The alarm buzzed at 6:03 AM—not a minute earlier, not a minute later. Mira Yoon exhaled into the silence of her apartment, counting each breath the way Dr. Lee had taught her. In. Out. In. Out. By the sixth exhale, her fingers were already curling around her phone, scanning emails before her feet even hit the floor.
Breakfast was a protein shake gulped between looping her hair into a tight bun. The subway ride was spent memorizing client portfolios, her knee bouncing in a nervous rhythm she'd never quite outgrown. She used to stutter when ordering coffee, her throat locking around the words. Now, she rehearsed them under her breath before stepping up to the counter.
"Large. Iced. Americano. No sugar."
Four words. Four beats. No room for error.
The barista—someone new, with a silver lip ring—smiled as he slid the cup toward her. "Rough morning?"
Mira blinked. Had she been tugging her earlobe again?
"Just the usual corporate warzone," she said, forcing a laugh.
Her desk was a monument to chaos. Sticky notes in pink, yellow, and green—color-coded by urgency—covered every available surface. A half-dead succulent (a gift from her only friend, Seo-yeon) wilted in the corner, its leaves drooping like it, too, was exhausted.
Mr. Han appeared without warning, his tie perpetually crooked. "Yoon," he barked, tossing a file onto her already teetering stack. "The Park account. They want revisions by Friday."
Friday was tomorrow.
Mira opened her mouth—
"Y-yes, I—"
No.
She clenched her fists under the desk, nails biting into her palms. Not here. Not now.
Mr. Han didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he'd learned not to mention it.
Seo-yeon's call came at 9:17 PM, just as Mira was debating whether a fourth coffee would kill her or just make her see God.
"Tell me you're not still at the office."
Mira eyed the mountain of paperwork. "I'm… at a spa?"
A snort. "Liar. You're worse than that guy I dated who said he 'worked in finance' and actually just sold gym memberships."
Mira smiled, leaning back in her chair. This was their rhythm.
Seo-yeon had crashed into her life two years ago—literally—spilling an iced matcha down Mira's white blouse. Instead of apologizing, she'd laughed and blotted the stain with napkins, her diamond nose stud glinting under the café lights.
"You're the first person in this city who didn't recognize me," she'd said. "Refreshing."
Now, their friendship lived in midnight voice notes and rushed lunches between photoshoots and client meetings.
"You're coming to my show this weekend," Seo-yeon announced. "No excuses. I'll drag you out myself if I have to."
Mira hummed, noncommittal. They both knew she'd cancel last minute.
By 10:30 PM, the office was a ghost town.
Mira's fingers ached from typing, her vision blurring at the edges. Somewhere between the third contract and the fifth, she'd started chewing the inside of her cheek, a habit Dr. Lee kept scolding her for.
"You're treating your body like an enemy," she'd said last session. "When was the last time you let yourself just… stop?"
Mira hadn't had an answer.
She glanced at the window—the city lights smearing into gold streaks—and for a second, something hollow yawned in her chest.
When was the last time she'd looked at anything without calculating how much time it stole from her to-do list?
Her phone buzzed.
Mom: Mrs. Kim's son is visiting from LA. Nice boy! Let's all have dinner :)
Mira groaned and typed back:
Me: Is this the same 'nice boy' who set his dorm on fire making ramen?
She tossed her phone aside before the reply could come.
Outside, rain began to patter against the glass.
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a voice whispered:
Stutterbird.
She stiffened.
Not now.
Mira shoved the thought away and reached for the next file.
---
The rain had turned into a downpour by the time Mira dashed out of the office building, her thin blazer doing little to shield her from the cold. She cursed under her breath, gripping her bag tighter as she sprinted toward the neon glow of the 24-hour convenience store across the street.
Her shoes splashed through puddles, the icy water seeping into her socks. She hated the rain—always had. It reminded her of days spent waiting alone under the school awning, watching other kids run off with their friends while she stood there, silent.
A flash of movement caught her eye.
Near the bus stop, a man stood beneath a black umbrella, his face obscured by the shadows and the rain. But something about the way he held himself—the slope of his shoulders, the tilt of his head—made her breath hitch.
No. It couldn't be.
She blinked, and when she looked again, he was gone.
Mira shook her head, pushing the thought away. Stress. Exhaustion. Whatever. She shoved open the convenience store door, the bell jingling overhead as she stepped into the fluorescent light.
The store was empty except for the cashier, a bored-looking college student scrolling through his phone. Mira grabbed a bottle of water and a packaged kimbap from the refrigerated section—dinner, if she could even call it that.
As she waited in line, her phone buzzed.
Seo-yeon: You're still at the office, aren't you?
Mira hesitated before typing back:
Me: No. I'm out.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Seo-yeon: Liar. Send me a pic or I'm calling.
