing that Mira could even think of was: It's so over.

Bobby kept the promise. Quite generously, if you asked Mira.

He swung by in the morning with two big bags full of junk food. Every kind. Cup ramyeons, stacks of Pepero, honey butter chips, tteokbokki, banana milk… you name it. He dropped the bags on the counter, letting the snacks spill out in a coroful avalanche. And then, as if nothing had happened, he stormed out of Mira's apartment, talking about some urgent meeting. He didn't even say bye.

He left her alone, with a mountain of food and shock. Mira hadn't expected Bobby to actually follow through. He proved her otherwise, and she wasn't ready for that.

In the evening, she got a message from her friend. Jiwoo. The one and only person who had the privilege of knowing Mira closer. A screenwriter with too much energy and enthusiasm. A complete opposite of the grumpy dancer, yet somehow, her best friend.

They met years ago, when Mira just moved to Seoul and started university. Jiwoo had decided to ambush her in the café near campus simply because she felt like it. According to her, Mira looked both cool and lonely – and that was something she couldn't just walk past. Jiwoo was a person who, when she set her mind on something, just had to do it. That time, Mira looked like a fun person to her, despite the coldness she would give her at the beginning. Gradually, they became close friends. Mostly because her friend had a lot of patience, and Mira was grateful for that.

Having Jiwoo around warmed her wary heart. Even when she wouldn't admit it, she loved her friend. A menace with bleached hair and big, round glasses. And, true to form, the message Mira got was so very Jiwoo.

No greetings, no context, just a casual demand to let her crash at Mira’s place while she worked on her latest script. Maybe even "borrow" some snacks and drink the expensive alcohol her friend had stashed.

Mira looked at her phone, then at the mountain of food, then back at her phone.

That was how she ended up in her living room, polishing some choreo in front of the full-length mirror. Across the room, Jiwoo had made herself perfectly at home on the couch, laptop balanced on her knees and surrounded by an alarming number of open chip bags. The only sounds were the occasional rustle of foil and the steady clack of keyboard, blending with the muffled music in the big apartment.

For the first time in a long while, Mira couldn't get her moves straight. Her feet tangled where they should have flowed, steps landing a fraction too late, arms missing the beat… She's never missed the beat, come on. Music lived in her veins. She had years of experience with gruelling rehearsals and stage lights. Her own body was betraying the flood of thoughts filling her brain. Definitely not about a mom that smelled so good and looked like she hadn't slept in years.

"I feel you're doing this part for an hour now," Jiwoo said after a while, seeing Mira rewinding the music yet again.

"It's a complicated one." The redhead groaned, catching her friend's amused eyes in the mirror's reflection.

Mira thought that Jiwoo wouldn't say anything, as she went back to typing, but she couldn't be more wrong. Her friend finished a line, saved the document and closed the laptop with a loud clunk that echoed through the halls. It was interrogation time.

"I think you're distracted. And there is a good reason behind it." The blonde squinted her eyes, scanning Mira's body up and down. Like the answers were hiding between her shoulder blades.

"I'm just thinking."

One truth.

"About?"

"Something."

"Mysterious enough." Jiwoo switched her positions so she was cross-sitting on the couch, opening another bag. Her fourth, maybe. "Spill it out. What is it?"

"No one important."

One lie.

"No one important, huh?" Jiwoo’s voice came out muffled, half-swallowed by the sound of her digging into a bag of chips. She shoved a comically large handful into her mouth, crunching like it was her personal mission to deafen Mira. Then, mid-bite, her eyes widened. She froze, cheeks puffed out. "Wait… It’s a person?!"

The music played on, but Mira froze mid-step, realising too late that she’d just let half the secret slip. And with Jiwoo, that was dangerous territory. When she got some interesting tea, she wouldn't stop asking. Not until she got every detail served on a plate.

