The faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzed in the quiet clinic room, the stillness broken only by the rhythmic scratching of Dr. Yoon's pen on her clipboard. Seorin sat stiffly on the edge of the examination table, her hands resting lightly over her barely-there bump. It was small enough to still be hidden under the loose folds of her sweater, yet she could feel its presence in the tender tightness of her belly.

Her feet dangled above the cold floor, brushing against the stool below, as her gaze wandered to the rain-speckled window. Outside, droplets streaked down the glass, tracing paths that seemed aimless yet purposeful all at once. She'd felt like that lately—adrift, moving forward because she had no choice but to keep going.

Dr. Yoon looked up, her warm expression a thin veil over the concern etched in her eyes.

"Well, Seorin," she began, her voice gentle, "overall, things are progressing, but there are a few things we need to talk about."

Seorin straightened, her chest tightening. "Is something wrong?"

Dr. Yoon hesitated, flipping through her notes before meeting her gaze. "Not exactly wrong, but your blood pressure today is higher than I'd like. Combined with the headaches you mentioned, and the bit of swelling in your ankles, it's something we'll need to keep a close eye on."

Seorin swallowed, her hand unconsciously drifting to her stomach. "Is the baby okay?"

"Right now, yes," Dr. Yoon reassured her. "But I want you to take extra care of yourself from here on out. No heavy lifting, no unnecessary stress, and make sure you're getting plenty of rest. This is early still, but these symptoms can sometimes point to potential complications later. We'll monitor things closely."

Seorin nodded, though her thoughts were already spiraling. Rest? No stress? She lived alone, balancing her work shifts while trying to make ends meet. "I'll do my best," she said softly, the words tasting hollow even as she spoke them.

The doctor smiled faintly but leaned forward, her tone softening. "You're not alone, Seorin. If you need help, don't hesitate to ask. Do you have anyone—family, a partner—who can support you?"

Seorin froze, her fingers tightening slightly over her belly. Family? No. And as for a partner... her mind flickered to Hae-Jo, the man she'd once dreamed of building a family with. He didn't even know. She had decided long ago not to tell him, and standing here now, she couldn't bring herself to regret it.

"I'll manage," she replied, keeping her voice steady.

Dr. Yoon studied her for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Just promise me you'll come in if anything feels off—no matter how small. Okay?"

"I promise," Seorin said, sliding off the examination table.

As she walked out of the clinic, the weight of the doctor's words settled heavily on her shoulders. The rain had picked up, a soft drizzle now turning into a steady downpour. She paused under the awning, staring at the gray sky and the blurred outlines of people rushing past with their umbrellas.

She had come to the clinic feeling hopeful, her baby's faint kicks earlier that morning giving her strength. But now, the fear she had worked so hard to keep buried was creeping to the surface. Her eyes stung, and before she could stop it, tears began to blur her vision.

The rain mingled with her quiet sobs as she leaned against the wall, struggling to catch her breath. It wasn't just the baby. It wasn't just the doctor's warnings. It was everything—being alone, keeping secrets, and the overwhelming thought that she wasn't enough.

She barely noticed the man until he was standing in front of her, a tall figure in a sleek black suit. Without a word, he slipped a closed umbrella into her trembling hands.

Her tear-streaked eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to thank him, but he was already walking away, his strides quick and purposeful.

"Wait!" she called out, her voice cracking.

The man didn't stop. His back disappeared into the sea of rain and bodies, leaving her clutching the umbrella. It was plain and black, nothing remarkable, but the gesture itself left her stunned.

For a moment, she just stood there, staring after him. She didn't understand why, but the simple act of kindness felt like a lifeline—a reminder that even in her loneliness, the world wasn't entirely cruel.

Sniffling, she opened the umbrella and stepped into the rain, its soft patter now muted above her. As she walked to the bus stop, her grip tightened around the handle.

Who was he? Why had he helped her? The questions lingered, but they weren't heavy enough to overshadow the flicker of warmth that his gesture had left behind.

And though she didn't realize it yet, this fleeting moment would set off a chain of events that would change everything—because some strangers aren't strangers for long.

The rain began to pick up again as Seorin walked the short distance from the bus stop to her apartment. The umbrella, still clutched tightly in her hand, offered little comfort against the biting chill that seeped through her coat. By the time she reached her building, her legs felt heavy, and the weight of the day bore down on her like an anchor.

She climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor, the faint smell of damp plaster and old wood filling the air. Her apartment door creaked as she pushed it open, and the familiar emptiness greeted her.

The rain was pounding harder by the time Seorin entered her apartment, the icy chill clinging to her skin even as she closed the door behind her. The apartment smelled faintly of the damp outside air, mixed with the scent of laundry detergent from the clothes she had hung to dry two days ago.

She paused for a moment, leaning her back against the door, her eyes scanning the space she now called home. It was so quiet here—so still. A place that didn't ask for anything, didn't offer anything.

The couch sat in the middle of the room, sagging slightly in one corner where a spring had given out. Beside it, a small folding table served as her dining area, though it was empty except for a mug she hadn't bothered to clean that morning. The mattress in the corner was bare, save for a blanket she'd pulled over it in haste that morning before her appointment.

Her eyes drifted to the single unopened box in the far corner of the room. It sat there, half-covered by a draped towel, as if hiding it would make it easier to forget what it contained. The items inside had been bought on sale at a department store weeks ago, back when the thought of preparing for a baby felt like an exciting step forward. Now, the idea of opening it made her chest tighten.

Seorin let out a shaky sigh and slipped off her coat, draping it over the back of the couch. She caught her reflection in the small mirror by the door—a pale face, tired eyes, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail that was already coming undone. Her gaze dropped instinctively to her stomach. The bump was still small, just a slight curve under her sweater that no one would notice unless they were looking for it.

