2:14 a.m. I had been home for seventeen minutes. I was still swiping through the chat thread that never showed the coveted “read” receipt. My last message: Tonight was wonderful. When I’m with you, time forgets itself.
The farther I scroll up, the more dizzyingly sweet the words become. Then I swipe down again and arrive at the sudden, black drop-off. He was there. Now he is not.
A Temperature That Vanished Without Warning
Maybe he never existed. Perhaps he was only a ghost imprisoned behind the glass I held in my hand.
Naver Maps still labels the spot Where we parted. August 22, 9:37 p.m., a beer bar in Euljiro 3-ga. That night I think I saw myself reflected in his eyes for the last time. Three days later he left a single line—Been busy lately, sorry for the slow replies—then vanished completely. Not even the mercy of being left on read. Just nothing at all.
Phantom Limbs of a Goose That Never Hatched
I have spent two days pinching and zooming his profile picture. A 0.3-second tap should be enough to wake the green “online” light, shouldn’t it? Yet for forty-eight hours the bulb has stayed dark. My fingertips wander on their own to his Instagram—stories, follower list, all 372 posts he has liked. Three new follows since we last spoke. They must be women, destined perhaps to replace me.
A chill climbs my arm as though every drop of blood has fled to my toes. Am I turning into a stalker? I know the answer, yet I cannot stop.
Tales from Waking Life, or Perhaps from a Dream
(1) Si-eun’s 32nd Day
After 32 days of texting a man nicknamed “Beomyong,” Si-eun drank alone for the first time. She kept remembering how he fidgeted with his keys outside the ramen shop near her flat. Each memory felt like another pint of blood draining away. For 32 mornings he had sent Good morning. His final message: Send me a photo—I miss your face. The next day, silence. No read receipt, no reply.
At work she fondled her phone every five minutes, restarting the app every ten. During lunch she sat on the toilet and pressed call, then cancelled, seventeen times. If he picks up, should I say I love him? Or simply ask if he’s okay?
In the end she sent a one-second voice note. Nothing came back.
(2) Jun-ho’s Black Ink
Jun-ho spent a weekend in Jeju with Hye-jin. The first night, lying side by side on the hotel bed, they looked into each other’s eyes and laughed without words. He thought he would remember that smile for the rest of his life.
On the flight home her last Kakao read: Let’s take things slowly. Forty-seven days of silence followed. Each night Jun-ho deleted, then restored, the photos from Jeju. Maybe the pictures I took made her uncomfortable. He imagined her day: wake at 7:30, Line 2 to Hongik University, yoga after work. Perhaps she met someone at the studio. Should I have been better? He googled How to know if someone blocked you on Kakao. Two hours later he discovered she had.
Why Do We Crave the Curse Inside These Apps?
Truthfully, we never wanted the other person. We wanted the inaudible chime that signals The End.
The word match keeps whispering the fantasy of completion. Swipe once to choose, one text to begin—that is the delusion. Yet the app also granted us the power to sever everything at once. A breathtaking power. No need to meet face to face, no stage for tears, no weight of goodbye. One tap of block and it is over. So we live on, never even noticing the ending.
Psychologists call it an emotional crime scene. One victim, one perpetrator at most, but the evidence is archived forever in digital space. We cannot bring ourselves to delete it—just in case we might finally learn why we weren’t enough.
The Blood-Freezing Questions of the One Left Behind
Thirty-seven days since he disappeared. I still clutch my phone; every notification makes my heart stutter. The word what-if sticks in my throat like a thorn I cannot pluck.
At this very moment, are you too pinching and zooming someone else’s profile picture?
If, tonight, he flicked back to “online,” what would I say? Or could I bear to read whatever single line he might send? Or would that line sire another forty-eight hours of silence?
Now I am afraid. Inside the app we have all died and come back countless times, yet when the real last moment arrives, no one survives.