The Visit

"Sometimes the hardest part of healing is being around the people who only knew you before."

Yuna hadn't expected her mother to show up in Havenbrook.

There was no warning. No call. Just a text at noon that read: "In town for work. Let's have dinner. 6pm. Cafe near campus."

No hi. No are you free? Just an assumption.

Mina read the message over Yuna's shoulder and immediately groaned. "No context, no care, just vibes and passive aggression."

Yuna didn't laugh. "She's coming to check if I'm still disappointing her."

"You're not."

"I know. But she doesn't."

Yuna spent the next two hours pacing her apartment.

She tried on three outfits before settling on a soft beige cardigan over a navy dress. Neutral. Polished. Harmless.

Her journal lay open on her desk, but she didn't write. She couldn't. Her mind was too loud.

When she got to the café, her mother was already there.

Mrs. Park looked exactly as Yuna remembered—hair pinned neatly back, makeup flawless, posture straight. She was the picture of calm discipline.

"Yuna," she said, standing briefly as Yuna approached. "You look well."

"Hi, Mom."

They sat.

The conversation began, as always, with pleasantries. Safe topics. The weather. Traffic. Her mother's new client in the city. Yuna nodded, responded politely, sipped her tea.

But the silence between answers buzzed with everything unspoken.

"You seem… settled," her mother said finally.

"I am."

"That's good," she said, though it didn't sound like approval. "And your writing?"

"It's going well."

"Are you… being published?"

"Not yet. That's not the only measure of success."

Her mother tilted her head. "But it is a measurable one."

Yuna exhaled. "Why are you really here?"

Mrs. Park's expression didn't change. "I wanted to see you."

"No," Yuna said quietly. "You wanted to evaluate me. To see if this version of me is acceptable."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You don't ask about how I feel. You ask about what I'm doing. Whether it's successful enough for you to claim it."

"That's unfair."

"Is it?"

Mrs. Park went still.

"I'm not a product, Mom," Yuna said, voice trembling but strong. "I'm a person. And I'm not going to keep shrinking into someone more comfortable for you to understand."

"You used to be so focused."

"I'm still focused," Yuna said, sharper now. "I'm just not afraid of disappointing you anymore."

Her mother didn't reply.

Just blinked. Slowly. Like she was recalculating who her daughter had become.

"I love you," Yuna said softly. "But I won't trade peace for proximity anymore."

Silence.

Then her mother stood, reaching for her purse.

"I have to get back."

"Of course."

They didn't hug.

But as Mrs. Park left, Yuna didn't feel broken.

She felt… whole.

Shaken. But whole.

She walked straight to Mocha Moon.

Eli was restocking syrups behind the counter, sleeves rolled up. When he saw her, he stopped.

"You okay?"

"No."

"Sit."

She did.

He came over without another word, placed a mug in front of her, and slid into the seat across from her. His eyes waited, steady.

"My mom was here," she said after a long pause.

He didn't speak.

"She didn't yell. She didn't insult me. She just… made me feel like I wasn't enough. Like I'm doing life wrong."

Eli leaned forward. "And you told her the truth?"

Yuna nodded. "I didn't beg her to understand. I just… let her see me. Really see me."

"That's huge."

"I feel like I might cry."

"You're allowed to."

"I'm tired of being the one who bends," she whispered.

"You're not bending anymore," Eli said. "You're growing."

Yuna looked at him.

"You look proud," she said.

"I am."

They sat in the quiet that followed—warm, still, unshaken by the storm she'd just come through.

Later that night, Yuna lay on her bed, replaying the conversation.

Not to question it.

To honor it.

She opened her journal and wrote:

"It took me years to understand that loving someone doesn't mean making yourself smaller.

I'm still soft.But I'm no longer folding myself to fit."

The next morning, Professor Hwang returned the class's most recent essays. Yuna's had a comment scrawled in red pen:

"You've found your center. Now write from it."

Mina leaned over. "You look like someone who survived a war."

"Maybe I did," Yuna said.

"Do I need to throw glitter on you to celebrate?"

Yuna smiled. "Let's wait till finals."

That weekend, Eli invited her to his place for the first time.

"Nothing fancy," he said. "Just dinner. Maybe records. Maybe a really bad movie."

She wore a sweater the color of honey and brought him a bookmark with a quote she'd copied from her notebook.

"You don't owe the world a masterpiece. You just owe it your truth."

He took it without a word, tucked it into a book on his shelf.

His apartment was simple. Clean. Books and vinyls everywhere. Warm lighting. A record player in the corner. A half-finished painting on an easel by the window.

"You paint?" she asked.

"Sometimes. I don't show people."

"Can I be an exception?"

He nodded once.

She looked.

The painting was soft. Foggy. A figure under a streetlight. It looked like her.

"I started it after the night of the festival," he said quietly.

She swallowed.

"I didn't want to forget how you looked that night," he added. "Like someone remembering how to shine."

Yuna didn't speak.

She didn't have to.

They cooked together—spaghetti, garlic bread, simple things. She teased him for being bad at measuring. He teased her for nearly burning the bread.

Later, they sat on the couch listening to music. Rain tapped against the windows.

Eli turned to her.

"Can I ask something selfish?"

"Always."

"Can I kiss you?"

Yuna froze—but not from fear.

From the feeling of rightness.

She nodded once.

He leaned in slowly.

Their lips met—soft, tentative, then deeper. Gentle. Steady. His hand rested against her cheek like she was something precious.

She didn't pull away.

Because she didn't want to.

Because she wasn't afraid anymore.

That night, she didn't write.

She didn't need to.

Everything she felt was already resting in her chest—warm, full, and finally, finally hers.