Five Years Later
The bookstore was quiet in the early morning light, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and old paper wrapping around Jae like a second skin. He straightened a stack of children's books—The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Where the Wild Things Are, Goodnight Moon—his fingers lingering on the worn spines. The shop wouldn't open for another hour, but he'd come in early, needing the distraction. Needing to do something with his hands besides clench them into fists.
Mira was late.
She was never late.
His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the counter—tap, tap, pause, tap—the same restless pattern from childhood. The one he'd drummed against slide metal while waiting for her to take the strawberry milk. The one he'd tapped against his desk the day she left that carton for him.
His phone buzzed—a text from Soo-yeon:
"Stop pacing. She's fine. Just running an errand."
Jae exhaled sharply. He wasn't pacing. He was just—
The bell above the door chimed.
Mira stepped inside, cheeks flushed from the winter air, snowflakes melting in her dark hair like stars winking out. She held a small paper bag from the convenience store near their old elementary school, the one that still stocked the same brand of strawberry milk. Her other hand rested low on her stomach, fingers splayed protectively.
Jae's breath caught.
"You," he said, stepping around the counter with forced calm, "are late."
Mira's smile was soft, secretive—the one that still unraveled him. "I had a stop to make."
Jae's gaze dropped to the bag. The logo triggered a memory: a smaller Mira under the slide, clutching a ruined notebook, her face hidden behind her knees. The first time he'd left the milk between them like a peace offering.
"Strawberry milk?" he asked, voice rough.
She shook her head, setting the bag down carefully before reaching for his hand. Her fingers were cold as she guided his palm flat against her abdomen.
His world tilted.
"Not just that," she whispered.
For a heartbeat, time folded—the past and present collapsing into a single moment. The playground slide. The crumpled note in the rain. The way she'd once pressed his scarf to her face, breathing him in. Now, beneath his hand, the faintest flutter of a new beginning.
"You're—?"
Mira nodded, eyes bright. "We are."
Jae's knees nearly gave out.
He had imagined this moment a thousand times—had dreamed of it during those years apart, when the memory of her was the only thing that kept him grounded. But nothing could have prepared him for the way his chest tightened, for the sudden sting in his eyes.
Mira's fingers curled around his. "You okay?"
Jae swallowed hard. "Yeah." His voice cracked. "Yeah, I just—"
He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. She smelled like jasmine and snow and home. Mira laughed against his shoulder, her own tears dampening his shirt.
"You're allowed to be happy, you know," she murmured.
Jae pulled back just enough to press his forehead to hers. "I am," he admitted, voice rough. "So happy it terrifies me."
Mira kissed him—slow, sweet, a promise.
Then, from behind them, a dramatic gasp:
"Are you crying?"
Soo-yeon stood in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing an obnoxiously festive sweater with light-up reindeer antlers. She tossed a gift bag at them—it landed with a thump, tiny blue sneakers spilling out. Personalized. Embroidered on the soles: Strawberry Milk Crew.
Mira groaned. "Oh god, no."
Jae grinned, pulling her closer. "Too late."
Soo-yeon flopped onto the reading nook couch, already texting. "I'm telling Hae-soo. She's going to lose her mind."
Mira paled. "Wait—"
Too late. The phone buzzed with rapid-fire replies.
Jae pressed a kiss to Mira's temple, his hand still splayed protectively over her stomach. "We're doomed."
Mira leaned into him, laughing. "Yeah," she agreed. "But in the best way."
Outside, snow blanketed the city in hushed white. Inside, between the shelves of stories and the scent of coffee, their own story turned another page.
Later That Night
The apartment was quiet, the city lights twinkling beyond the windows. Mira sat curled on the couch, the ultrasound photo on the coffee table catching the glow. Jae knelt before her, carefully massaging her feet.
"You're quiet," he murmured.
Mira hummed, staring at the photo. "Just thinking."
Jae followed her gaze. "Good thoughts?"
She turned her hand over, lacing their fingers together. "Remember that day at the playground? When you left the strawberry milk?"
Jae's thumb stilled against her skin. "Yeah."
A beat. Then Mira reached under the couch and pulled out a small, water-stained notebook—the one with the blue rabbit sticker on the cover.
Jae's breath hitched. "You kept it?"
Mira smiled. "Every page." She flipped it open to a smudged but legible entry:
They threw my notebook in the puddle. I tried to dry it, but the words are gone.
A pause. Then, in smaller letters:
I wish he'd been there.
Jae's throat worked. He traced the childish handwriting with reverent fingers. "Mira—"
She pressed the notebook into his hands. "Read to them," she whispered. "When they're old enough."
Jae's vision blurred. He pulled her into his lap, the notebook pressed between them, their future cradled close.
And as the snow fell outside, blanketing the world in quiet, Jae reached for the carton on the table—strawberry milk, slightly chilled—and set it carefully beside the ultrasound.
A beginning.
A promise.
A story that would never truly end.
The End