“Do you like books?” That was your first and last sentence.
Exit 3, Sillim Station, Line 2. You wore a black knit beanie and held an Americano that had already gone cold. The moment I sat, you asked the question, and I smiled: “Yes—addicted to the smell of paper.” That was the sum of it. Nineteen minutes, twenty-two seconds. Then we closed our mouths. You stood first.
“See you.” Two syllables, a half-smile farewell. Inside, the rain sounded louder. I looked out: your umbrella was black, mine was black, the sky was gray. At 4:07 on a rainy Friday afternoon we walked away in opposite directions, and for twenty-four hours nothing came.
The Quietly Boiling Face of Desire
Did he dislike me?
Was I simply dull?
Or, or——
My thumb kept scrolling. The 1-on-1 chat window remained unmarred by a single “read” receipt. Your profile picture—taken on a playground, I think—looked more tired this morning. I kept wondering whether that fatigue was my fault. It became a game, a snare of my own making.
Silence is not rejection but a test, I whispered to myself. If I waver first, I lose.
Case 1. Hye-jin, 29, Visual Designer
On the last Wednesday of May, Hye-jin met Jae-yoon on a bench by the Han River. In photographs he smelled of black-and-white film; in person he did too. They shared a single can of beer for forty-seven minutes. Three sentences passed between them:
- Hye-jin: “Insane sky today, isn’t it?”
- Jae-yoon: “That’s why I came out to shoot.”
- Hye-jin: “Me too.”
Then they parted.
Next morning, 9:14. Jae-yoon’s KakaoTalk stayed mute. At the office Hye-jin tapped her work chat thirty-eight times; every ding dropped her heart an inch. By lunch she messaged him on the work app: “Mr. Jae-yoon, how was yesterday?” One minute later he read it and left her on seen.
That night she disappeared down YouTube’s algorithm, inventing theories: Maybe he died. Or maybe I was unbearably boring. After seventy-two hours of silence she blocked him—then unblocked him six days later. The instant she did, his profile photo had changed: a little girl licking an ice-cream cone. The sight shook her. “I was never the ice-cream,” she said.
Case 2. Min-su, 31, UX Developer
On the second Saturday of June, Min-su met Seo-ah in a back-alley teahouse behind Gangnam Station. A small tattoo on her nape read I love you. Min-su never asked whom it was for. They sipped tea for an hour and a half, saying almost nothing; occasionally Seo-ah showed him photos of fallen leaves she’d taken. That was the end.
After midnight she sent a single Korean character: ㅇ. Min-su replied, “Yes?” Forty-eight hours later the ㅇ still hung alone. Like a proper developer he ran simulations: probability that ㅇ meant “OK,” probability it meant “sure,” probability it meant still thinking. He zoomed in on her tattoo; he decided he could accept it even if it was an ex’s name. Silence, for Min-su, was a thread of hope that the story wasn’t over.
On the third night he caved: “Tomorrow evening—tea again?” Thirty seconds later: “No.” And she blocked him.
The Borderland of Silence
Why are we drawn to that emptiness? The reason is simple: silence is a shield. Proof that the other hasn’t yet shattered us. Conversation chips and cracks; but if nothing is said, the other remains perfect, a mermaid inside a glass tube.
I still don’t know you. That is why I love you.
In truth, the opposite:
I believe I can love you because I do not know you.
Psychologists call it the madness of possibility—the moment when potential eclipses reality. In the end we prefer to taste that silence rather than break it, even while knowing nothing will come.
Will your fingers move first, or will I collapse?
I am still living inside the twenty-fourth hour. Your profile picture is still the blurred sunlight of a playground, and I keep staring at it alone. Perhaps, right now, you too are quietly tasting me, as I taste you. At this instant we remain perfect to each other. Yet one line, one syllable, and the glass will crack.
So I ask: do you still, even now, wish not to shatter the silence?