0 seconds, silence
Each time the ceiling light trembles, the shadows come alive. The black leather strap on the bedside table gleams. Si-eun lies still, holding her breath. A door clicks open; tendons rise along a bent wrist. Jun-hyeok says nothing, winding the cord like a spool of thread.
“A little tighter.”
> “I know, even if you never say it.”
They arrived here story-less. No scar cleaving the chest, no memory shattered like glass. Only the cold air tickles the throat. A hot breath beads at the chin. Desire begins where nothing is wrong.
1,000 seconds, the white room
A back-alley off Daehak-ro, the “white room.” Red thread falls onto white tile. Si-eun studies her own eyes reflected in the glass. She surrenders a black leather jacket and breathes in its scent—cigarette, sweat, and the faintest mint. The attendant nods without a word.
Si-eun reclines on the bed and closes her eyes. When the leather band circles her throat, her jaw lifts. At first only the skin stings. As breath thins, heat spreads beneath the flesh. The mind clears, like inhaling sharply just before an exam begins.
“Leave a number here, please.”
> “…Four.”
> “Before you release the fourth breath, open your eyes.”
The camera blinks quietly. She looks up at the ceiling. Nothing is there. Emptiness lifts its lid and peers into her. Still, her body grows lighter. The ordinary day, the silent subway ad, the smell of take-out—all of it layers until she would rather simply keep her eyes closed.
1,200 seconds, a day above the sea
Afternoon in Jeju. Jun-hyeok lifts his sunglasses under the parasol, wind stinging his eyes. A scuba boat bobs offshore; waves sway. He can’t swim, yet the illusion of breath stopping underwater clings to him.
Last week, the thousandth day at the office. During lunch, on minus-two of the company gym, he froze before the mirror. Perfect skin, perfect height, perfect smile. He erased the smile and asked:
“Why do you keep breathing?”
> “I just… am alive.”
> “Is being alive fun?”
No answer. That night he bought a plane ticket. No one knew. No reason given.
1,500 seconds, five meters down
Below the surface, sound disappears. Mouthpiece in, five meters. Jun-hyeok sets a timer on his wrist. Hold out for two minutes. His lungs burn. Ears ring. Vision blurs.
Suddenly it feels as if someone grabs his ankle in the water. He flails at nothing. He counts on his fingers. One, two, three… As the fourth finger bends, his brain flashes. The simple fact of being alive is carved into his skin. He rises, and for the first time inhales with all his might.
On the waves he tells the instructor:
“I never nearly died, yet I wanted to pretend I had.”
> “That’s why you’re more alive.”
> “Yes. Since I lived, I’ll go all the way.”
1,700 seconds, back-alley scent
11 p.m. Si-eun leaves the white room, zipping her hoodie. Kimchi-jjigae steam and drunken student laughter mingle. She stands on the street, fingering her phone. She doesn’t call. Instead, the scent of sesame oil tickles her nose.
She slips into a nearby pojangmacha. The owner ladles ramen. She lifts a spoon. Hot broth slides down her throat. Only then do tears come. She doesn’t know why. Only that her throat feels on fire. The owner asks:
“Too spicy?”
> “No, just hot.”
> “Then let it cool.”
> “It’s fine. I like it hot.”
1,900 seconds, revolt against the ordinary
Psychology textbooks say: “Taboo desire usually stems from repetitive trauma.” Yet on the lab desk, untranslated papers pile like a mountain. Rebellion of the unscarred, Pathological longing for meaninglessness. We are exhausted by perfection—family, grades, looks, love without flaw. But flawlessness is the temperature at which the heart stops.
Someone wants to plunge a hand into boiling water—not because it doesn’t hurt, but because the absence of hurt itself hurts.
2,000 seconds, at the very edge
If you, too, bear no wounds, what do you wish to burn? When the fire dies, whose body will remain?
Si-eun stands before her mirror at home. A faint red mark lingers on her nape. She presses it with a fingertip. It doesn’t hurt. So she presses again.
Jun-hyeok lies on the guest-house bed, staring at the ceiling. Morning flight tomorrow. He smells the lingering brine on his palm. Though nothing is there, the scent refuses to fade.
Cold air, hot breath. With no painful memories, we still breathe this fiercely. We do not yet know why. We simply live another day without knowing.