It happened at noon inside the elevator, when he took one step closer from behind. The mere thought of his breath grazing my nape set my mind on fire. "Should I press the button?" The moment his voice reached my ear, I already had him pinned against the hallway wall. ---
Before the First Touch
When the back of his hand—without even a layer of clothing—skimmed my wrist, I had already finished imagining his fingers traveling up my arm.
Is this normal? Did it take only a single day?
No, perhaps it was the very first glance. The instant he said, “Hello,” I swear I heard his lips whispering right against my ear. Every time his gaze slid past me in the corridor, I felt it rake over my body. ---
The Incident That Never Happened on the 3-Line
Minjae boards the 7:52 train on Line 3 every day. Among the aproned aunties he still stood out—his white shirt gleaming like a dove. Today, as always, he positioned himself on my left. The hand holding the rail was less than three centimeters from mine.
Yes—if I grasped that hand right now, the crowd would simply flow past, leaving only the two of us suspended in time.
Each jolt of the carriage made Minjae’s shoulder brush mine, and with every nudge I pictured the line of his jaw grazing my hair.
If I turn around? If he smiles at me?
But Minjae kept his head bowed. His stop was next; I stayed on the train. ---
Lies in the Café Restroom Mirror
“Ms. Sujin, can I get you another coffee?” the manager asked, while already I stood before the restroom mirror with him. I felt him step behind me, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, murmuring, “You had a hair here”—though in truth there was none. I simply went to the restroom and stared at my reflection for three full minutes.
Sujin, how did you let yourself come to this? ---
Why We Crave Imagination
People claim imagination is safe—less dangerous than reality. That’s a lie. Imagination is more perilous; reality ends eventually, but fantasy does not. You may have tasted your first kiss with him a hundred times over.
Writers call this silent intimacy: the delusion that you already share a secret without a single word spoken. That’s it. While he remains unaware, we picture ourselves tangled in bedsheets, and suddenly we feel chosen, singular. ---
That Night, the Flushed Nape
“See you tomorrow,” he said, and already I felt the pad of his fingertip tracing the curve of my neck.
Yes—tomorrow he might take my hand.
No—he’s already holding it.
Even now.
Back home I showered, yet under the scalding water I still felt the ghost of his touch. ---
Have you ever spiraled like this for someone? Silently, all day long, constructing an intimacy no one else can see.
And when that fantasy finally becomes real, will anything burn hotter than what you imagined?