"No. Yes. I don't know. Gosh, it's nothing." Mira muttered, fumbling over her words as she turned her back to the mirror, pretending to stretch. Anything to avoid Jiwoo’s reflection piercing through her, like she already had the truth and waited for Mira to admit it.

"If it were nothing, you wouldn't be so worked up about it. I can see it bugs you – you never miss the steps."

"I'm just tired, that's all." Lying wasn't one of her abilities, apparently. Jiwoo just laughed at her.

"Tired because you're intensely thinking about some mysterious person. Mira, come onnnn… Who is she? It's been ages since you've been crushing on someone."

That made Mira finally look at her friend. Her voice was as sharp as her gaze.

"I'm not crushing on anyone, Jiwoo."

"Not yet."

"You're so annoying, I hate you."

"No, you don't."

They fell into the silence. Mira stopped pretending she was stretching and finally sat down on the wooden floor. Jiwoo munched on her chips, eyeing her friend suspiciously. For a moment, the only sound between them was the bustling Seoul – a comforting noise of the city that soothed both of them.

But Jiwoo wasn't in the mood for sitting in silence.

"Mira."

"What?"

"Just say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you think about that girl."

In all honesty, Mira hated the fact that Jiwoo could read her like an open book. Maybe it was years of friendship, or maybe it was just that Mira wasn’t as guarded as she liked to think. With a hint of regret, she had to admit it was the latter. Yeah, she was definitely easy. There was no point in hiding it now – Jiwoo would figure it out anyway, with too much enthusiasm for Mira's liking.

"I think that I wanna be her friend."

Jiwoo threw a pillow. "Oh my God, Mira. You don't do friends. I don't know who you're trying to fool right now. Definitely not me."

"You're my friend." Mira caught it, hugging it to her chest.

"Okay. Who else?"

"Uh, Bobby?"

"Yeah, exactly. You don't have friends. You don't do friends. You don't let your guard down except when you have a crush. So please, say it out loud."

The redhead shot her a glare. "I'm smitten, that's a difference."

"God, thank you for finally admitting. So, who is it? Do I know her?"

"I barely know her myself."

With a low grunt, Mira got to her feet and plopped on the couch, pillow still hugged tightly, like she tried to shield herself from the ongoing questions.

"Wow, you're so gay that's actually tragic." Jiwoo shoved the opened bag in front of Mira's face, offering the chips. It was almost empty when the dancer put her hand in. "What, you met her like one time and suddenly your heart is doing backflips?"

She looked at the chip in her hand like it had all the answers in the whole wide world.

Why the hell did she think about her, anyway? It was a funny coincidence or a funny joke the universe was playing on her. Because logically, there was no reason for this woman to occupy her thoughts so much. Yet, there she was, lingering in the back of her mind, refusing to disappear. Especially that laugh. Laugh that felt like softness and safety. Maybe with a hint of weariness. But it was stuck in Mira's head, playing on loop.

"Kang Mira, are you with us?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's just… She barrelled into me while I was shopping last week. Then another time on Thursday. Mind you, she's a total stranger. I really didn't know who that was. Yesterday, I left the studio to buy myself coffee and guess who stood in front of the door? It's actually ridiculous." She took a pause to munch on the chip. "Apparently, we've been working with each other for a few years now, and we've never met. How's that even possible?"

"You tend to ignore a lot of things, actually. People especially." Despite the snarky comment, Jiwoo's eyes shone with excitement. "I love how the universe couldn't handle your bullshit anymore, and she literally had to bump into you. Maybe there were signs, but you're too far gone in your head to notice them."

The readhead just rolled her eyes and nuzzled her face to the soft pillow in her arms. She wanted to disappear and never come back. All of this was pathetic. She was a loser. All of this because of a clumsy mom with a lilac braid. Ridiculous.

Like, get a grip, Mira.

"Oh my God!" Jiwoo looked at her friend like she had uncovered a mystery. "What if she actually bumped into you on purpose because you didn't pick up any signs she was throwing at you? She literally had to throw herself at you. Maybe she's the one crushing, and you're so late to the party. Imagine! Years of pinning and subtle signs, but she finally realised that it won't work on you, so she had to take the matter into her own hands."

