The weeks that followed were a blur of signatures and solemn appointments, of carefully worded documents that left no room for the poetry of heartbreak. Mimi sat across from Kijo at the lawyer's office, her hands folded in her lap, her hair pulled back into a simple ponytail that no longer had pink bows. The room smelled faintly of coffee and expensive cologne, but there was nothing warm about it.
Kijo sat rigid beside her lawyer, her jaw set in a line that betrayed the tension in her shoulders. Her eyes kept drifting to Mimi's face, but Mimi never looked back. She'd spent too many nights memorizing every line of Kijo's expression, every soft smile and hard stare. She didn't need to look anymore.
"Do you agree to the terms of the divorce?" the lawyer asked, her pen poised above the paper.
Mimi nodded. Her voice was soft but steady: "Yes."
Kijo hesitated. Her fingers twitched, as if she might reach across the table, but she didn't. She just said, quietly, "Yes."
The finality of it was both a relief and an ache that made Mimi's throat tighten. The lawyer passed her the papers, and with each signature, it felt like she was cutting away pieces of her past—painful, but necessary.
Moving out of Kijo's penthouse was harder than she thought it would be. She'd spent so many nights there, curled in silk sheets that smelled of Kijo's perfume. She'd made breakfast there, danced barefoot on marble floors in the middle of the night, whispered "I love you" against Kijo's lips until she believed it was forever.
Now, she packed it all into boxes. Her clothes, her makeup, the tiny pink coffee mug Kijo had teased her for buying. She left behind the perfume Kijo had bought her, the nightgown she'd worn on their honeymoon—she couldn't take those memories with her.
Aena helped her move into a tiny apartment not far from her university. The paint was chipped, the windows rattled in the wind, but it was hers. She put up fairy lights in the kitchen, lit strawberry-scented candles, and filled the fridge with cheap instant noodles. It wasn't luxury, but it was home. Her home.
At night, she lay in bed and let herself cry. She let herself feel every ounce of the hurt she'd buried for so long. And then, in the quiet that followed, she let herself breathe.
Life didn't stop for heartbreak. Mimi still had exams to take, projects to finish. She walked to class with her textbooks clutched to her chest, her lips set in a determined line. Some days she wore pink bows, some days she didn't. Some days she woke up feeling like she could conquer the world. Other days she could barely make it out of bed. But every day, she kept moving forward.
She poured her energy into her studies, staying late at the library until her eyes burned. She joined study groups and took up a part-time job at a café, brewing endless lattes for customers who didn't know the name she used to share with someone else. Slowly, she started to see her future taking shape—her future, hers alone.
When graduation day came, Mimi stood on stage in a pale pink dress, the graduation cap bobbing on her head. Her name was called, and she walked across the stage with her chin high, her heart pounding in her chest. She smiled for the cameras, her cheeks damp with tears she didn't bother to hide. This was her moment. Hers.
After graduation, she took a deep breath and booked a flight to the UK. She'd been accepted into a master's program—an opportunity she would never have dreamed of back when she'd thought love was enough to fill every corner of her life.
She packed her pink suitcase carefully: textbooks, cozy sweaters, a single photo of her and Aena making silly faces. No pictures of Kijo. No reminders of the past.
The plane ride felt like the final step in closing a door she'd been standing in for far too long. She watched the city lights disappear beneath her, the hum of the engine drowning out the last whispers of old heartbreak. She pressed her forehead to the window, the clouds thick and soft below her, and she let herself hope.
Hope for new beginnings.Hope for a love that didn't hurt.Hope for herself.
Mimi spent four years in the UK, earning her degree and learning to build a life that was hers and hers alone. She found a tiny flat with a window that overlooked the rainy streets of London, and she learned to love the quiet hum of buses and the endless drizzle of spring rain. She discovered new coffee shops, new friends, new versions of herself she didn't know existed.
Every now and then, she thought of Kijo—of the woman she'd once believed was her forever. The memories were still there, but they no longer cut her open. They were just echoes of a girl she used to be, a girl who had loved so fiercely it nearly destroyed her.
She didn't stop wearing pink. She didn't stop loving love. But she learned that love didn't have to come at the cost of her own heart.
She learned that she was enough.
When Mimi finally walked across the graduation stage in London, the spring rain had stopped, leaving the cobblestones glistening like glass. Her heart beat like a drum beneath her pale pink dress as she clutched her degree—Interior Architecture and Design, printed in gold lettering that felt like a quiet triumph in her hands.
It hadn't been easy—nothing truly worthwhile ever was. There had been nights she fell asleep with her sketchpad pressed to her chest, waking up to charcoal smudges on her cheek. Days when the weight of her past threatened to pull her under. But she'd survived. She'd grown. She'd created something beautiful out of the pieces she'd gathered.
After graduation, she spent a few months working at a small design firm in London, taking on small residential projects and a few cafés that let her play with light and color in a way that felt like magic. The money was good—steady, satisfying—and with every paycheck, she felt a little more secure in her new life.
Then, one morning, she received an email that made her breath catch.
A new project. A big one.
A luxury hotel renovation in Seoul—right in the heart of the city she'd once called home. The city she'd walked through hand-in-hand with Kijo, back when she thought forever was written in the stars.
At first, her hands trembled on the mousepad as she read through the project brief. Seoul. The city where she had learned to love and learned to bleed. Her mind flashed with memories: nights spent tangled in silk sheets, laughter echoing through fancy penthouses, tears she'd hidden behind pink lipstick.
But this wasn't about the past.
This was her chance. A project that would challenge her, push her beyond what she thought she was capable of. A chance to prove to herself—and to the world—that she was more than a pretty face and a broken heart.
She said yes.
Two weeks later, she was on a flight back to Korea, her pink suitcase beside her and her sketchbook tucked into her bag. The plane's engines hummed beneath her, a steady promise that she was moving forward.
As the city skyline came into view through the airplane window—tall towers cutting through the clouds—she felt a flicker of something unexpected. Not fear. Not regret.
Determination.
She wasn't the same girl who had walked away years ago, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was stronger now. Smarter. Ready to build something that would last.
The taxi ride from the airport to her new apartment was a blur of neon signs and cherry blossom petals drifting in the spring air. She didn't let herself linger on the memories of this city—she focused on the future. On the hotel's soaring atrium she'd been hired to redesign, the faded grandeur she would bring back to life.
Her small apartment was simple but cozy: white walls, a tiny balcony that overlooked the street, a little pink kettle she'd brought from London. She unpacked her things with quiet care, placing her candles on the windowsill and her sketchbooks on the kitchen table.
She was home—her home, her life, her work. And this time, she was ready to take
To Be continued..