Morning light spills onto my face through the tinted windows, the city stirring awake. I grip the steering wheel of the Mercedes, still not used to the hum of its engine or the way it responds to my every touch—I haven't found my rhythm with it yet. I don't remember when I even learned to drive. I only have one destination in mind before work: Yul's apartment.
The coffee shop from our date is on the way, and a plan forms in my head—a peace offering, maybe, or a bridge to close the distance between us. I order a white chocolate mocha and a dark roast, remembering the exact way Yul had ordered for me without missing a beat.
Balancing the coffees, I make my way to his building and up to Yul's floor.
The chime of the doorbell cuts through the stillness of the corridor. Moments later, the door swings open, revealing Yul, his hair tousled, eyes still clouded with sleep. He's clad in sleep pants that hang low on his hips and a loose shirt that seems to accentuate the lines of his body. The sight tugs at a buried emotion in me—a deeply rooted loging.
"Yena?" His voice is rough with sleep, a frown creasing his brow as if he's trying to place me in the context of his disrupted slumber.
I shuffle on my feet, the coffees in my hands suddenly feeling like an inadequate offering. "I brought coffee," I say, lifting them slightly as proof.
He blinks slowly, processing the information. Then, as if realizing his state of undress might be inappropriate, he rubs a hand over his face and steps aside to let me in. I enter, hyper-aware of the shift in energy between us.
The quietness of the apartment wraps around me like a blanket. There's an intimacy to this moment that both comforts and unsettles me. I set the coffees down on a small table near the entrance and turn back to Yul. His sleepy demeanor has an innocence about it that I find incredibly endearing. Yet beneath that softness is tension—the same one he always carries with him when he's around me.
"Are you always going to do that?" Yul asks, gesturing towards the door with a nod. "You know you don't have to. You can let yourself in."
I shrug, looking away from his probing gaze. "It just doesn't feel like my space," I admit. "I still think it's right to ring first."
He watches me for a moment longer before moving to sit at the edge of his bed, running a hand through his hair to tame it somewhat. The silence stretches between us—an empty space carved out by missing context and whatever it is that always holds Yul back.
Something about seeing Yul this way—vulnerable in the morning light—makes me feel like I've lost something. It feels like it's been ages since we've shared something as simple as waking up together. And even though I can't recall specific moments or mornings past, I feel a throbbing ache whenever I look at him in his sleep clothes and bleary-eyed frankness. Like I've missed this version of him.
"Why does this upset me?" I murmur more to myself than to him, my eyes tracing the lines of exhaustion beneath his.
Yul sits at the edge of his bed, a figure etched in the soft light filtering through the blinds. His heavy gaze holds mine for a heartbeat too long. The air is a little too thick in here for no good reason.
"I'm planning to spend time with the kids this weekend," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. "I want to get more acquainted with them. To...to try and be part of their lives again."
Yul's expression doesn't change, but there's a shift in the air—a tensing, as if he's bracing for something more.
"And," I continue, a sudden surge of boldness propelling my words forward, "I was wondering if you'd like to come with us. To the petting zoo park."
His reaction is immediate; his eyes widen just slightly before he schools his features back into that familiar guarded calm. The idea seems to take root in him, stirring something behind his careful composure.
"It's neutral ground, isn't it? Somewhere we can just...be."
Yul's surprise flickers into apprehension, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he processes my suggestion. "The petting zoo, huh?" His tone is laced with a hint of skepticism.
"Yeah," I insist, pressing on before he can formulate a reason to decline. "I think it would be good for us... for the kids. And I could really use your help since you're more familiar with them."
I watch the internal struggle play out across Yul's features. There's a part of him that wants to say no, to retreat behind the walls he's built up around himself. But there's another part—the part that lights up when he talks about the kids, when he lets down his guard—that wants to say yes.
"Inha has some family business to attend to, so he can't come," I lie smoothly, hoping my face doesn't betray the nervousness bubbling under my skin. It's a small deception for what I believe is a greater good—a chance for Yul to connect with our children without Inha's shadow looming over us.
