Annyeongz One-shots

74. Try Again

The late afternoon sun hung low over Seoul, casting long, golden shadows across the bustling streets of Gangnam. Jang Wonyoung walked arm-in-loop with her best friend Liz, both of them laughing softly about something trivial—a new café that had opened near her office, the ridiculous price of matcha lattes these days. Wonyoung’s long hair swayed with each step, her cream-colored coat fluttering lightly in the autumn breeze. For a moment, everything felt normal. Peaceful.

Then she saw him.

Soobin.

Her husband of three years.

He was half a block ahead, walking in the opposite direction on the wide sidewalk. His tall frame was unmistakable—even from behind, the way he carried his shoulders, the familiar navy coat she had bought him last winter. But he wasn’t alone.

A woman clung to his arm.

Their fingers were laced together tightly, the kind of casual intimacy that only comes from habit. Soobin tilted his head down to say something; the woman laughed, bright and unguarded, and then—so quickly Wonyoung almost convinced herself she imagined it—he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the woman’s temple.

Wonyoung froze.

Liz’s voice faded into white noise. The world narrowed to that single point: Soobin’s lips against another woman’s skin.

Her phone was already in her hand before she consciously decided to move. She raised it, zoomed in with trembling fingers, and snapped three photos in quick succession. The shutter sound felt obscenely loud in her ears.

“Wonyoung-ah?” Liz’s hand touched her elbow. “What’s wrong?”

Wonyoung didn’t answer. She just turned sharply and started walking back the way they came, faster and faster, until she was almost running. Liz called after her, confused, but Wonyoung didn’t stop.

She needed to get home.

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The apartment smelled faintly of kimchi jjigae when she pushed the door open.

Soobin’s mother, Mrs. Choi, was already there—unannounced, as she sometimes liked to do. She stood in the kitchen wiping down the already spotless counter, humming an old trot song under her breath. The moment Wonyoung stepped inside, the humming stopped.

“Wonyoung-ah?” Mrs. Choi’s smile faltered the second she saw her daughter-in-law’s face. “You’re early… and pale. What happened?”

Wonyoung tried to speak. Nothing came out.

She simply walked to the living room couch, sat down very carefully, and opened her photo gallery. Her thumb hovered over the clearest shot—the one where Soobin’s lips were still touching the other woman’s hair.

She turned the screen toward her mother-in-law.

Mrs. Choi leaned in, squinting at first.

Then her hand flew to her mouth.

A choked sound escaped her—half sob, half gasp. The dishcloth dropped to the floor. Tears welled up instantly, spilling over before she could blink them away.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no…”

She sank onto the couch beside Wonyoung, shoulders shaking. “I didn’t raise him like this,” she said, voice cracking. “I swear to you, Wonyoung-ah… I didn’t raise him to be like his father.”

Wonyoung stared at the carpet. She had heard the stories—whispered ones—about Soobin’s father. The late-night arguments. The other women. The way Mrs. Choi had smiled through it all for years until one day she simply couldn’t anymore.