"Crossing the line—does that bother you?" Half past midnight. Long since logged out of Naver Works.
- Are you home?
- Yeah. Alone.
Her voice climbs the length of my legs. I plug in my earphones and pretend to hear nothing. Open, then close, the fridge; sip water.
- Then… may I say it?
A bedside lamp is the only light in the room. On the screen: 3 minutes 24 seconds, ticking upward. I nod. She exhales, lips still closed. Once, twice. Then—
- I’m touching myself because I was thinking of you.
The nod must have sounded like consent. In truth I was only dazed. I said nothing, yet she whispered:
- Don’t hang up. Stay on the line.
Eleven minutes forty-seven seconds. Her breathing, wordless. I couldn’t move my hand. Only the pulse in my wrists proved I was alive.
How desire seeps into the apartment
What did I want, really? Her body? The pleasure she felt? Or this very moment—me, spying like a criminal on the most private thing she owns?
The reason I never cut the call was simple: if I did, her desire would end. And once it ended, who else would summon me into the night?
Even after the line drops, her breath keeps circling my ears. In a back-alley neighborhood with dodgy 3G, every stutter of static is crystal clear. I never pressed record, but my brain auto-saved.
Two lies told as if they were true
1. Yuri’s two weeks
Early February, Yuri left the office and boarded the subway. Line 2, Jamsil-bound. She began talking to "Junho," whom she’d met in a Naver Band hobby group. At first it was about stocks.
- Do you buy them yourself?
- No, I just taste them.
She giggled at the word taste. That evening Junho sent a single text: [Can’t stop thinking about what you said.]
From then on Yuri waited for his call every night at eleven. He asked her:
- What’s your door code?
- Why?
- Just picturing the look on your face when I walk in unannounced.
She actually changed the keypad to 486. Junho never came. For two weeks Yuri filled her days with nothing but the sound of his breathing. Then he vanished—without a word.
2. Min-jae’s Thursday
Min-jae ordered a bottle of soju in a bar near Hongdae. A friend’s place, so drinking alone was safe. There he met Jia, a woman who laughed at other people’s conversations.
- Isn’t it rude to eavesdrop?
- Sorry, but your story was hilarious.
He poured her a glass. At two a.m. she called him, waking him from sleep.
- Sorry, did I wake you?
- …Yeah.
Jia said her apartment was too noisy, that she needed to feel alone. Min-jae replied:
- Then let’s stay on the line. Even if I go quiet, don’t hang up.
Jia sniffled. For thirty-seven minutes Min-jae drifted off to the sound of her breathing. At seven he woke; the call was still live. Jia said:
- I dreamed because of you.
From then on Min-jae waited every Thursday night. Jia told him that with him, she felt she had a home.
The hollow seat behind taboo
Why are we lured by desire on the other end of a call? Because, in short, it lets us forget I am here. No body, only voice—therefore a permissible transgression.
Psychologists say intimacy carried only by sound stimulates the imagination: What expression is she wearing, what clothes? Imagination tastes better than reality; reality is always insufficient.
And a darker reason: this desire reverses the helplessness of I have nothing to give her. I only listen to her breathing—yet with that breath she can lead me to my highest moment. How powerless must I be in real life that this is possible?
The reason you can’t hang up
She said:
- Hold on, ah…
Two seconds of silence. Or two seconds of stillness. I closed my eyes. When eyes close, her room appears: two mats wide, laptop glow at the foot of the bed, her head tilting back.
With eyes closed I sit at the edge of her bed. I could not cut the line. When her breathing stops I return to solitude: this room, this fridge, this bed. Locked again inside my own body.
Did I want to hang up? No, I didn’t. So I still listen to her breathing, and in it I picture myself. When she thinks of me, who am I?
And at last she asked:
- Why don’t you hang up? I answered:
- Because you won’t.
What I wanted to say: if the call ends, I might disappear.