Yul sighs and runs a hand through his hair, his gaze drifting away from me for a moment as if seeking answers in the morning light. Finally, he nods. "Alright," he says, his voice quiet but resolute. "I'll come."
Relief washes over me in an exhilarating wave. "Thank you," I breathe out, the gratitude genuine and warm.
Yul offers a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes but tells me that he's willing to try—for the kids, for us.
I leave his apartment feeling lighter than I have since waking up in this new life. The anticipation for the weekend buzzes through me like electricity.
It's a start—a hand held out in invitation and Yul reaching out to take it. And as I make my way to work, there's an excitement building inside me at the thought of what this could mean for all of us.
Lunchtime finds me across from Hyemi, picking at a salad while I think nervously about how things are going to go this weekend. I tell her about my struggles with figuring out my balance between Yul and Inha and trying to feel at home in a place that is still new to me.
"It's strange," I tell her, my fork tracing patterns in my untouched food. "I feel like it's someone else's home, but there are pieces of me all over. Things that feel like they had my influence or something I would've picked. My things but not."
Hyemi nods, understanding flashing in her eyes. "I can't even imagine," she says with a sigh. She leans forward a little, saying in a quieter voice, "I know this is bad advice because you did choose to erase it and all, but if it were me, it would drive me crazy not knowing details about my life. I'd be digging into every drawer and closet and box in the attic looking for…I don't know, like a diary or something. Just to see what my past self was thinking."
I pause, her words igniting a spark of curiosity within me. It hadn't occurred to me to look through my own things for clues. In all the chaos and confusion, I've been living on the surface of this life, afraid to dive too deep into it.
"You really think that's a good idea?" I ask, finally taking a bite of my salad.
She shrugs, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth. "What's the worst that could happen? You might uncover something you love or learn more about who you were... who you are."
Her casual suggestion takes root in my thoughts, growing with each passing second. It's true; amidst all the uncertainty and lost memories, any thread leading back to myself is worth pulling.
"I suppose there's no harm in it," I concede with a thoughtful frown. "I mean, it's not snooping if it's your own stuff, right?"
"Exactly!" Hyemi grins, reaching across the table to give my hand an encouraging squeeze. "It's just you rediscovering you."
The idea settles into me—decisive and resolute. After lunch, as I make my way back to work, Hyemi's words replay in my mind.
It's decided then; tonight, once everyone else is asleep and the house is quiet, I'll begin my search. Maybe hidden among the folds of forgotten clothes or tucked away in the back of some dusty drawer lies a piece of me just waiting to be found again.
The office clock ticks away the minutes until I can leave without raising eyebrows. Normally I would have no problem putting in the extra hours, but today is different. Today, I have a mission.
As soon as it's acceptable, I gather my things and head out. In the elevator down, I pull out my phone, my thumb hovering over the app that connects me to Inha's tracker. It's a strange thing to know someone's every move like this, Hyemi actually mentioned the tracker in a different conversation. Something about her friend spying on a flitty boyfriend, and that all men had them implanted when they turned eighteen. I didn't even know the app was on my phone until I looked it up and saw the app icon on my home screen. You can get the tracking ID to any man you're seeing by scanning it with your phone apparently. Both Inha and Yul's names and tracking IDs show up on the front page of the app under my profile. This power sits uneasily in my stomach. Maybe I'm old-fashioned or stuck in 2013 or whatever, but it feels like an invasion of privacy. Especially since the guys can't exactly opt-out, but it's necessary for today. The screen lights up with Inha's location when I press his name—a meeting across town. Perfect.
I step out onto the busy Seoul streets and hail a taxi. The ride is a blur of cityscape and honking horns; my mind is already in our apartment, plotting out where to begin.
I pull into our parking garage and swing the SUV wide into the spot beside Inha's empty one. The doorman greets me with a nod as I pass through the lobby and into the elevator once more.
Our place is silent when I enter—in contrast to the usual evening chaos of kids and dinner preparations. I set my bag down and kick off my shoes.
Inha won't be home for another hour at least, according to the tracker's estimated timeline. It's enough time to get started, maybe even enough to find something.
