It's been ten years.
Ten long, quiet, sun-drenched years since Mao last stood at the crossroads of memory and youth—
Since she turned her back on the life she might've had,
And walked away without ever letting her heart catch up to her footsteps.
It's been ten years since she gave Minho a kiss on the cheek,
Straightened his tiny collar,
And told him to be brave in a voice that trembled with every word she couldn't say out loud.
Ten years since she sent him running toward the boy she couldn't bear to face—
The boy who had stolen her heart without knowing he held it—
The boy she kissed once, softly and in silence, through the lips of her little brother.
Ten years since she folded her first love
Like a paper fan made of spring air and goodbye tears,
Tucked it between the pages of her heart,
And never opened it again.
---
🏙️ Life in Japan
Now, Mao is twenty-six.
She lives in a modest third-floor apartment in Kyoto—
Not far from the river,
Where the sakura trees still bloom like memories too soft to name.
She wakes early.
Always before the alarm.
Always before the sun.
Some mornings, she can almost hear her mother humming in the kitchen—
The echo of a life that's long gone,
And yet still lives in the way Mao gently rinses the rice,
Still swirls the tea pot exactly three times before pouring,
Still folds the dish towels into perfect rectangles of care.
She walks to work in a soft grey cardigan,
Carries a cloth tote bag with loose pens and old receipts,
And always remembers to bow to her elderly neighbor, who smiles at her with eyes that say,
"You remind me of someone I lost."
Mao doesn't chase joy.
She doesn't run after laughter.
She simply lets life settle around her like morning fog—
Quiet, persistent, and deeply present.
She works as a children's art therapist at a small mental health clinic.
She teaches the kids how to speak with color when words are too heavy.
She watches them draw suns and houses and tear-streaked dreams,
And tells them they are seen.
But no one ever asks her what she would draw if she had the chance.
---
🧸 Minho at Eighteen
Minho is now eighteen.
He's taller than her. Louder than her.
A firework in a world she once knew only in candlelight.
He lives with bursts of energy—
With sneakers by the door, music in his headphones, and a teasing grin always at the ready.
He calls her "Onee-chan" with the same bright voice from years ago—
Only now, it's deeper, tinged with laughter and protectiveness.
He teases her for the way she still folds his bento with symmetrical care.
Grumbles about her overprotectiveness—
Then hugs her anyway, quick and tight, as if it's instinct.
But lately, he watches her differently.
He notices the way she pauses in front of paper fans at thrift shops,
The way her fingers trace the edge of a rabbit design before pulling back.
He sees how her smile sometimes disappears too quickly.
Like something forgotten mid-sentence.
And one rainy night, while digging through the closet for an old umbrella,
Minho finds a small, dusty box tied with red thread.
Inside are notebooks filled with half-sketched flowers,
Receipts with doodled stars, and old flyers from a city far away.
And beneath it all, tucked so gently it could be missed—
A worn paper fan.
A rabbit.
Running.
Forward.
And pressed between its folds, a tiny forget-me-not, faded but still holding on.
---
💭 Minho Remembers
He remembers that day.
The crowded garden in Shanghai.
The way Mao knelt beside him, straightened his collar like it was armor,
And whispered words that made no sense to his six-year-old mind at the time:
> "Go to the handsome brother.
Tell him he's beautiful.
Then kiss him… and ask for one back."
He had giggled.
Thought it was a game.
Felt proud to be on a secret mission.
> "If he asks who sent you…"
"Say: 'Macha is calling me. Bye-bye, Brother. Goodbye.'"
He hadn't understood.
Not then.
But now…
With the fan in his hand,
And the silence in her eyes echoing louder than any words ever could—
He understands.
It wasn't a game.
It was a farewell.
A soft, invisible breaking.
A love folded into the hands of a child too young to carry it.
He whispers, voice catching in his throat:
> "You loved him…
And you never told him."
---
🌌 A Father Who Forgot How to Cry
Their father never spoke of Shanghai again.
After the funeral, he threw himself into work—
First as duty.
Then as distraction.
And finally, as a prison made of schedules and silence.
He moved them to Japan less than a month after their mother's cremation.
Said it was for "a fresh start."
But Mao always knew the truth—
He was running.
Running from the scent of his wife's shampoo that still lingered on her pillow.
From the way Mao's eyes looked exactly like hers.
From the sound of Minho crying in the dark,
Whispering, "I want Mama."
He never cried in front of them.
Not once.
Even on the hardest days.
He just worked—
Came home late.
Ate in silence.
And sat with his back to the family photo on the wall.
Sometimes, Mao would hear him through the thin apartment walls.
A single muffled sound.
Like a man trying to remember how grief is supposed to feel,
When the world won't allow him to stop moving.
---
🌷 And Yet…
Despite everything—
The loss, the loneliness, the years gone by—
Mao's love never faded.
Not for her mother.
Not for Dan.
Not for the life she left behind.
It simply curled inward—
Like a sleeping flame.
Quiet.
Enduring.
Unseen.
She never told Minho the full story.
Never spoke of the boy with the star-shaped birthmark.
Or the way he used to laugh with his whole face.
Or the paper fan he never saw.
But sometimes, she dreams.
She dreams of Dan's face, blurry with time but warm as ever,
And the breeze from a summer ten years ago—
Carrying laughter, and a boy's voice calling her name without knowing it.
In those moments, she folds her hands over her chest and whispers:
> "I hope you're still running, Dan…
Wherever you are."
---
✨ Final Words
Mao never stood on a stage.
Never wore a crown.
Never demanded the world's applause or sympathy.
But in the quiet hours—
In the space between a sunrise and a bedtime story,
Between a goodbye kiss and a box of folded paper—
She became something extraordinary.
She became a living poem.
The kind written in invisible ink.
The kind that holds a family together—
Without ever needing to be seen.
And maybe—just maybe—
Fate still has her folded love story tucked between its own pages.
Waiting for the moment it can finally unfold.