“He’s lying in our bed right now.”
A single line flashed on my boyfriend’s—no, partner of eight years—phone. 2:43 a.m. The message stripped me bare. The sender bore an unfamiliar woman’s name. She had used the word “our” on purpose.
I switched on the bedside lamp and tapped Jihoon’s eyelids like a sparrow. A sleep-slurred voice answered. “Are you crazy? It’s the middle of the night…”
“Jihoon, open your eyes. Someone says she doesn’t want you here.”
The choice at the moment of waking
That night I saw two roads: retreat or descend deeper. What color is her bra? A childish thought. Eight years suddenly felt awkward, almost embarrassing. The cycle of quarrel and reconciliation we’d rehearsed wasn’t boredom at all; it was a leather strap called familiarity, and someone was cutting it clean. In that instant I understood this wasn’t love; it was a struggle for power.
Her name is Sujin
Sujin works at Jihoon’s new office. A fresh hire, he’d said. I’d glimpsed her once, outside the building at quitting time. Jihoon waved. “She’s on our team.” She wore a black long coat. He didn’t introduce me; he only nodded. From that moment, his gaze slipped a notch. One flicker of his eyes wandered away.
“I almost wish you’d already fallen for her,” I said. Jihoon looked away. Yes—this wasn’t surrender; it was a counterattack.
The new man was Junhyeok
Junhyeok lives one floor below; he moved in a month ago. Whenever we met in the elevator, his hair was tied back and the scent of rice flour clung to him. He spoke first. “So you live here too. I’m in 203.” I nodded. He smiled, shy. “Do you have a cat? I hear crying at night.”
“No. My boyfriend talks in his sleep,” I lied. Junhyeok’s eyes wavered. That night, after Jihoon drifted off, I found a Post-it on my door: If you ever need help… A phone number below.
Why are we drawn to this?
Psychologists call it fear of loss, but the phrase is too tidy. The truer word is lust for ruin. The instant I realized he might not be mine, I wanted to break him completely—only then could he belong to me again. I craved the sight of Jihoon apologizing to me. So I went to Junhyeok’s place for a drink. He brought out two cans of beer, embarrassed. We sat on his sofa; the scent of his still-damp shampoo lingered.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.” He sipped. “But… you look tangled up in something.”
I opened my gallery: Jihoon and me on our first date eight years ago, his awkward V-sign. Junhyeok studied the screen.
“You still love him.”
“Yes. That’s why I want to hold on until the end.”
The object on the bed
That night I told Junhyeok, “Help me. Send this photo to Jihoon.”
It was a picture taken on Junhyeok’s bed—nothing had happened, but the illusion would suffice. Junhyeok hesitated.
“Is this… the right thing?”
“It’s not about right or wrong. It’s how I survive.”
He nodded and took the shot. I forwarded it to Jihoon: 3:12 a.m. Five minutes later my phone rang.
“Where are you?”
“At Junhyeok’s.”
Silence. Then: “Come upstairs. Now.”
I looked up. Junhyeok was watching me, eyes trembling as though about to speak; instead he scratched his brow.
“When it’s over… can you come back here?”
I didn’t answer. I stepped out. As the elevator rose, I wondered: if this is war, who is the victor?
The final question
Jihoon met me at the door, eyes blood-shot. “I’m sorry,” he said.
I looked at him. For the first time in eight years I saw fear in his eyes. Was that what I wanted? Or… who am I without Jihoon?
I walked in. That night we shattered each other, and on the broken pieces we whispered that we still loved. At dawn I texted Junhyeok: I’m still here.
Right now, do you picture a hand you can’t let go—even knowing it isn’t yours?