Mireya woke up before her alarm.
For once, her thoughts were not tangled with fear. Instead, they circled around Jae—his tired eyes, his quiet honesty, the way his hand had tightened around hers the night before.
His mother is sick.
The reality settled heavily in her chest.
Care was no longer abstract. It was real. And real things required effort.
She sat up and whispered to herself, "Don't disappear."
At work, she looked for Jae immediately.
He wasn't there yet.
Hana noticed her pacing.
"You're worried," Hana said gently.
"Yes," Mireya admitted. "But I don't want to smother him."
Hana smiled. "There's a difference between care and pressure. You're allowed to show up."
Mireya nodded, holding onto that thought.
Jae arrived late again, shoulders tense, eyes shadowed.
She didn't wait this time.
"Jae," she called softly.
He turned, surprised.
"Are you okay today?" she asked.
He exhaled slowly. "I didn't sleep much."
She hesitated only a second before saying, "Sit with me during break."
Not a question.
An offer.
He nodded gratefully.
They sat near the window again, the place that had quietly become theirs.
"My mom hates hospitals," Jae said, staring at his tea. "She pretends she's fine even when she's not."
Mireya listened carefully.
"She keeps telling me to focus on work," he continued. "Like worrying is optional."
Mireya smiled faintly. "Mothers do that."
He looked at her. "Does yours?"
"She did," Mireya said softly.
Jae froze. "Did?"
"She passed away a few years ago," Mireya explained calmly. "But she was the same. Always protecting everyone else."
Jae's voice softened. "I'm sorry."
She nodded. "It's okay. I learned a lot from her."
"Like how to be strong?"
"Like how to love quietly," Mireya replied.
Their eyes met.
Something deep passed between them.
Later that day, Jae's phone rang.
His face changed instantly.
"I have to go," he said, standing.
Mireya stood with him. "Do you need anything?"
He hesitated. "Just… don't disappear."
She smiled gently. "I won't."
That evening, Mireya found herself standing outside a small grocery store.
She stared at the shelves for a long time.
Then she picked a few things—fruit, soup, tea.
Nothing dramatic.
Just care.
The next day, she handed Jae the small bag.
He looked confused. "What's this?"
"Nothing big," she said quickly. "Just things that help when someone is tired."
He opened it slowly.
His throat tightened.
"You didn't have to," he said quietly.
"I wanted to," she replied.
He looked at her for a long moment.
"No one's ever done this for me," he admitted.
Her chest ached—but warmly.
"You don't have to carry everything alone," she said.
Hana watched the exchange from afar.
Later, she whispered, "You're good at this."
Mireya blinked. "At what?"
"At being there without making it about you."
Mireya smiled shyly. "I'm learning."
That night, Jae called her.
Not texted.
Called.
She answered immediately.
"I'm outside the hospital," he said. "She's stable."
Mireya exhaled in relief. "That's good."
"I didn't know who else to tell," he said.
"I'm glad you told me," she replied.
There was silence.
But not the frightening kind.
"Can I come see you tomorrow?" he asked.
Her heart skipped. "Of course."
The next afternoon, they sat together in a quiet waiting area.
Jae looked exhausted.
Mireya handed him water.
He smiled weakly. "You're very prepared."
She shrugged. "I panic-plan."
He chuckled softly. "That's kind of adorable."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't get used to it."
They laughed quietly, drawing a gentle glance from a nurse.
Later, an older woman approached Mireya.
"You're his girlfriend?" she asked kindly.
Mireya froze.
Jae opened his mouth—but Mireya spoke first.
"I'm someone who cares about him," she said calmly.
The woman smiled. "That's enough."
Jae looked at her, eyes full of something unreadable.
Thankfulness.
Respect.
Maybe more.
Outside the hospital, the sun was setting.
"I was afraid bringing you here would scare you," Jae admitted.
She shook her head. "Real life doesn't scare me. Being shut out does."
He nodded slowly. "I understand."
They stopped walking.
"Mireya," he said, "I don't know what happens next."
She stepped closer. "Neither do I."
Then she added, "But I'm still here."
He reached out, resting his forehead lightly against hers.
Not rushing.
Not claiming.
Just present.
That night, Mireya wrote again in her notebook.
Care doesn't need promises. It needs presence.
She closed it, heart steady.
Love, she realized, wasn't about dramatic moments.
It was about choosing to stay—especially when things were heavy.