The Sigh After the Lullaby Ends
“Mummy, Daddy, did I sleep well?”
The child pushes the door open, rubbing both fists into sleepy eyes. Ji-su snaps upright, answering in a bright, lilting voice. We showered the little one with kisses last night, murmuring I love you dozens of times. Yet less than thirty seconds later, when Ji-su’s fingers brush my wrist, I shiver. Cold skin. A chill as familiar as the handle of the refrigerator door.
The Night He Disappeared
Why are we still lying in the same bed?
The question floats up each time I hold my breath and stare at the ceiling. Once, we fell asleep drunk on each other’s scent. Now even perfume circles my nose without lingering.
“Tonight as well?”
“I’m exhausted.”
No more whispers. Two syllables end the conversation.
In front of the children our performance is flawless. At breakfast we flip waffles and pick batter from each other’s hair; at the school gate we clasp hands and wave. The moment we’re alone, we let go at the same instant. The hands that used to cling like oiled parchment leave nothing but a pocket of air.
Dissecting Desire
It isn’t love; it’s collusion.
The act we stage for the children is no longer sex but conspiracy. We fear that when the curtain drops we’ll expose each other’s weak points. Who will be the first to show a real face? Who will first say we’re already finished?
So the bedroom turns listless. The excuse is always “tired.”
Yet I know fatigue is only the sand covering the desert of desire. One mouthful leaves the tongue bitter with self-knowledge.
We keep telling the children we love each other. That is the cruelest delusion.
Story That Could Be True 1: Eun-ji & Seong-hun
Eun-ji has two children, five and eight. At 9:30 p.m. the living-room lights go off; Seong-hun closes his laptop. He has a presentation tomorrow and will work until two.
“Late again tonight?”
Eun-ji whispers.
“Presentation’s due tomorrow.”
A single sentence ends the dialogue.
In bed they scroll their phones, enlarging old photographs in secret. How feverish they had looked on their wedding day. Lying one bed-width apart, she can’t feel her husband’s breathing at all.
She types “#strangersinbed” on Instagram, then covers her eyes with both hands so the tears won’t fall.
Story That Could Be True 2: Hee-seo & Jeong-min
Every night after the children sleep, Jeong-min heads to the living-room. The reason is simple.
“You snore too loudly.”
He never says this in front of the kids.
Hee-seo knows the truth: his snoring is barely a whisper. The real reason is different.
His body gives off no scent. No sweat, no sexual tang, no smell at all. She breathes in deeply and finds her nose empty.
After the children drift off, Jeong-min chooses the sofa. Hee-seo pulls the blanket up to her chin and clutches the hollow at the center of her chest.
Why We Are Drawn to This
Taboo always beckons. Living as though we are not lovers.
So the bedroom stays cool. In front of the children we act; in the bedroom the act fails. When a failed performance drags on long enough, the face becomes expressionless. Inside that blankness lurks the unsaid “it’s over,” and that is the most terrifying sentence.
Yet there is also relief: one place where we can drop the mask. But the relief returns as sexual apathy. Desire does not die; it merely holds its breath.
A stifled desire breeds unspeakable guilt: professing love to the children while rejecting each other’s touch in the dark.
If I Open My Eyes, Will I Speak First?
Tonight, too, after the children are asleep, we will close the door softly. We will lie in bed and switch on our phones. One pillow apart in temperature, one pillow apart in breath.
But wait—what are you really thinking just before sleep?
If that person reaches out first, will I take the hand or pretend I didn’t feel it?
That single question will rule the night.