"I highly doubt that." Mira's voice was muffled. "You just love making up stuff that doesn't even exist."

"They pay me for having a creative mind." The blonde shrugged. "Okay, but you've seen her face two– no, three times, and that's all it took? That's all it takes to be Mira's crush? You're so damn easy."

"At first, I thought she was annoying. And she literally crashed into me two times. It pissed me off… I hate when people don't look where they're going."

"And what changed your mind?"

"She paid for my coffee."

"That's it?"

Mira finally raised her head and scoffed, but Jiwoo put her arms in the air, pretending to surrender.

"We ended up in the same café yesterday. She'd said the coffee was an apology for barging into me. And then, I don't know, it somehow turned into a chat. Yeah, we chatted. For a moment." She bit down on her lip before continuing. "She's funny. Gets flustered easily. Six months older than me. But there's a catch–"

"WHAT!?" Unable to contain the excitement, Jiwoo had to stand up, throwing the empty bags of chips in the air as a result. "Mira, that's literally the best that could happen. She's interested. Definitely. One hundred precent, I know 'cause I-"

"She's a mom." Mira's words cut deep.

They looked at each other – Jiwoo with a shocked expression and Mira with her default deadpan, although this time with a hint of disappointment.

"Huh?" The blonde blinked once, trying to process what she had just heard. "Say sike. MIRA SAY SIKE PLEASE!"

"Remember when I told you about taking Hwan's children's classes? Yeah, I'm her daughter's teacher." A dry laugh. "Being friends doesn't sound that bad."

Jiwoo landed back on the couch with a sigh. "Okay, it's tragic but not in a funny way anymore."

Mira didn't reply at first. Just snuggled to Jiwoo's side, seeking comfort.

Deep down, she’d been craving something like this all along – a ridiculous, accidental, too-good-to-be-true kind of story. The kind where you meet someone by chance and, somehow, it changes things. And Rumi… Rumi was soft in ways Mira didn’t understand yet, a quiet kind of warmth that tugged at her guard. Some part of her, the one she tried to keep buried, was already looking forward to seeing her again. Even if it meant to shove her sappy romance story aside.

Not a lot of people could get past her walls, but somehow, Rumi, in her own clumsy and oblivious way, got inside. Maybe she didn't even mean to enter, but Mira let her in unconsciously. Like her body knew better.

Mira finally stood up, stretching her arms up in the air. Her long legs carried her to the balcony in unhurried steps. The moment she slid the door open, the warm evening air wrapped around her like a familiar embrace, brushing against her skin and carrying with it the faint scent of the city below. It kissed her face, loosening something tight in her chest.

"Maybe it's my wakeup call." She said a little louder, leaning against the railing. "To stop hoping and buy myself five cats and die like this. Alone."

"You're so dramatic, I can't." The blonde padded behind her. "But it is the truth that you always have a crush on people who are the least available. I know we lesbians like to spice our game up, but you gotta tone it down. Otherwise, I would start buying those cats now."

Mira didn't even look at her. She just groaned, closing her eyes for a moment.

"I was trying to crack a joke, come on!" Jiwoo groaned, reaching into the pocket of her hoodie. She fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and tapped it against her palm before sliding one halfway out. With a teasing smirk, she nudged Mira’s arm, holding the cigarette up like an offering. "Here. Loosen up a little."

The redhead gave it one glance and shook her head. "No, thanks. I’m good."

"You’re not smoking? That’s so not you." Jiwoo’s brows shot up, but she only shrugged and popped one between her lips.

"Zoey told me she doesn't like it when grownups smell like cigarettes." Mira lit up Jiwoo's cigarette with her own lighter and took a step back.

"Who's Zoey?"

"Rumi's daughter."

"Who's Rumi?"

A pause. Mira refused to look at her friend.

