Hi I am Jung mia and this is my story.
I've always thought of my life as perfect. I live in a large, sunlit house in Seoul with my father and my stepmother. People often say, "She's lucky to have such a perfect family," but luck has little to do with it. My mom… she passed away giving birth to me. I've never known her smile, her voice, her touch. But my stepmother—my mother in every sense that counts—has been my anchor, my heart, my home.
I remember the first time I met Li Mian. We were just toddlers then, chasing each other in the yard, falling and laughing, scraping our knees but never crying because we had each other. He belonged to the most prominent family in Korea—the Li family. His father, a renowned businessman, and his mother, elegant and graceful, were like royalty in the way they carried themselves. Yet, he never acted superior. Not even once.
Li Mian and I shared everything. Our secret hideouts, our dreams of flying to distant lands, and even silly promises that made no sense. I remember the afternoon he grabbed my hand, eyes serious despite his tiny face, and said, "Mia, when I go to America, I'll come back for you. And when I do, I'll marry you. Promise me you'll wait."
I laughed, thinking he didn't understand the world yet, but I nodded, solemnly. I'll wait.
When he left at the age of five, the house felt emptier, and my laughter seemed quieter. Yet, I held onto that promise. Every birthday, every holiday, every time I saw a plane take off, I whispered, "Come back, Li Mian."
My father often reminded me of the Li family's prominence, the way they influenced the city's skyline, how one handshake from Li Mian's father could close a business deal worth billions. And I'd smile, proud that my best friend's family was just as exceptional as mine, though I never cared about their wealth.
Life went on. School, friends, the occasional teasing about having a "prince" in America. But to me, Li Mian was more than a prince. He was my home, the part of my childhood that belonged to both of us.
I can still recall the night before his flight. I sat by the window, clutching a small stuffed bear he had given me. I didn't cry—not yet. I wanted him to leave with his promise intact. And he did. I watched the plane disappear into the clouds, imagining him waving, imagining him thinking of me. That night, I whispered my promise again: "I'll wait, Li Mian. No matter what."
Growing up without him was strange. Other kids forgot their childhood friends when they moved away. But not me. Every year, I added to our story, talking to him silently, feeling the presence of a boy who had once been my shadow. My stepmother noticed my quiet nostalgia, often asking, "Are you missing Li Mian again?"
I would nod. "He'll come back for me," I told her, though my voice trembled sometimes, betraying the fear that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't.
When I turned sixteen, I tried to imagine him returning. Would he be tall? Handsome? Would he remember me? I pictured the day he would come back, running into my arms, and the world would feel right again. I didn't know then that life often has a cruel sense of irony.
But even now, the promise stayed with me. Every night, I traced the imaginary line between the past and the future, believing that the boy I had loved would keep his word.
I had no idea that when Li Mian returned, he would be different. Not just older, taller, or changed by distance, but someone I wouldn't recognize. Someone whose heart had forgotten ours.
And yet, deep inside, I never stopped waiting.