So this is who he gave it to, she thought.

Her voice softened, careful not to betray anything behind her calm expression.

“So, how do you two know each other? I’m guessing from school. Is that right, Han Yeonjun?”

Yeonjun tensed. Without lifting his head, he replied quietly,

“Yes, ma’am. We go to the same university.”

That was all. His tone was polite but faint. He was trying to stay respectful, but he couldn’t lift his eyes from the floor.

Mi-yeon looked at the untouched bowls and gave a faint smile, eyes still scanning their pale faces.

“You both look like you had drinks last night,” she said mildly. “Porridge like this is good for a hangover, you know. It’s light but warming. Eat before it gets cold.”

Still, neither of them moved. The silence stretched out again, taut and fragile.

Mi-yeon raised an eyebrow slightly and followed up with another question, her tone still gentle. 

“And which department are you in?”

This time, Seojun spoke up first. His voice was calm and measured, but there was no softness in it.

“Yeonjun isn’t feeling well. Please don’t overwhelm him with questions, Mom.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a quiet warning. Polite, but firm, with something unsettled simmering just beneath the surface.

Yeonjun lifted his head slightly, just enough to be heard. 

“Architecture, ma’am,” he said softly, barely above a whisper.

Mi-yeon looked at Seojun, then at Yeonjun, and then back to her son. For a moment, she said nothing. She adjusted the napkin on the table, reached for her coffee cup, and held it by the handle, but didn’t drink.

“I’m only asking out of curiosity,” she said eventually, her voice returning to a neutral calm. 

“It seems like something unpleasant happened between you two. But unless one of you speaks, I’m left relying on my mother’s intuition.”

There was no answer.

Mi-yeon didn’t press further. She simply wrapped her hands around her coffee cup and sat silently for a while. This time, she chose to wait instead of ask. But then, from the corner of her eye, she noticed something. Yeonjun’s fingers were trembling ever so slightly above his lap.

Seojun spoke up quietly, as if trying to steady the air. 

“We were at a school party. Yeonjun had a rough night, so we came home. It’s nothing serious.”

“I see,” Mi-yeon replied, her tone still calm. She paused briefly, then added with unsettling clarity, 

“But from the looks of it… it seems like you were the reason he had a rough night.”

Yeonjun’s head snapped up. His eyes widened in shock.

Seojun’s mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out. For a moment, time seemed to hold its breath until both of them forced themselves to recompose. Turning to his mother, he said, 

“Mom, it’s not like that.” His voice was steady, but tight. “Please don’t get involved. Whatever’s between us… it’s not what you think.”

There was a quiet urgency in his eyes now. Almost a plea.

Just then, the housekeeper entered with a new tray.

“Would you like some orange juice, sir?” she asked, her voice light as she addressed Yeonjun.

Yeonjun responded gently, 

“Thank you. I should be going.”

He stood up, still calm, still overly polite. Then he turned to Mi-yeon and offered a small, practiced bow.

“There really isn’t anything between us,” he said softly. “We’re not even as close as you seem to think.”

His tone remained respectful, and he was careful not to meet her eyes. Then, bowing once more, he added,

“If you’ll excuse me.”

Mi-yeon stood up at once. 

“I’ll walk you to the door,” she said kindly, casting a glance toward Seojun as she did. Her son looked like he was sweating inside an oven.

Still seated, Seojun muttered without looking up, 

“I’ll bring your clothes to school.”

Yeonjun didn’t turn to him, didn’t speak. But with his back still facing the table, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

***

As the two made their way toward the door, Seojun didn’t move. He remained seated, head bowed, hands still resting on his knees. He didn’t even glance up.
Only sounds followed them now, soft footsteps fading over the polished floor, the gentle creak of the front door opening.

At the entrance, Yeonjun bent down to put on his shoes. Mi-yeon stepped beside him, hands lightly clasped in front of her, watching him quietly. There was a moment where she looked like she might reach out, but she didn’t. Instead, she spoke with soft dignity.

“I’ll speak with Seojun,” she said. “If my son was disrespectful to you in any way, I sincerely apologize on his behalf.”

Then, after a short pause, she added, “And Han Yeonjun… if you’ll allow me a small word of advice. Don’t let anything in life hurt you more than it should. Some things, once they take too much, aren’t worth carrying anymore. All right?”

Yeonjun bowed deeply, his second full bow since arriving.

“There’s really no need to apologize,” he said quietly, still not meeting her eyes. “Please don’t worry.”

He had no intention of holding Shin Mi-yeon accountable for Seojun’s mistakes. That wasn’t who he was. All he wanted now was to leave, quietly and with his dignity intact.

Behind them, the door closed with a soft thud.
From the kitchen, Seojun heard every sound. Every footstep. Every word.
Then came the measured return of his mother’s footsteps, unhurried but heavy. She walked back in and sat at the table once more, without saying a word.

***

Seojun didn’t move. He was still staring at the empty chair across from him. His face had gone pale, and his body was completely rigid. He didn’t reach for his glass. Didn’t touch his coffee. He simply sat there, silently facing forward.

Mi-yeon followed her son’s gaze. He was still looking at the seat Yeonjun had vacated, as if something had been left behind there.

“Seojun,” she said gently. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

Seojun couldn’t lift his head. It felt like someone was squeezing his heart, holding it too tight. He knew he couldn’t explain how sad he was. He was sure no one would understand him in that moment.

“I don’t think I can tell you,” he said. His voice was quiet, and his eyes were already full of tears.

This time, Mi-yeon didn’t sound gentle.

“Kim Seojun,” she said. “what... did you... do? You’re going to tell me now.”

Seojun turned to look at her. And for the first time in his life, he was scared of how his mother might respond. The mother he had never lied to. The one who had always been there for him. The person he trusted and loved more than anyone.

“I did something awful, Mom,” he said in a low voice. “I kissed him.”

And at last, one tear slid down his cheek. Like it had been waiting in silence, just like him.