The Algorithm of Spring

17

The café was a stage for performance rather than comfort. Pendant lights cast halos over marble countertops where a rainbow of pastel-coloured lattes sat waiting for collection and their social media debut. Behind the counter, a film-star barista pulled espresso shots with theatrical flair. Staff repositioned miniature cakes, adjusting gold-leaf flakes and sugar dustings with tweezers—left, then right—as if perfection could be measured in millimetres.

In a corner, Maya had chosen the shadows where the flattering light couldn't reach. Her device lay face-down beside her; she nudged it a little farther away without thinking. A half-empty americano cooled at her elbow, lipstick staining the rim. She tried not to stare at the other customers, but it was impossible to ignore them—a couple hunched over their devices, angling for the perfect selfie. By the window, two older women traded poses with their drinks.

The door opened. Ji-young swept in first, all effortless grace in the kind of coat that probably cost a month's rent. Her hair fell in waves Maya's never would. Behind her, Soo-mi wrestled a stroller, a bulging baby bag, and a sloshing iced drink that threatened to spill with every step.

"Unni, hold the door!" Soo-mi called. Ji-young spun back, propping it open as Soo-mi stumbled through, flushed and breathless.

"Why are you carrying everything? Where's your husband?" Ji-young asked, rushing to help.

The stroller wheels caught against a table leg. A man in a pressed suit winced, adjusting his earbuds. Across the room, a woman watched the baby with undisguised yearning.

From the corner, Maya watched Ji-young help Soo-mi settle—arranging the baby bag, positioning the stroller and applying the brakes, fussing with the blanket draped over the sleeping infant. Her friends moved with the easy confidence of those who belonged.

"She's perfect," Ji-young gushed, leaning down. "Look at her little nose! I can't believe how much she's grown."

Soo-mi beamed, brushing hair from her face as she sank into a seat. "She's growing too fast."

"Because you're a wonderful mother," Ji-young said. "I'd be hopeless."

Maya rose to greet them, but Ji-young launched in before either friend had even settled.

"There you are!" Ji-young said, sliding into the chair opposite Maya.

"I've renamed you in my device: Little Miss Ghost. Three unanswered messages—very artistic, very brooding."

Her mock annoyance dissolved into a grin.

Maya leaned in slightly. "Please. You don't want to know what I have you saved as."

Ji-young tapped her fingers together in a mock applause.

"The great Maya Kim, suddenly too important for even her oldest friends?" Ji-young's continued teasing had an edge of genuine hurt beneath it.

"Just... more going on since Florence than I can explain in a text."

Ji-young reached to touch the baby's tiny fingers, whispering something that made Soo-mi laugh. For a moment, the world around their table softened—motherhood wrapped around them like a bubble, leaving Maya both drawn in and shut out.

The baby stirred with a small whimper. Soo-mi hushed her instinctively. Maya studied the rim of her cup, a familiar knot rising in her stomach. It was a perfect scene she could watch, but never step into.