She pressed a hand lightly against it, feeling the tautness of her skin, the faint life stirring beneath.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I know this isn't what you deserve."

The baby gave the faintest of kicks, a reminder that it was still there, still growing, still relying on her. Her throat tightened as she blinked back the tears threatening to spill over.

Moving to the couch, she sat down heavily, staring at the box in the corner. She hadn't even bought the essentials yet—no crib, no stroller, no bottles. The weight of what she hadn't done felt suffocating, as if she'd already failed before she'd even started.

But how could she prepare? How could she plan for a future that felt so uncertain, so fragile?

Her mind wandered to the life she had once imagined. The nursery she and Hae-Jo had talked about—the pale yellow walls, the bookshelf he had promised to build, the mobile they'd picked out together on a whim during a shopping trip. She could almost see him standing in that imaginary room, holding her close, his hand resting protectively over her stomach.

The memory was too much. She pressed her palms to her eyes, her breaths coming in uneven gasps as the tears broke free.

"What am I supposed to do?" she whispered into the silence.

The room offered no answers, only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the relentless sound of rain against the windows.

Seorin wiped her face, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She couldn't fall apart—not now, not when everything depended on her. She had made it this far alone, and she would keep going.

Her eyes drifted back to the box in the corner. Slowly, hesitantly, she stood and walked over to it. She knelt down, her hands hovering over the flaps for a moment before pulling them open.

Inside, everything was carefully folded and packed: a set of soft onesies in neutral colors, a tiny blanket patterned with stars, a small plush rabbit with floppy ears. She pulled the rabbit out, holding it in her hands, her fingers tracing over its soft fabric.

For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine. To picture her baby holding this rabbit, clutching it tightly as they drifted off to sleep. To imagine a life where she wasn't so alone.

"I'll figure it out," she murmured, her voice steadier now.

Placing the rabbit gently on the table, she closed the box again, but this time, she didn't hide it. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

As the rain outside softened into a quiet drizzle, Seorin returned to the couch, her hand instinctively resting on her belly. She didn't have all the answers, but she would keep moving forward.

For her baby, and for the hope that maybe, just maybe, she could still build a life worth holding onto.

The rain had slowed to a soft drizzle by the time Seorin finished unpacking the box. The small plush rabbit now sat on the edge of the couch, its floppy ears tilted slightly to one side as if it were watching her. She stared at it for a long moment, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater.

The rabbit was one of the first things she'd bought—an impulsive decision made on a day when she still believed in the promise of what was to come. She'd seen it in the store window, its soft gray fur catching her eye, and before she knew it, she was walking out with the bag in her hand, smiling at the thought of the baby holding it someday.

Now, it felt like a relic of a life she wasn't sure she could give.

Her stomach rumbled, pulling her out of her thoughts. She realized she hadn't eaten since that morning—a halfhearted slice of toast she barely finished before heading to her appointment. She pushed herself off the couch, heading to the kitchen.

Opening the fridge, she stared blankly at its contents: a carton of eggs, a half-empty bottle of orange juice, and a few wilted vegetables she'd been meaning to cook. There wasn't much else.

"You need to do better than this," she muttered to herself, grabbing the eggs and a pan from the cabinet.

As the eggs sizzled in the pan, she leaned against the counter, her gaze drifting back to the living area. The apartment was so sparse, so barren. She hadn't even bought a proper crib yet, just a cheap bassinet she'd seen on sale online. It was folded up in the corner by the box, still in its packaging.

The truth was, she had avoided buying the big things. Cribs, strollers, bottles—they all felt like commitments to a future she wasn't sure she could handle on her own. Every time she thought about it, the doubts crept in.

What if you can't do this? What if you're not enough?

Her chest tightened, and she turned back to the stove, flipping the eggs quickly before they burned.

After plating her simple meal, she sat at the small folding table, the plush rabbit still in her line of sight. The food tasted bland, but she forced herself to eat, knowing she couldn't afford to skip meals anymore.

Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Hae-Jo. She hadn't spoken to him since the breakup—not a word, not a message. He had made it clear that he didn't want her in his life, and she had done her best to respect that, even when it hurt more than she thought possible.

But sometimes, in the stillness of the night, she would imagine what it would be like if things had been different. If he had stayed. If he were here with her now, sitting across from her at this rickety table, teasing her about her cooking and making her laugh the way only he could.

She shook her head, pushing the thought away. It didn't matter. He wasn't here, and she was on her own.

As she cleaned up her plate and placed it in the sink, her phone buzzed on the counter. She picked it up, glancing at the notification—a reminder for her next doctor's appointment in two weeks.

Her hand tightened around the phone as the doctor's words from earlier echoed in her mind. "No heavy lifting, no unnecessary stress, and make sure you rest."

Seorin let out a shaky breath, leaning against the counter. Resting was easier said than done. She worked long hours at a small convenience store, standing on her feet for most of the day and dealing with customers who barely noticed her. She couldn't afford to take time off—not with the bills piling up and the baby on the way.

But she would have to find a way. Somehow.

Turning off the kitchen light, she walked back to the couch, sinking into its worn cushions. The rabbit stared back at her, its simple presence strangely comforting. She picked it up, holding it close as she closed her eyes.

"I'll figure it out," she whispered again, her voice soft but determined.

Outside, the rain began to pick up again, pattering gently against the windows. Seorin listened to it as she drifted into an uneasy sleep, her hand still resting protectively over her small, growing bump.

For now, that was enough.

honey's note

2479 words

I swear after this
book I'm never
writing anything
like mr plankton
ever again bc I
can't stop crying