I start with our bedroom—their bedroom—where Inha and I supposedly share a life together. My eyes scan the room, landing on the dresser. Drawers first.
I slide open the top drawer of the dresser, the wood gliding smoothly on its tracks. Inside, a neat row of watches and cufflinks, Inha's unmistakable penchant for luxury on display. I close it, uninterested in the gleam of metal and leather. The next drawer down holds an assortment of scarves and accessories—items I could see myself choosing but not wearing.
The belongings seem impersonal, like artifacts from someone else's life. It's unsettling, how little attachment I feel. The next few drawers offer more of the same: neatly folded clothes, stacks of handbags, a box of sunglasses. All expensive, all beautiful, all nondescript.
I'm about to close the last drawer when my fingers brush against a small keyhole hidden at the back of a jewelry tray. My heart skips a beat—finally, something that isn't out in the open.
I rummage through my mind for where a key might be hidden. It's only logical that it would be nearby. I scan the room again and notice a small ceramic dish on top of the dresser—a dish I've seen but never paid much attention to. I walk over and sift through its contents: spare change, a couple of hairpins... and there it is—a small brass key with an ornate handle.
With key in hand, I return to the drawer and unlock the hidden compartment. A sense of anticipation builds as the small door creaks open to reveal a velvet-lined space containing a single item: a keepsake box adorned with intricate carvings.
My breath hitches as I lift the lid and am greeted by stacks of printed photos. The first few are pictures of Yuji as a newborn—her tiny fingers wrapped around mine in a grip that seems to echo through time. Flipping through more, I find Seungho's bright eyes looking up from his crib, Seungi's toothless grin as he smashes his first birthday cake.
A wave of warmth rushes over me when I uncover images that aren't just about motherhood—pictures of me with Inha at some glittering event, both of us laughing with champagne flutes in hand; another set with Yul, our faces sun-kissed and smiling on what looks like a hiking trip.
The memories aren't there, but these images bring them close enough to touch—a tactile connection to moments my mind can't recall but my heart insists were filled with joy.
At the bottom of the pile of photos is a set of dark prints on waxy-feeling paper. As I pull them out I feel a small ache behind my ribs when I realize what they are. Ultrasound photos.
The stack of ultrasound photos is a chronological map of my pregnancies, each image marked with a date that tells the story of my children's beginnings. As I flip through them, familiar faces from the photographs echo in the shades of gray—Yuji, Seungho, Seungi—all before they were born, already loved.
Then, I pause. My fingers tremble slightly as they hold an ultrasound dated 2026. It doesn't make sense. Seulgi was born in 2025, and no one has mentioned another child since. There are no toys scattered that aren't accounted for, no extra set of tiny clothes or shoes. No whispered conversations that stop when I enter a room.
I study the photo more closely, looking for something that might explain it. The date is printed clearly at the top—no smudges or signs of tampering that might suggest a mistake. It sits there, a solitary question mark amidst the rest of the organized record.
A logical part of my brain tries to reason it away. A misprint, perhaps—a slip of someone's finger on a keyboard when entering the date. Or maybe it isn't mine at all; maybe it belongs to a friend who left it behind after sharing good news.
I turn the ultrasound over in my hands, searching for any notes or names that might give context, but there's nothing—just the stark white back of the paper and the echo of my own racing heartbeat. Why does this image make me feel anxious?
With no clear answers and an increasing sense of confusion, I replace the photo on top of the others and close the keepsake box. The lock clicks—a small sound that seems to reverberate through the quiet room.
I sit back on my heels and take a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I try to shake off the unsettled feeling that has taken root in my chest. It must be a misprint or a friend's forgotten memento; there's no other explanation.
Shrugging off the mystery, I stand and tuck the keepsake box back into its hidden compartment, locking it once more. There are other drawers to explore, other pieces of my past waiting to be rediscovered—this one anomaly won't define my search tonight.
With the keepsake box secured once again, I scan the room, looking for the next clue to my past life. That's when I notice a door ajar across the hallway. Odd, considering all this time I hadn't seen it open or used. Curiosity piqued, I approach and push the door open fully.