"…That mom who bumped into me."

Jiwoo just laughed, took a long drag from her cigarette and huffed it into the darkness.

"God, you're so fucking whipped."

Mira's kitchen felt larger in the morning.

Although it was enormous on its own, something in the stillness of the early hours made it even bigger than it actually was. Empty in some way – but weirdly enough, it was comforting. There was nobody to create unnecessary noise, no one to clatter the dishes or disturb the only moment of the day Mira actually liked. The solitude was safe. Maybe because it was the only thing she knew, really. She didn’t let herself think about how different it would be to have somebody sharing those moments with her. It was easier not to imagine the weight of another presence in the quiet of her home, or the comfort of a voice to fill the gaps in conversation. Different meant changes. Changes meant danger. Sometimes – not always – but Mira wasn't brave enough to check it herself. Not yet.

So it was another morning that she shared with herself and coffee in her favourite mug that had a cute polar bear painted on.

She leaned on the marble kitchen island, her phone in one hand as she scrolled through her apps absentmindedly. News headlines, unread messages, a stream of photos she barely registered. It was the kind of idle scrolling where her mind wandered faster than her thumb.

Setting the cup down, she clicked on Instagram, wanting to kill a few minutes before starting the day. A few reels of cute cats, one of a weirdly interesting fact about Mars' moons – and then a familiar set of moves flashed on her screen. Mira stilled, the video looping automatically. It was her choreography, the same sequence she could dance in her sleep, paired with that song. Star Shaped.

Before she could even register, Rumi's voice rang in her ears: "I loved the choreography. You do know how to make the dance go popular. It was all over the internet. My daughter even tried to learn it."

God, here she was, yet again. Popping into her mind, no matter what time of the day it was.

Mira groaned and stopped herself from imagining Zoey trying to mimic the moves from her own choreo. Maybe Rumi would even record it and post it on her account…

Wait.

Rumi could have an account. There was a strong chance she had one. She was a mom. Annoying or not, all of them had social media accounts.

With the speed of light, Mira grabbed her phone and tapped the search bar. Her fingers hesitated midair, realising the username could be anything – a jumble of numbers, a pen name, an inside joke… It was a wild-goose chase.

She typed everything that came into her mind:

@ryu_rumi

@rumi9901

@ghostwriter_r

@zoeysmom25

@ghostlyricst123

@womanwithalongassbraid

@omggodhelpmeimsopathetic

Mira gave up with a sigh, muttering under her breath. "This is so embarrassing…"

Her head dropped onto the cool marble countertop with a soft thud, the chill seeping through her forehead. She closed her eyes for a moment, rethinking all her life choices. This was painfully humiliating. She was a grown-up woman, not some teenager with a celebrity crush – she shouldn't be so worked up about a stranger she met a few times–

"Wait…" A realisation hit her. "Bobby knows everyone from the studio. He meets with songwriters every week. He definitely has her followed."

Suddenly, all that humiliation thought was forgotten as she found Bobby's profile and searched through the list of accounts he had followed.

She found her. Extremely fast, in addition.

"'ryu.r0103'? Really? This is what you came up with? And here I was thinking you'd be more creative."

She scrolled through the posts. There was a lot to look at, honestly. Rumi in the park. Coffee with a notebook opened. Zoey making funny faces on her lap. A countryside landscape. Another Zoey photo. Pictures of fireworks. Rumi's birthday. Zoey's birthday…

"No photos of a husband. Or a boyfriend. Whatever. Weird." Mira muttered to herself. "You have such a pretty partner, and you don't even take a single picture with her? That's criminal. I'd be on every single one."

She paused on one post where Rumi had Zoey in her arms, both of them doing peace signs. It was in the park next to the Han River. Mira used to run there. That still wasn't the answer to why this mysterious man refused to show his face.

"Maybe he's just ugly." She guessed, scrolling down. "That's even more tragic, Rumi. You could've done so much better. Never settle for less, especially with your face."

