The Three Minutes She Spent in the Bathroom
“When are you two doing it?”
Mother lowered her spoon to the table and whispered. Steam rose from the kimchi-jjigae, then thinned and vanished. Ji-hae had no answer.
Eight years. The span felt like a single hair tightening around her throat. He had slipped a ring on her finger in year two, but it was only a “couple ring.” Not a proposal.
The bathroom door clicked shut. For three minutes the living room echoed with the sound of silence.
Ji-hae lifted her phone. On Instagram: #YearEight #FinallyProposed #BrideToBe. Hye-jin from high school flashed a diamond that seemed to pierce the screen. Ji-hae’s thumb hovered, then trembled away from the like button.
In the Heart of the Desert Called “Too Late”
I’m already thirty-three. He’s thirty-five. We’re growing old. Yet no one will say the truth. Instead of “It’s never too late,” why can’t they say, “You’ve already become fallow ground”?
Every night Ji-hae calculates on the edge of sleep. One year to plan the wedding. Two years until a child. Giving birth at thirty-five is “high-risk.” She remembers her younger sister leaving the OB-GYN with red-rimmed eyes.
Not yet. Not yet. But why does something inside her crackle and burn?
First Trace: Dates Scratched on Glass
“I catch myself… counting.”
Each morning she murmurs to the mirror:
- 2 May 2016 – first kiss
- 24 December 2017 – first night we moved in
- 15 August 2019 – first meeting of parents
- 2024… nothing.
“Isn’t it right to keep waiting?” she asks her reflection. “Eight years should be enough.”
The woman in the glass looks sallow, eyes narrower, jawline softening. He still doesn’t know she has deleted the search term bride-to-be thirty-seven separate evenings. That since twenty-nine she has ordered—then hidden—twelve wedding dresses from secret online boutiques.
Second Trace: The Silence of Min-jun and Ji-young
Min-jun and Ji-young had been together nine years. Last Christmas, Ji-young finally asked, “When…?”
Min-jun sat on the edge of the bed, lit a cigarette. “Let’s focus on work first. Marriage… I’m not ready.”
Three months later Ji-young visited an OB-GYN alone. FSH levels high. If you want a child, hurry.
That night she packed while Min-jun slept. Now she lives alone. His half-zipped sweater still lies on the bedside chair, as if waiting for a body that never returns.
Why We Become Addicted to Endless Waiting
Psychologist Robert Sternberg observed that sustained expectation is more potent than morphine. A 30 % chance of reward stimulates the brain more reliably than a 70 % certainty. We are spellbound by the word soon.
How soon is soon? Is eight years long enough, or will it take sixteen before we surrender?
In Michael Ende’s Momo, the gray gentlemen warn: saving time while waiting for someone is useless. Yet we keep vigil. Because the word still still works: still possible, still time, still not withered.
Ferryman of Silence
Tonight Ji-hae is uneasy. In last night’s dream she saw herself at ninety, seated beside the bed in a wedding dress. But in her hands lay not a bouquet, only a fistful of leaves gathered from a grave.
Final Question
At this very moment, are you quietly crumbling while waiting for someone? And until when will you trade your own youth for the hope that he will finally speak?