The room is dimly lit by the waning light from the window, but it's enough to see that it's an unused bedroom—or rather, a room not meant for sleeping. There's an air of abandonment here, yet everything is meticulously arranged.
A rack of clothes stands against one wall, and I step closer to inspect them. The garments hanging there are all in shades of black or dark gray—nothing like Inha's more vibrant wardrobe. They have a certain style to them, loose yet structured in a way that suggests they were chosen with care and intention.
My fingers brush over the fabric, noting the softness of the material and the occasional silver accessory that adds a touch of personality. A leather jacket catches my eye, and as I lift it from its hanger, I'm struck by how familiar it feels in my hands.
Beyond the clothing rack, a shelf holds an array of cameras and lenses. They're not just any cameras—they're high-end models that any professional would envy. They sit alongside an assortment of photography books and small trinkets that seem to have personal significance.
This isn't Inha's room; nothing here screams his style or his hobbies. Then it clicks—the distinctive style, the cameras—it must be Yul's things. But why are they here in Inha's apartment? Why is there a space for him in a home he doesn't occupy?
A camera catches my attention, one that looks older than the others—a vintage film model that seems well-loved and often used. Beside it lies a leather-bound journal that seems out of place amongst the technology. On impulse, I reach for it, my heart racing with every possibility of what could be inside.
I open the cover gently, half-expecting to find Yul's handwriting scribbling down thoughts or musings on photography. But as I flip through the pages, they're blank—waiting for words that were never written. It feels significant, this empty journal among Yul's possessions in our shared space—a story untold.
I place the journal back on the shelf beside the camera and step back, looking around once more at this curious room that raises more questions than answers about Yul's place in this apartment—and in my life.
Hours later, lying beside Inha, the silence of the night presses against my skin. His breaths, even and deep, lull me, but the curiosity burning inside me refuses to be tamed. Pushing my apprehension back, I muster the courage to voice my thoughts.
"Inha," I whisper, and he stirs beside me, his arm tightening around my waist.
"Hmm?" he hums, a note of sleep still in his voice.
"The spare room," I start, my words careful, "the one with the clothes and cameras. It was Yul's, wasn't it?"
Inha's body tenses, the change in his demeanor as palpable as a sudden drop in temperature. The closed-off expression I've come to associate with any mention of Yul is undoubtedly there, even if I can't see it in the dark.
"Yes," he admits after a pause that stretches long enough for me to regret asking. "It was."
A heavy silence fills the room, one that I'm compelled to break. "Did Yul live with us here?" The words feel strange on my tongue, a question I never imagined asking.
Inha shifts beside me, and I sense his discomfort. "Yeah, he did," he confirms, his voice barely above a whisper.
The confirmation sends a jolt through me. I try to picture it—Yul's presence in this apartment, the three of us entwined not just in theory but in daily life. It's a scene that is oddly correct, like I should've known how it was.
"But...he has his own place." My mind races, trying to connect the dots of this story of ours.
Inha exhales slowly, and when he speaks again, his words are careful. "He moved there a year ago."
A year ago. The timeline adds another layer of mystery to the already tangled web of my past. "Why?" I ask, needing to understand.
"We..." Inha starts but then hesitates. His body language is stiff and he obviously wants to get away from this topic.
"We what?" I'm getting so tired of this endless confusion, just coming up with more questions without answers.
Inha turns to face me, and even in the dim light, I can see the struggle written across his features. "I promised," he finally says, "I'm not to talk about it anymore." His words are final, leaving me with more questions again.
Complicated is an understatement for what we are—a family puzzle with pieces scattered and edges frayed. I'm getting tired of the missing pieces. They aren't doing anything but getting in the way and keeping me from seeing the full picture I'm working with.
What happened last year? What was so bad that it caused a permanent rift between these two men but not bad enough to expel Yul from our lives completely? I'm obviously not going to get answers from Inha or Yul. Past me didn't want to remember, but current me is spinning in listless circles without that vital information. Maybe past me didn't know what she was talking about and I'm just going to have to decide what's best for me on my own.