Then she found a video from two years ago. A younger version of Zoey was standing on the carpet, a thunder of dark locks on her hair, tongue sticking out as she performed a clumsy dance routine. Additional giggles from Rumi in the background were making the whole video even more adorable.

"God, that's so cute." Without thinking, she tapped the screen two times out of habit. But a second later, Mira's eyes widen in horror. "WAIT! NO!"

Her first instinct was to push the phone far away, hoping the like will undo itself. But then she realised it was not happening, obviously, so with trembling hands, she rushed to remove it. Heart pounding, fingers trembling, Mira fumbled to undo the damage, her breath catching with every hurried swipe. In the chaotic scramble to retreat her touch, her thumb slipped again – this time hitting the ‘Follow’ button. The screen blurred for a second as embarrassment flooded her.

"No, no, no, no, no!"

This was just a nightmare. A stupid dream. Wake up, Mira. Wake up.

"Oh my God." She refreshed the page to double-check if it was true. The horrifying  'Following' stared at her like it had a personal vendetta against her. "Oh my fucking God. What do I even do now? I can't show up in public anymore… I need to dye my hair, get a nose job and move out. This is what happens when I-"  

The phone buzzed in her hand, pulling her back to the present. Mira glanced down at the screen and froze.

Rumi (ryu.r0103) started following you.

Her heart stumbled. She followed me back? The words echoed in her mind. Blink after blink, she stared at the screen like it was some wild, impossible dream.

"SHE FOLLOWED ME BACK!?"

A wave of panic rushed through her. Then relief. Then panic again. Then a tug of happiness. It wasn't a rejection – maybe this clumsy mishap wasn't so terrible after all. Mira had never expected any of this, especially from someone she barely knew. She also didn't expect herself to be stalking a stranger on a Sunday morning. It was… exciting.

But then, she caught herself. Calm down, Mira, she muttered under her breath, trying to shake the sudden flutter of excitement she wasn’t ready to admit. It’s just a follow. Nothing more.

She needed someone to throw a bucket of icy water on her head. She needed a reality check – fast – before she got any funny ideas. And there was only one way to do it. Someone had to talk her out of it.

Before she even realised, she dialled the number that would definitely pick up.

"Jiwoo." Mira was first to speak when she heard a grumbling from the other end of the call. "This is crazy."

"It's Sunday, eight in the morning, I'm sleeping. What do you want from me?"

"She followed me back."

"Who?"

"Rumi. The mom. I accidentally followed her on Instagram. She followed me back."

Jiwoo yawned. "You're stalking her at eight o'clock? You're mad. And so down bad."

And Mira was, truly. That's why she needed her friend. A voice of reason. Though being honest, Jiwoo wasn't the best voice of reason out there.

"Tell me I should stop."

"Mira, I think you should stop."

"But like, be more convincing."

"You don't even know her. She can be a terrible person."

"Her daughter looks at her like she hung the stars herself." She wasn't going to make the fight of reasons any easier.

"I don't know, uh… even if she's single, she does have a kid. That's not dating someone. It's taking a whole package."

"I like children."

"Yeah, but there’s a big difference between liking kids and suddenly acting like a parent to one when you’re not. Think about it. Two women, Korea, a kid. It's a horrible idea."

That's what finally did it. A harsh reality.

Mira sighed, fingers running through her hair. "You're right. God, I'm so stupid."

"You're not. You're just desperate."

"Wow. Thanks, Dr. Jiwoo."

"You're welcome. I'm going back to sleep then."

The call ended. Typical Jiwoo. Hanging up without any warning and leaving poor Mira alone with her thoughts.

She leaned back against the cool marble countertop, chugged her coffee down with one long swallow. A dry laugh escaped her lips – half amusement, half self-mockery. Yeah, it was better to stop now and not after her heart would cry for help again.  

"Zo, please come here!"

