0°, When Words Begin to Freeze—12:16 a.m.
At 12:16 a.m., Eun-seo held a sip of Blue Hawaii on her tongue for three long seconds. One, two, three—down the hatch. The alcohol scorched its way down her esophagus, yet her body temperature stayed stubbornly at 35.4 °C. A KakaoTalk room flashed black, then white.
Jun-hyeok 12:08
I’m with some friends right now. Just a kid from the neighborhood.
Jun-hyeok 12:08She’s not even that close, Eun-seo.
That “kid from the neighborhood”—Eun-seo had watched her and Jun-hyeok rattle the bed frame last week on repeat behind her eyelids. Her fingers stayed motionless above the screen. Pretending to be cold only freezes you to the marrow, and this bastard doesn’t even notice.
A Glass-Like Lie, A Shell Sharper Than Glass
Playing cold tears the tongue like biting glass. From the outside it looks clear and solid, but one hairline crack and the fracture spreads through the entire body.
“It’s fine—I’m with someone else, too.”
By the second lie, she was swallowing not ice but powdered glass. The smooth slide across skin became razor-edged, drawing blood.
Case 1. Ju-hee, 29—Dancing on Charcoal
Company dinner, the smell of sizzling meat teasing her nostrils.
- Executive (raising a bottle of wine): “Ju-hee, how about a glass tonight?”
- Ju-hee (smiling, sliding her glass away): “I’m good—just here to watch.”
- Executive (eyebrow arched, leaning closer): “So aloof. Intriguing.”
Ju-hee endured the charcoal smoke clinging to her hair. When her colleagues burst into laughter beside her, she let the flickering flames glance off her without catching.
Two weeks later, office hallway.
- Junior colleague: “The exec wants to sit next to you again at the next dinner.”
- Ju-hee (shrugging): “Who knows? Everyone knows I’m ice-cold.”
The moment the words left her lips, frost rimed her smile. The label “cold woman” had set like concrete.
Case 2. Do-hyeon, 32—Words Dropped with a Time Delay
Do-hyeon drafted a strategy. One message a day; replies three hours late. He typed, deleted, and retyped “I’m swamped right now.”
First month, reactions sizzling.
- Woman 1:
Do-hyeon, what are you doing today? Miss you. - Do-hyeon (three hours later):
Sorry, meetings ran late. Probably too late tonight.
Second month, temperature dropping.
- Woman 2:
Are you really that busy, or do you just not want to see me? - Do-hyeon (five hours later):
Just swamped. Let’s meet soon, promise.
Third month, the chatroom frozen solid.
Woman 1: “Do-hyeon, what gives? Answer me.”
Woman 2: “If that’s an apology, forget it—I’m out.”
Woman 3: “If you’re not interested, just say so. How long do I wait?”
Do-hyeon couldn’t draw even their last warmth toward him. Already cast as the “cold man,” no one peered past the surface anymore.
Minus Five Degrees—Thawing from the Toes Upward
Pretending to be cold began as armor—freeze before getting hurt. But the thicker the ice, the more brittle it becomes. The outer layer thins; a brush leaves a fissure.
Ordinary ice melts with fire. But leave it frozen too long, and we end up burning ourselves.
12:23 a.m., Eun-seo’s Final Chat
Eun-seo steeled her gaze, then slipped back into the chatroom. She clutched her phone with both hands to hide the tremor.
Eun-seo 12:23
Jun-hyeok, I’m alone right now.
I saw you screw that kid.
And still, the one I’m crazy to see is you.
This isn’t me acting cold—it’s me frozen solid.
But I’m going to thaw.
Even if you don’t come, I’ll melt by myself.
She never hit send. The message lingered in the green input box. She closed her eyes, opened them again. A slow warmth crept up from her toes. Her hands no longer shook.
The ice melted not from fire, nor from anyone’s warmth. The moment she stopped pretending to be cold, the room returned to zero degrees.