“You’d really give that to me?”
Around noon, beneath the pull-up bar. Jae-min looked up at Min-ji, a bead of sweat hanging from his chin. She tapped his forearm and smiled.
“The silhouette of those muscles is killer. I want to get there myself one day.”
At that single sentence his pupils wavered. I’ll make them for you. No matter how many times he swallowed, the hot words rose to the tip of his tongue.
From that day on he began the thousand-rep dumbbell curls known as the death set. One hour, two, three. Red fissures bloomed along the inside of his arm—wounds that whispered open. He pressed the slightly parted skin with a finger. A pain that hardened into pleasure.
A month later Min-ji came over and brushed his shoulder.
“Looking better now?”
At those words Jae-min’s knees buckled.
That night someone joked in the group chat:
If Min-ji wants it, Jae-min will saw off his arm and hand it over.
Jae-min replied without an emoji.
I would.
Imprint on the Arm
Every time I bleed, she smiles
When she reaches out, my whole body opens.
Jae-min felt it: the point where joy and pain converge. Min-ji’s gaze was a thermometer—how hot could he become, how far could he tear?
Every set he pictured her eyes. Is she watching now? Even when his lungs burned he could not stop. Pain turned to pleasure, blood turned to jealousy.
“Bigger, bigger still.”
From the Pilates studio below came the sound of Eugene rejecting Min-jae’s donut. “Again? You scare me.”
Min-jae stuffed two donuts into his mouth at once and grinned, holding out his calorie chart. His cheeks puffed, but his heart was light while he waited for Eugene’s “protein-donut check-in” story.
That evening Eugene DM’d him: After the donuts I did three more lunge sets—crazy, right?
Jae-min added more plates to the bar. They’re just like me.
Mirror’s whisper
In front of the mirror Jae-min studied the red crevice inside his arm. A conviction hard as philosophy: this much is the toll for showing Min-ji. He glimpsed raw flesh inside the split and pressed it gently with a finger. He smiled before he felt the sting.
If this pain makes Min-ji laugh, it’s all right.
The emptiness of a 120-kilo bench
In the rehab room Seon-ho waited for Ha-yoon’s touch. After tearing his shoulder ligament he still craved the brief tactile love of her wrapping the bandage. He would hoist 120 kilos again for it.
“If I get back to benching 120, will Ha-yoon come back?”
He stared at the empty space at the end of the hallway where she had vanished. Downhill on his knees. No one at the bottom.
Still, Seon-ho set up for the next set.
Arm at the End
Around noon, beneath the pull-up bar. Min-ji smiled and stroked Jae-min’s forearm.
“Looking good now.”
He stored that moment forever. I’d give up this arm without regret.
Yet a month later Min-ji switched to another trainer. Jae-min’s arm was still thick, but her gaze no longer lingered there.
With his remaining arm he lifted the dumbbell.
“Bigger. I need to be bigger.”
Now only his own cracked arm watches him in the mirror no one else looks into. He murmured:
At the end of the body I offered, if only I remain—was that love, or a prison?