THREE MONTHS LATER.

The cafe is dimly lit and nearly empty, albeit an old couple who sits reading in the corner. They look at each other fondly every once in awhile, despite reading their own respective books, and you can feel the love they radiate for one another from across the room. The warm cup of coffee you grip tightly warms your hands, but not your heart.

It's been three months since you've seen anyone you know—maybe you should consider them people you used to know. Text messages with Sejun about when to pick up Soomi—he would only send her out to your car, never reveal himself—are the only contact you've had with the man you married since the fateful day that all the secrets you kept were released. Well, other than the divorce papers that he sent to your parents' house, not knowing where you were staying. And wasn't that a fun conversation to have with your mother?

You signed them, with a pen and with your tears that fell onto the paper as you cried. You didn't deserve to be upset, you know that, but you can't help it.

You haven't seen Yuna in quite some time, either—having tendered your resignation the day after everything went to ruin. It was a joint company, but you signed all the rights over to Yuna, not being able to bear seeing your face. Sejun is disappointed in you, and so is Soomi—she doesn't quite understand, but she knows enough that she looks at you differently now. Yuna being disappointed in you would break you entirely. You picked up a job at the very coffee shop you're waiting in now, having just gotten off a shift. Waiting for the last person you'd think would ever want to see you.

Yoongi texted you last night, saying you needed to talk. That you needed to tell him everything. And you are ready. You are terrified of seeing him, of feeling his hatred for you that you just know has been accumulating over the past three months, of hearing his venomous words that are bound to come out, all of which you know you deserve, but that doesn't scare you any less. But you know he needs to know what he should've known years ago. What you kept from him so selfishly.

Another thing you've been doing lately—seeing a therapist. You needed to talk to someone, anyone, you needed advice from an objective source, and therapy seemed like the best option. You go twice a week, working on yourself. Because, after everything you've done, all the people you've hurt to spare yourself, you clearly need some work.

The chime on the cafe door dings.

And then the past three months come hurdling by you in a single flash and Yoongi is sitting in front of you. His hair is no longer blonde, but back to it's raven hue that leaves him looking more like Soomi than you remember, enough to leave your head spinning and your ears ringing and the backs of your eyes prickling with the beginnings of tears—and you haven't even spoken a peep yet. This is going to be a long conversation.

"What's her name?" He breaks the silence, voice strained. When you finally gather the courage to meet his eyes with irises the color of dark chocolate, you see that he's emotional, too. Yoongi doesn't cry easily, you found out early on in your relationship. He prefers to cry alone when he cries at all, and when he does cry, he's overwhelmed to the point of losing all inhibitions. Yet, here he is, waterline brimming with salty tears, jaw clenched to keep his bottom lip from quivering. You set your mug down on the table; your shaky hands no longer reliable.

"Soomi." You whisper, voice weak. Yoongi winces as if you'd slapped him across the face. What you don't know is that he feels like you did. The past three months have given him time to adjust and process the fact that he has a child, a daughter, let alone one that he's never met. One he's never been given the chance to love or cherish or hold. One he didn't even know existed for a whole six years before he even knew her name. Her name. Two syllables that remind him that he didn't known her name until now, but he also doesn't know her favorite food, or her favorite color, or whether she likes grape or strawberry jelly on her PB&J sandwiches, or if she likes princesses or superheroes, or if she's a mommy's girl or a daddy's girl. He doesn't know the essence of the girl behind the name, so the two unfamiliar syllables each collide against him with the force of a punch or a kick to the gut.

God, he almost loses it right there. Soomi, her name is Soomi. His daughter's name is Soomi. He almost breaks down in the middle of the coffee shop, sobs tearing his vocal chords and shoulders quaking with the guttural, raw motion. Almost. But he doesn't. Instead, he nods, he surveys your face. You're on the brink of tears, too, though the cynical part of him wonders what reason you have to cry, because you did this to yourself. Hell, you did this to him. And yet, he can't bring himself to hate you, though he should. Because in the features he sees now, the ones contorting into fake expressions to support lies, are the same ones he used to adore a smile upon. The ones he used to admire. The ones he wishes he still recognized.

You're a pathological liar, you're selfish. You manipulate people and twist words and seem not to give half a damn about the consequences until they affect you. But you're also the woman he fell in love with all those years ago. The one he didn't want to leave, but had to. The one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, the one he never seemed to shake even when he had several opportunities to move on. There had to be some of that person in you, right? Underneath the bitterness and the selfishness and the lies, the reasons he fell in love with you still had to be in there somewhere.

Right?

For once, the optimistic side of him defeated the pessimistic side, and he hopes and prays that the woman you've become is not all that you are.

By now, the coffee in your cup has gone cold. The old couple in the corner is gone. You can see the questions in his eyes, the curiosity and yearning to know everything he should have known long ago.

"You have questions." You say, voice still waivering and susceptible to crack any second now. You brace yourself for the next six words that burn the tip of your tongue. "You can come ask her yourself."

this sucks i'm sorry