“Is that your scent I smell?”
The doorbell rang at 1:47 a.m. I opened the door in shorts to find Jihoon standing there, a convenience-store bag in hand—two cans of beer and a pack of melatonin. When he smiled, tired, and the chill from the cans brushed my cheek, the bedroom door where Min-woo slept was ajar.
— It’s fine. I’ll just crash.
Jihoon drank: one sip, two, three, four. The sheets Min-woo and I had used still carried our smell, and over it drifted the line of Jihoon’s throat. The sound of my own swallow echoed too loudly inside me.
The You That Rises from a Scent
I knew, of course. Min-woo and Jihoon were close—senior and junior in the same college club, calling each other hyung and dongsaeng, meeting two or three times a month for a drink before going their separate ways. Still, I would steal glances at Jihoon’s hands behind Min-woo’s back. When Min-woo went to the bathroom, I turned Jihoon’s half-finished can between my fingers, stroking the rim that still held his breath.
Jihoon knew. I knew. He knew that I knew he knew.
Maybe what I want isn’t Jihoon at all—maybe I only want to slip free of Min-woo’s fingertips.
Yet every time I see the line of Jihoon’s jaw, my heart still lurches.
Creases on the Sheets, Names We Erased
Last winter, Min-woo was pulling an all-nighter at work. I was home alone—except Jihoon had come over. Min-woo had asked him to swing by because “delivery won’t come tonight.” I hated the lingering scent of Min-woo’s neckties in the house, so I suggested a quick beer while Jihoon was here.
Half a can in, Jihoon asked:
Me: Is that your scent I smell?
Jihoon: No, isn’t it yours?
Me: …
We both fell silent. In that pause, Jihoon’s hand covered the back of mine—one finger, two, then the whole palm—then rested still.
A long moment later, he murmured:
Jihoon: Min-woo hyung will be home around dawn.
Me: …
Jihoon: Should we change the sheets?
While we stripped the bed, I rolled the two names in my mouth—Min-woo, Jihoon, Min-woo, Jihoon—letting them slide off my tongue. On the fresh linen, Jihoon’s breath settled first, not Min-woo’s scent. And nothing happened. Nothing, we lied to each other, had happened.
Her Bad Time, My Bad Time
Hee-seo, thirty-two, UX designer. She lived in an apartment with her lover of six years, Do-jin. One day Do-jin’s friend Jae-hyeon dropped by for a housewarming. After that, Hee-seo began noticing everything Do-jin lacked.
Jae-hyeon washed the insoles of his shoes every time he took them off at the door; Do-jin never did. Jae-hyeon called her cooking “the best”; Do-jin just said “tasty.” Those tiny gaps drove her mad.
One night Do-jin was away on a business trip. Jae-hyeon came for fifteen minutes to fix a broken drawer. While he worked, Hee-seo watched a bead of sweat slide down the back of his neck. She wanted to catch it on her tongue.
Hee-seo: Jae-hyeon-ssi, would you like a drink?
Jae-hyeon: But Do-jin isn’t here—is that okay?
Hee-seo: Of course it’s okay.
Two glasses, three, four. On the fourth, Hee-seo asked:
Hee-seo: Between Do-jin and me… who do you like more?
Instead of answering, Jae-hyeon stroked the back of her hand. Hee-seo traced her own name across his skin: Hee-seo, Hee-seo, Hee-seo.
At that moment she understood: what she wanted wasn’t Jae-hyeon but something that was not Do-jin.
Why We Choose the Hotter Flame
Psychologist Esther Perel says love is not intimacy with a stranger, but strangeness with the familiar. Min-woo is familiar; Jihoon is strange. Yet when Min-woo’s familiarity grows tiresome, Jihoon’s strangeness becomes a hotter ember.
We reach for the hotter flame not because we wish to abandon the present bond, but because we no longer wish to remain the present self.
The hotter thing burns me hotter.
In that heat I slip free of Min-woo’s gaze.
And in Jihoon’s blaze I believe I can birth a new self.
Which Name Will You Erase from Which Sheet?
That night Jihoon came again. Min-woo was late at a company dinner. As soon as the door opened, Jihoon said:
Jihoon: Min-woo hyung won’t make it home tonight either.
Me: …
Jihoon: So—shall we change the sheets again?
I nodded, but this time I did not change them. I left them as they were. Over Min-woo’s and my scent, Jihoon’s breath lingered. Breathing it in, I asked:
Could you, for Min-woo and not for Jihoon, change these sheets once more? Or have you reached the point of erasing even Min-woo’s smell?
To you standing at the door this very moment: in your hand is Jihoon’s beer can, and Min-woo’s bed is empty. Between the creases on those sheets, whose name will you choose to erase?