Mira rolled her eyes but snapped a quick photo of the rain-streaked store window, the neon sign outside casting a pink glow over everything.
Her phone rang immediately.
"What the hell, Yoon?" Seo-yeon's voice was sharp, but Mira could hear the worry underneath. "It's almost midnight. You better be going home after this."
"I will," Mira muttered, handing the cashier a few bills.
"You say that every time."
Mira tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder as she grabbed her things. "I'm fine. Just needed food."
"You're not fine. When was the last time you slept more than four hours? Or ate an actual meal?"
Mira didn't answer. She stepped back out into the rain, the cold hitting her like a slap.
Seo-yeon sighed. "You're going to kill yourself like this."
"Dramatic."
"I'm serious. Remember what Dr. Lee said? You can't just—"
Mira froze.
Across the street, beneath the awning of a closed café, the man with the umbrella was back. This time, he was turned slightly toward her, his profile just visible in the dim streetlight.
Her stomach dropped.
That stance. That stillness.
It was the same way he used to stand by the school gates, watching the other kids without ever joining in.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
"Mira? You there?"
"Yeah," she said faintly. "I—I think I just saw someone."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
A car sped by, spraying water onto the sidewalk. When it passed, the man was gone again.
Seo-yeon was quiet for a beat. "...You okay?"
Mira exhaled, forcing herself to move. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Go home. Now."
---
Flashback
Ten years ago.
The slide's metal was cold against her back, the laughter of the other kids echoing across the playground. Mira pressed her knees to her chest, her throat burning with words she couldn't say.
Then—a rustle.
A boy crouched in front of her, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He didn't speak. Just held out a carton of strawberry milk.
When she didn't take it, he set it on the ground between them and walked away.
She never saw his face clearly.
But she remembered his shoes. Black, with a small scuff on the left toe.
---
The scent of fresh paint lingered in the air as Mira stood frozen in the doorway of their new apartment. Sunlight streamed through sheer curtains, illuminating dust motes that swirled like tiny ghosts. Jae's hand settled at the small of her back. "Breathe," he murmured against her temple. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath.
Mira's fingers traced the edge of the kitchen counter as she moved through the unfamiliar space. Ten years ago, she'd been curled at the base of a playground slide, knees pulled tight to her chest while other children's laughter echoed around her. The taunt - Stutterbird - had clung to her ribs like a bruise. Then a boy had appeared, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he silently set a carton of strawberry milk between them before walking away. She never saw his face clearly, but she remembered his shoes - black, with a scuff on the left toe.
Rain pattered against the windows as Mira sorted through a box of childhood photos. A faded school portrait slipped free - eight-year-old Jae glaring at the camera, his left eye already swelling from the fight he'd picked with her bullies. She could still hear her own hiccuping voice - "St-stupid... Y-you didn't h-have to—" - and his firm interruption: "Yeah, I did." Not impatient. Just certain. Like it was simple. Like she was worth it.
Now, Jae's shadow fell across the photo. "You kept that?" His voice was rough with something Mira couldn't name. She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, the years between then and now collapsing in an instant. "You kept me," she said simply. His laugh was rough, but his hands were gentle as they lifted her from the floor.
Their wedding day arrived with unexpected rain, the downpour drowning out the officiant's words. Mira gripped Jae's hands, her fingers trembling - not from fear, but from the overwhelming weight of standing before the boy who had once been her silent protector. "When we were kids," she began, her voice steady in a way that would have shocked her younger self, "I thought you were just a shadow between me and the world." Jae's jaw clenched, his eyes dark with emotion. "But you were never just that. You were the one who waited... even when I didn't know what I was trying to say."
A tear slipped down Jae's cheek as he brought their joined hands to his lips. "And you," he rasped, "were the only one who ever made silence feel like a gift." The rain outside seemed to hush as they leaned forward, foreheads touching, the past and present folding together like well-worn pages of the same story.
Some nights, Mira would wake to find Jae already sitting up, his profile silhouetted against the window. "Can't sleep?" she'd murmur, and he'd turn to her with an expression she'd learned to read years ago - that particular tension in his jaw that meant he was remembering. "I keep thinking about the playground," he admitted one such night. Mira reached for him, her fingers brushing the scar on his knuckles - the one from the first fight he'd ever picked for her. "Me too," she whispered. And for the first time in years, the memory didn't hurt.
The letter arrived on a Tuesday. Plain envelope. No return address. Mira's breath caught as she unfolded the single sheet of paper inside. Strawberry milk still your favorite? Beneath the words, a small, smudged doodle of a bird in flight. Jae's hands shook as he took the note from her. "How...?" But Mira was already smiling. Because some things, it seemed, were never truly lost - just waiting to be found again, like a carton of strawberry milk left in the rain.