The Moment an Ice Floe Settled on My Shoulder
In the club bathroom mirror: Jisoo. Violet bruise of shadow beneath her eyes, breath laced with the scarlet scent of cigarettes. I turned to leave; her fingertips grazed the nape of my neck. Not cold—sparks snapped, licking skin like tiny flames. My phone buzzed. “Yerin♡.” In her profile picture she was smiling under gentle sunlight. Running late I typed, then looked back into Jisoo’s eyes. No answer to why I suddenly wanted to carry her out of there, or why this foreboding tasted so sweet.
A Thirst That Crackled Like Mulled Wine
Most days the label “good man” squeezed my windpipe. Yerin was safety—asking permission before a kiss, cradling my sleeping head, ladling out hangover soup with quiet trust. In that trust, desire wilted: same posture, same scent, same conversation. Jisoo, meanwhile, was a dangerous magnet. Pretending not to know what I wanted—or pretending she did—she crushed my heart under the ball of her foot. With her, a stranger inside me gasped for air. A dread that might destroy me—and therefore burns hotter.
Two Eyewitness Accounts, Written Like True Crime
Case 1 — Yuri, 32, advertising account manager
Minwoo’s chat-room profile: a single light in an illegal gambling den. He had no concept of comfort. First meeting, 9 p.m. rooftop. He seized my wrist and passed me violence wrapped like a lunchbox.
- Yuri: Why are you shaking?
- Minwoo: Isn’t shaking good? Proof you’re alive.
Relationship aged like cheap red wine—one month, kisses in the company lounge; two months, torn collars in the elevator; three months, he showed up at dawn. Trembling head-to-toe, Yuri whispered, “Move in with me.” Minwoo laughed. “I have to watch you get comfortable first.” That morning she bolted the door and cried.
Case 2 — Hyunsoo, 29, marketer
Three blind dates. Yerin the bank teller, a job parents adore. First meeting: “We have a dog at home,” she chirped. Within a week they were sleeping over—Saturday barbecue, Sunday cinema, Wednesday grocery runs. Yet every night Hyunsoo dreamed of another woman: black two-piece, hair flying, charging past without a glance. At dawn Yerin served warm bone-broth soup. No answer to why the cold one stayed scalding.
White Sugar Scattered on Red Desert
As a child my father came home drunk and smashed the furniture; my mother clung to him to the end. So I learned pain is the receipt for love. Tranquil relationships felt counterfeit. Psychology texts call it trauma bonding—the pull toward those likely to wound. But the deeper engine: anxiety detonates dopamine. Early-stage uncertainty flares the reward pathway like a drug. A comfortable woman soon dulls the high, while the maddening one keeps asking, This time? The brain is addicted not to orgasm but to the pilgrimage toward it.
The Last Question Left by a Severed Finger
At this very moment, whose face surfaces in my mind? The one who always makes me tremble, or the one who strokes the trembling still? Do I want love, or do I want myself inside anxiety? I have given no answer yet.