What We Let Them See

"The hardest words to write are the ones that come from the part of you still breaking."

Yuna hadn't planned to share anything. Not with anyone. Especially not in front of a room of people.

But Professor Hwang had other ideas.

"It's a small showcase," he said with a warm smile as he passed around the sign-up sheet. "Just for our class. Next Friday, you'll read a short original piece. Think of it as a celebration, not a test."

Yuna felt her stomach knot. She stared at the sheet as it made its way down her row.

She didn't even realize her fingers had written her name until it passed her to Mina.

"You okay?" Mina asked in a whisper.

"I think I just made a mistake."

All week, Yuna thought about backing out.

Each time she opened her journal, she froze. There were plenty of entries. Dozens of half-poems, notes to herself, lines of grief, hope, and memory. But none of it felt readable. None of it felt like something she could say aloud.

She told herself it didn't matter.

She lied.

Thursday afternoon, she found herself back in Mocha Moon, staring at the blank page in her journal again. The café was unusually quiet. The rain outside tapped rhythmically against the windows. Eli was arranging mugs behind the counter when she spoke.

"Do you want to read something I wrote?"

He turned. "You're offering?"

"I think I need to hear it out loud. But I'm not ready to be the one to do it."

Eli didn't ask questions. He dried his hands, walked over, and sat across from her.

Yuna slid the page across the table—folded once, neat. She didn't meet his eyes.

He opened it and began to read.

His eyes moved slowly, mouth tightening, brow creasing just slightly. When he finished, he let the silence stretch.

"Yuna," he said quietly. "This is… real."

"It's messy."

"It's human."

She looked at him then. Really looked. "You think it's okay to read this? In front of people?"

"I think it'll make them feel less alone."

She swallowed hard. "Then that's enough."

The night of the reading, Yuna's hands trembled as she took her seat.

The classroom had been turned into an impromptu coffeehouse — strings of lights across the whiteboard, mismatched mugs on desks, Mina's cinnamon cookies on a paper plate near the window. A few students were already reading, voices soft, some nervous, some steady.

Mina squeezed her hand. "You don't have to do this."

"I know," Yuna whispered. "But I want to."

Her name was called.

And everything inside her went quiet.

She stood.

Walked slowly to the front.

Took a breath.

And read.

"*There are parts of me I've never shown anyone.Not because they're ugly—but because they're unfinished.

Some days, I'm whole. Other days, I'm missing pieces.And I've learned that love doesn't always mean helping someone rebuild.

Sometimes, love just sits beside you on the floor—and holds the broken pieces until you're ready to try.*"

She didn't remember the applause.

She remembered Eli's eyes.

And the way Mina hugged her after—tight, quiet, and proud.

Later that night, back at the apartment, Mina made tea while Yuna sat curled on the couch under a blanket.

"You were brave," Mina said.

"I was shaking."

"And you were still brave."

They clinked their mugs together in soft celebration.

"I haven't told my mom I'm writing again," Yuna said after a moment.

"You don't owe her that."

"I know."

"But if you want to—she might surprise you."

"I don't think she knows how to hold the softer parts of me."

"Then hold them yourself. And maybe let Eli help."

Yuna smiled faintly. "He already does."

The next afternoon, Eli found her at the café.

"You were incredible," he said.

"You weren't even there."

"No," he said. "But Mina filmed it."

Yuna flushed. "She what?"

"She sent it to me. Said you'd pretend to hate her, but deep down you'd be glad."

Yuna groaned.

Eli pulled out a napkin and handed it to her.

It read:

"You're allowed to take up space."

She looked at him. "That's the shortest quote you've given me."

He shrugged. "But the one you needed most."

They sat outside that day—under the café awning, watching the rain drizzle along the sidewalk.

Yuna leaned back, sipping her drink, legs tucked under her seat.

"I used to think healing had to be loud," she said.

Eli tilted his head. "What changed?"

"You."

He looked at her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

"You made it okay to be quiet," she said. "To still be figuring it out."

He didn't respond right away.

Then he said softly, "That's what you did for me too."

They didn't hold hands that day.

They didn't kiss.

But when Yuna stood to leave, Eli said:

"Wait."

She turned.

He stepped forward—just close enough to make the air shift.

"If you ever want to read me something again," he said, "I'll always listen."

Yuna smiled.

"Maybe next time," she whispered, "I'll write it for you."