Colder Than the Sheets
11:30 p.m. The Gangnam two-room is already frigid. I doubled the electric blanket, yet my toes are still ice, so I surrender and pull on socks. The TV is dark; only the smartphone glows like a restless ghost.
“Pan-Asia top performer this quarter,” Junho announces at the door, loosening his tie. His fingertips still feel laminated with slide decks. While undressing he says, “I kept going today by thinking of you.”
Thinking of me, or of the me-shaped evidence for another win? I draw the blanket higher. My skin might warm, but the center of my chest stays a stubborn lump of ice.
Let the Lips Reach Me First
He finishes his shower and slips in beside me, skin flushed from the scalding water. His hand brushes my waist—hot. Yet everywhere it lingers I feel not temperature but metrics: 120 % completion rate forged by these fingers, three conglomerates persuaded by these lips, fifty-million-won bonus won by this chest.
His breath grazes my ear. Without thinking I whisper, “Are we talking about the company again tonight?”
His eyes sparkle—not with me, but with the applause from today’s presentation. “Sorry. I’m just so happy. I did it because you were there.”
Not because you loved me, or protected me—simply because you were present, like a supporting document. I turn away. His hand still smells of conference-room air-conditioning.
When Numbers Replace Love
Day 1,095 with Junho. The anniversary arrives as a statistic. He recalls not our first date but the page count of the memo he drafted that evening. He doesn’t remember when I first liked him; he remembers the congratulatory stock I bought for his first promotion.
“Thanks to you, I celebrated properly,” he says, flashing the bar graph on his phone. Above the red rising bars he sketches our future. The graph climbs; we descend.
Did I love the light in his eyes, or the future reflected in them? I realize I never loved Junho; I loved the glittering version of myself that his achievements let me see.
Hot Breath on Cold Skin
That night he exhales against my nape—hot. Yet the warmth skims and vanishes. I touch his skin: cold. The more successful he becomes, the colder his skin feels.
“I’m wrecked. Dawn flight tomorrow,” he sighs, resting his forehead on my shoulder. His hair brushes my cheek—soft, but like a memo whisked away by the wind. I stroke his hair and feel only the glare of spotlights still clinging to it.
A Bed Occupied by Achievements
Eventually I split the bed in two: one for Junho’s KPI, one for me alone. I move between them. The KPI bed is dazzling; mine is quiet.
“Why the separate beds all of a sudden?” he asks, eyes still mirroring quarterly stats.
“You’re just… too hot,” I lie. The truth is his heat never reached me; it was all reserved for his accomplishments. I want his skin, his breath, his gaze—not his résumé.
Searching for Myself in His Pupils
Days later I look into his eyes. Achievements still flicker there. I search for myself, but his milestones outshine me.
“I love you,” he says. It sounds like his achievements speaking through him.
I want to believe, but the numbers roar louder.
The Final Question
I ask, “Do you love me, or do you love your achievements through me?”
He cannot answer. His pupils waver, and in that tremor I find my truth: I love Junho, but Junho does not love me—he loves his triumphs reflected in me.
I choose the quiet bed. The KPI bed is glorious, yet only love can warm a mattress.
A bed cannot be heated by metrics.
Only by love.