“So you’re also banging Jiho?”
Third from the left—who is she?
They say he only fingered her all night.
2:11 a.m. My outstretched hand finds the phone. The feed opens: my face inside a red circle. Two shirt buttons undone, the exposed clavicle flashes like the stranger’s tongue that night.
47 comments. Refreshes every three minutes. The booze wore off—or rather, something sharper than alcohol scorched me awake.
“That night, the lie that he ‘only held my hand’ stroked my nipple”
Subway Line 2. On the commute, my thumb reflexively hit “like,” then instantly canceled.
“She was at the Suwon meet-up three weeks ago too. Jiho-oppa slipped his hand inside the plastic bag and just laughed lol.” “Her body’s a work of art. When her nipples jiggled, he asked if she was ‘extra sensitive.’”
Lies. I met him for the first time that night, never went to Suwon, and Jiho wasn’t carrying any bag. Still, a slick heat gathered between my legs. Inside someone else’s filthy fantasy—brown nipples grazing my nose—the me they invented breathed.
First woman, Yuri | 29, brand marketer
Yuri swiped right on Jiho via Tinder Premium. First DM: “You’re sweet as dalgona—how should I taste you to get the sweetest drop?”
On the second date he slid into her friend’s Instagram DMs with the same line.
“It was humiliating. While he came, he was picturing my friend in the exact spot where I lay.”
She reverse-searched his Kakao profile photo. Result: 87 images. Same terrace, same crimson shirt, same left arm wrapped around other women. She screenshotted every one.
“In every place I wasn’t, I was already being replaced.”
Second woman, Minseo | 31, UX designer
Minseo met Jiho through a club junior. He’d combed every post she’d commented on in a design forum and slid into her inbox with the exact same sentence:
‘Same obsession :) the wavering line drawn like a brushstroke—that looks just like you.’
She screenshotted 200 of his messages, then wrote an anonymous exposé titled “The Man Who Seduces Women with the Same Line.”
“Even after posting, I kept checking the comment count: 512 → 514 → 517. I came watching that number climb.”
“We investigate one another with our bodies”
Psychologists call it competitive projection: verifying not the other person, but the flaw I bear alone.
“I wonder what position he had you in, how hard you trembled.”
The question doesn’t want an answer. We only calculate how far the next lie will rip our skin, hunting deeper silences, fouler testimonies—addicts licking wounds to dig them wider.
Inside the red circle, I still haven’t trembled for anyone
I haven’t said a word to Jiho. Instead, every night at 2:11 a.m., I refresh the post.
“Another photo of my face?” “Another false witness?”
Unconsciously, I press my thighs together. In someone’s dirtiest fantasy, I shiver. Not at Jiho’s lips, but at the fingertips of strange women—pinching a phantom nipple to wake me.
“So do you want Jiho more, or do you want the trembling me inside that post?”
Inside the red circle I still keep my mouth shut. Until the next refresh—who will I be sleeping with?