“Just stamp it.” A single A4 sheet drifted from the drawer onto the bed. Yuri had already written the man’s name in advance.
Minimum rest, maximum indulgence. Six clauses in neat, compact script. The first line read:
- From July 1, 2025 to December 31, 2025, each may enter sexual relationships with third parties by mutual consent.
The nail sticker on Yuri’s fingertip glimmered softly—fire-engine red, the first color she’d changed in ten years. She rolled the pen across the table.
“Pick one person each. No need to say who.”
The Scent of Thirst
They already knew: the map of each other’s body had gone blank. Areas that once answered to a fingertip had fallen silent. Every time Yuri showered, she felt the sentence I’ve seen it all seep into the mirror. When Jihoon breathed in the smell of her hair, he suddenly thought, This is exactly my mother’s scent, and a chill crawled up his nape.
The contract struck that thirst at its root. New skin, new breath, new borders. A “first time” they hadn’t tasted in a decade seemed within reach again. So the two of them could not look at each other. The hand holding the pencil trembled slightly.
It was the moment I pictured who you would take to bed that I realized I had already lost you.
July, Jihoon’s Room
Jihoon shared his first kiss with Hye-jin, the new hire. At the company dinner, a usually oblivious senior poured him soju and said, “Hey, something about Jihoon these days—he’s burning brighter.” Hye-jin followed him into the restroom. They pushed their tongues into each other’s mouths, breath ragged. Jihoon texted Yuri with the back of his hand: Did you eat? I haven’t yet.
That night Yuri lay alone in bed. Before the smell of Jihoon’s hair on the pillow reached her, the scent of Hye-jin’s lip gloss arrived first.
August, Yuri’s Living Room
Yuri reconnected with Min-su, a high-school classmate now two years divorced and a single father. When he reached for a cigarette the way he used to, she caught his hand. “No smoking here.” Min-su laughed, set the cigarette down, and kissed the back of her hand. On the sofa they unbuttoned each other’s clothes one by one. Yuri peeled the same shade of denim from Min-su that Jihoon wore. So she closed her eyes.
September, the Joint Account
In six months, the five-million-won travel fund they had saved was halved. Room charges, gifts, guilt. Jihoon secretly bought Hye-jin a seventy-thousand-won bag. Yuri gave a million-won congratulatory gift for Min-su’s child’s first birthday. They agreed not to check each other’s statements—turning off the bank-app notifications was enough.
Yet at home they furtively opened each other’s phones. Jihoon found twenty-eight late-night calls between Yuri and Min-su. Yuri read Hye-jin’s message: Thinking of you tonight, too. After that, the word sorry vanished from the apartment.
Why Does the Shadow of Desire Shine Upon Us?
Psychologists call it next-stage anxiety. Ten years is long enough for the entire future to come into focus: marriage, childbirth, parenting, divorce, old age. A “new body” whose next moment no one can predict is a magic pill that blows that anxiety away.
But we forget: new skin eventually becomes a stranger’s scent, and familiar hands are what we will someday miss.
So on the day the contract ended, they wept in each other’s arms. Yuri pressed her ear to Jihoon’s chest and said, “I don’t know who you slept with, but I know you left me.”
The Contract’s Last Edge
On the night of December 31, Yuri and Jihoon took the contract out again. Each drew a large X through their own name. Then they held each other.
Yet Yuri could not delete her last text to Min-su. Jihoon still kept Hye-jin’s birthday gift hidden in the closet.
Could you lie in the same bed six months later and whisper, Still, no one was like you? Or would you rather smile and ask, Shall we try a year this time? while holding up a fresh contract?