"Sometimes, the hardest person to become is the one you've always been, under all the noise."
Yuna didn't sleep well the night after her unsent letter.
Her thoughts tangled like yarn in her mind, looping and tightening. She kept replaying her conversation with Eli—his quiet openness, his silence about his brother, the blank napkin he'd given her. There was something so gentle in the way he made space for her, without demanding anything in return.
But gentleness could be terrifying too. Because it asked for honesty. And honesty, even the quiet kind, was exhausting.
The next morning, she walked into her literature class twenty minutes early. She needed the quiet. She needed to sit in her seat by the window and just breathe.
Professor Hwang entered a few minutes later and gave her a soft nod. "You're early, Ms. Park."
"I needed the stillness," she said honestly.
He smiled. "Stillness is sacred."
Yuna glanced at the stack of books on his desk. "What are we reading today?"
"Letters never sent. Words that could have changed everything, if only they had been spoken."
Yuna swallowed.
Of course.
Mina slid into the seat beside her as class began, dropping her bag dramatically.
"Okay, real talk," she whispered. "Why do professors always know exactly what our personal lives are doing and choose violence?"
Yuna snorted softly.
Professor Hwang, without turning, said, "Because literature and life are reflections of each other, Ms. Choi."
Mina muttered, "Can literature not reflect me this week?"
After class, the two walked across the quad, coats zipped up against the cold wind.
"You've been quiet lately," Mina said.
Yuna hesitated. "I'm just… thinking about everything. School. My mom. Eli."
"Too many tabs open?"
Yuna nodded. "And every one of them is playing music."
Mina linked her arm through Yuna's. "You don't have to fix everything at once, you know. You're allowed to pause."
"I know."
They reached the café on the corner and ducked inside for warmth. The smell of cinnamon rolls and espresso immediately settled something in Yuna's chest.
Mina ordered a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. "You want to come to my place tonight? Roommate's gone, and I need company that isn't fictional."
"I might," Yuna said, then hesitated. "Actually, my mom asked me to call her tonight."
Mina's eyes softened. "Do you want to?"
"No."
"Then don't."
"She'll keep calling."
"Let her. You're not a bad daughter for protecting your peace."
Yuna didn't respond, but she held onto those words like a thread she wasn't ready to pull yet.
That evening, she didn't go to Mina's.
She went home, made tea, and sat at her desk with her laptop open, but the screen stayed blank. The cursor blinked. The words stayed inside.
At exactly 7:00 p.m., her phone rang.
Mom.
She let it ring three times before answering.
"Hi, Mom."
"Yuna. Finally."
"Sorry, I was in class."
"Hm."
The tone already weighed heavy.
"I was just wondering," her mother began, "have you considered internships yet? It's your final year. You need to start thinking practically."
Yuna exhaled. "I'm working on a portfolio."
"Literature isn't a portfolio. It's a hobby."
That stung. "It's not a hobby to me."
"You know we've supported you through everything, but at some point, you'll need to be realistic."
"I am being realistic," Yuna said, her voice firmer than she expected. "Realistic for me. I don't want to work in marketing or corporate communications. I want to write."
Her mother paused. "You used to be so driven."
"I still am," Yuna whispered. "You just don't see it when it's not the version you chose."
Silence filled the line.
"I should go," Yuna said.
"You always push people away when they're trying to help."
"I'm not pushing," she said softly. "I'm protecting."
She ended the call before her mother could respond. Her hands trembled.
But she didn't cry.
She just sat there, staring at her journal, until her breath returned to normal.
The next day, she didn't go to Mocha Moon.
Not because she didn't want to.
Because she wasn't sure she could sit across from someone kind when she felt so raw.
She walked instead. Past the bookstore. Past the florist. Past the benches where students gathered to laugh about things that didn't weigh like hers did.
When she finally did go in—late in the afternoon—the café was quiet again.
Eli glanced up from behind the counter.
"You okay?"
Yuna didn't lie. "No."
He nodded once. "Sit. I'll bring something."
She went to her usual table, placed her bag down slowly, and curled her fingers around the edge of the chair to ground herself.
Eli came over with a warm mug of something spicy and sweet. He didn't offer a napkin this time. No quote.
Just the drink.
When he sat across from her, she didn't look up right away.
"My mom called last night," she said.
He waited.
"She still sees me as broken. Like the version of me she had in her head is the only one worth loving."
"I know that feeling," he said quietly.
"I hung up on her."
"You're allowed to."
"I feel guilty."
"You're allowed to feel that too."
They sat in silence.
Then Yuna asked, "Did your parents ever forgive you? For quitting music?"
Eli was quiet for a moment. "My mom did. Eventually. My dad… not really. He doesn't say it, but I can feel it every time we talk."
"How do you handle it?"
"I stopped living for his approval," he said. "And started living for my peace."
Yuna exhaled slowly. "I don't know if I can do that yet."
"You don't have to. Not all at once."
She looked up at him then. Really looked.
"Why do you always know what to say?"
"I don't," he said. "I just say what I needed to hear when I was where you are."
That broke something in her.
In the best way.
She reached across the table and touched his hand.
Not a romantic gesture.
Just real.
And he didn't pull away.
That night, she wrote again.
Not just a journal entry.
But a letter.
This time, to her mother.
"I know you love me.But sometimes your love feels like pressure, not comfort.I need space to become someone you don't have to approve of to respect.I need room to grow without fear of failing you.I hope one day you'll see that strength comes in many forms.And I'm learning mine."
She folded the letter.
Didn't send it.
But she didn't tear it up either.