[Celine's POV]
The day came.
The day I knew would eventually knock on my door, whether I was ready or not.
I texted him.
Just one message.
"I'm ready. If you still are."
Truth is, I knew the moment our eyes met across that club.
That split second—sharp, heavy, drenched in unsaid things.
That was the beginning of the end. Or maybe the end of the end.
I thought he'd be angry.
That he'd march over, grab my wrist, drag me into some alley or car, somewhere dark and distant—just to shake the truth out of me.
Scream. Cry. Demand.
But he didn't.
He just stared.
We just... looked at each other.
Not with rage.
Not even longing.
Just quiet recognition.
Of what we were. Of what we'll never be again.
And God—his eyes.
Those same heavenly eyes that looked down on me, skin to skin, soul to soul, back when I was still someone he loved.
The same pouty lips that once whispered every filthy prayer and curse and promise against my neck.
The same voice that once sang lullabies into my body until I fell asleep tangled in his warmth.
I had to look away.
My throat went dry. My spine stiff.
I left before I did something stupid. Before I shattered again.
When I got back to my table, I saw it.
Just a napkin.
Scribbled. Crooked. Raw.
"Let's meet whenever you're ready."
No name.
Didn't need one.
I knew.
Of course I did.
And I knew this too:
It was time.
He deserved the truth.
The real one. The one I've buried so deep under excuses and guilt and fear.
I owe him this.
Maybe not for love.
But for everything we were...
and everything I destroyed without a word.
The café was tucked into a quiet alley, the kind that made you second-guess if it was still open. A single dim bulb flickered above the door. Inside, it smelled like cinnamon and old memories.
I spotted him.
Farthest booth. Back against the wall. Dimly lit.
He picked the kind of spot you scream from, and no one would ever hear.
He looked up.
God.
Still the same soft face, just... older. More grounded.
More himself.
But what caught me off guard wasn't him.
It was the coffee.
Cream-colored. Whipped cream piled on top like it belonged to a child or a heartbroken poet.
"Not the usual black death you used to drink," I teased, sliding into the seat across him.
He chuckled—that chuckle.
Still like music, but now lower, calmer, edged with something like peace.
"My therapist told me to try something new once in a while," he said, nodding at the mug. "I have. This flavor grew on me."
Therapist.
That word was a dagger.
He needed a therapist because of me.
Because I broke him.
Because I ran.
I should thank her, I guess. She stitched together what I shattered.
He looked... well.
Better. Clearer eyes. Neatly styled hair. Glowing skin.
"Didn't expect you to look this good," I muttered, leaning back. "A little too polished. What happened to the messy boy I left?"
He grinned, running a hand through his hair.
"Turns out healing does wonders. You should try it."
And then silence. Brief. But enough.
No more circling.
So I said it.
"I was pregnant."
He flinched.
I raised a finger. "Let me talk."
"I got pregnant. That's why I disappeared. Only to lose it the same day."
His lips parted, but I didn't stop.
"I was in the sketchiest motel I could find. I didn't want anyone to know. Then I bled. A lot. I called emergency when I thought I'd pass out. They rushed me in. I remember 'ectopic.' I remember 'ovarian rupture.' I remember 'too much blood.' They said something about atony. Whatever that is."
"I woke up with nothing. No baby. No more uterus. They said they had to take it. Emergency hysterectomy."
I laughed. Bitter. Hollow. "Yey, right? What a punchline."
I looked up. He wasn't crying. But he wasn't breathing either.
"It's like the universe gave me ultra karma," I whispered. "The moment I saw the test, I panicked. That's not me. I never wanted to be a mother. I never wanted to build a home. Not after the one I was raised in."
He stayed still. Still listening. Still hurting.
"I planned to abort. Or give it away. I didn't even think of you. I'm sorry. I didn't care about what you'd say. I just wanted it gone. And it is. Forever."
"I can't give you a child. Or that kind of future. Not now. Not ever. I made my peace with that long before I met you. When my mom covered her bruises with foundation and told me marriage just means longer sleeves and fake smiles."
I blinked. My voice cracked.
"But you. God, you. If I told you back then, you would've held me. Raised that baby. Loved me harder. Even if it broke you."
"And that's exactly why I couldn't stay. I loved you too much to trap you in a version of life I could never give."
Silence again.
Thicker this time. Like honey left too long in the cold.
I leaned forward, kissed his lips—soft, fleeting.
Just because I could.
Then I stood.
No goodbye. No turning back. No checking if he was okay.
I left. Again.
But this time...
This time it wasn't running.
It was release.
And Jimin—he didn't chase.
He just breathed.
The breath he'd been holding for years.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
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[Jimin's POV]
She left.
Again.
But it didn't sting the same way.
No bitterness. No chase. No ache clawing its way up my throat.
Just breath.
A single inhale that stretched through my chest like dawn light through old blinds.
I leaned back in the booth.
God.
She was right.
That was the worst part.
I hated that she was right.
She saw the kind of man I was before I did.
The moment she said "pregnant," I flinched—not from fear, but from instinct.
Because yeah, I would've stayed.
I would've taken her hand, set my own dreams aside, whispered promises to a baby we weren't ready for.
Even if it broke me. Even if it left her hollow.
And in that scenario—she'd wither.
She wasn't made to carry that kind of life. Not after what she grew up in.
And a child doesn't deserve a mother who resents them, or a father bending backward trying to fix something that was never broken in them—but never meant to hold.
That's not love.
That's not family.
That's survival.
And it's cruel.
She loved me.
So much that she didn't let me stay.
So much that she saw the future neither of us wanted and had the guts to burn it before it burned us.
And I loved her, too.
Still do, maybe. In the way you love someone who taught you about pain and truth and growing up.
I slid my hand over my face and exhaled again. Not for her.
For me.
"What a woman."
Then something moved in the corner of my eye.
Across the café, by the window, hair catching the wind like a scene from some old film—
Her.
My therapist.
Not in the office. Not behind a clipboard or desk.
Just her.
A woman in her early thirties, glasses perched on her nose, sleeves pushed up, reading a novel with a peaceful half-smile like she forgot the world existed.