Rumi’s voice carried down the short hallway, just loud enough to reach Zoey's bedroom. She stood in front of the narrow mirror in their cramped bathroom, its edges fogged slightly from the earlier shower. Her hands worked on instinct, fingers practised as they guided strands of her lilac hair into a smooth, tight braid. The faint tremble in her knuckles betrayed how little sleep she'd had the previous night. Barely three hours stolen between the glow of her laptop and the scratch of her pen, rushing to finish lyrics for a client who wanted the final chorus to "Feel like a first kiss."

The metaphor had been stubborn – so had the deadlines, and so was her daughter.

"Baby, the faster you come here, the faster you'll be done with it," Rumi called once again, weaving the last parts before securing them with a hairtie. Her patience was running low, along with the lack of caffeine in her veins.

From the other room came the muffled, high-pitched reply, "I can't. I need to find my turtle socks!"

"Can you look for them after I do your hair? Or is it a matter of life or death?"

There was a sound of drawers opening and closing, something being tossed on the ground and a dull thud before Zoey called back again. "They are my lucky socks. I need them!"

Rumi glanced at her own reflection in the bathroom mirror, one brow inching upward. "Does today need to be lucky? It's literally the weekend – no luck needed."

There was a pause, a soft patter of footsteps and then one head peeking into the bathroom, dark hair mussed from sleep and one gap-toothed grin just barely visible.

"I need them 'cause we're going to the park later and it has to be sunny. All day."

"So, you need your turtle socks for that?"

"Yes."

Rumi laughed, hand reaching to ruffle Zo's hair. "Makes sense." It actually didn't, but who was she to argue with her five-year-old daughter's logic? "Fine. I'll brush my teeth while you're at it. But after that, I'm doing your hair. Deal?"

"Deal!" The girl smiled, already darting away again, the sound of her little footsteps retreating toward the chaos of her room. Rumi shook her head at her reflection, smiling faintly despite the drag of exhaustion in her bones.

She knew that it was better to let it happen. Forcing Zoey into doing something never resulted in anything good. Sometimes going with her weird shenanigans was a better option. Keyword: sometimes. Especially not when school started in thirty minutes…

The taste of peppermint soon flooded her mouth as her hand worked to brush her teeth. She paid no attention to the rattling sounds coming from her daughter’s room after the girl had yelled, "I’m fine!" at least three times, and just hoped she'd find those socks soon.

A buzz from her phone on the counter brought her attention. A number she didn't recognise.

From: Unknown

Hi it's jinu

I got a new number

So if you need anything you can reach me out

I hope you and zo are doing good

How's work?

"How's work?" After months of going without any contact, after no visits, no effort to rekindle, he goes with… this?

Rumi just spat into the sink, thumb locking the phone without so much as opening the thread. Not worth the breath.

By the time she’d finished, the toothbrush rattling back into its holder, the buzz came again. She caught the phone before it slid too close to the edge, already muttering under her breath, "If it's him again, I swear to God–"

Kang Mira (k_mira01) started following you.

Rumi blinked at the name. Kang Mira. The grumpy dancer. The woman with a deadly gaze. The person she bumped into… twice. Someone she thought actually hated her.

And now? She was apparently looking for Rumi’s account to follow her.

Rumi’s lips curled in faint amusement. "Kang Mira, huh? Why the hell are you stalking me first thing in the morning?" She murmured, thumb hovering over the screen. Her thumb lingered over the notification, torn between dismissing it and letting it vanish on its own. But something interesting was about that follow. Like Mira was challenging her.

One small tap and she followed back.

"Mommy, why are you smiling at your phone?"

Rumi looked at the door. Her little girl stood with socks on her hands, eyes full of suspicion.

"I am not!"

"I think you're lying."

"And I think that you're in big trouble, Miss Zoey!"

Rumi ran out of the bathroom, chasing her daughter, who was squealing in delight. Behind them, her phone sat abandoned on the washing machine. The screen? Still showing an account of a certain dancer, while message after message from Jinu kept rolling in.