The scent of rubber gloves still clung to the air when his hand first touched my chest, the lab lights not yet extinguished. Fingers slipped free of black latex—cold, then burning. Min-seok dragged a stool beside mine. The wall clock read 9:47; only the echo of a rolling suitcase lingered.
“It’s still racing here.” His fingertip grazed the curve of my ribs. “Faster than the walls.”
I laughed. I had to. Min-seok’s gaze pinned my heart while my face drifted somewhere beyond it. Two hours earlier the pig’s heart on the table had already cooled. He set that chilled organ aside and left me apart, still warm.
He produced a stethoscope and rested it on my breastbone. Head bowed as though casting a spell, he spoke.
“I need to hear it better.” “Hear what?” “The sound of it running until breath stops.”
I turned away. Through the window I watched the corridor lights wink out. Min-seok’s fingers drummed on my skin, no diaphragm between us. One tap, two. My pulse seemed to migrate into his hand.
“Is this your schedule?” “What?” “Heartbeat: 88 bpm. Mine’s slower.”
I tasted the number in his words. 88, 88, 88. From that night I counted it climbing every stair. Whenever he laid a palm on my chest, he wrote that figure on an imaginary exam sheet. It was all I needed to pass.
3 December. The heating failed; frost feathered the windows. Min-seok peeled off his gloves and drew his pocket-warmed hand free. It brushed the nape of my neck; cold slid toward my heart.
“Cold makes it beat faster.” “Does it?” “So today, let’s try something else.”
He caught my wrist, fingertip orbiting the pulse I’d never seen him look at before. Eyes that peered into living organs, yet in them I was absent. All that remained was the reflection of my heart.
“Could blood ever flow backward?” “That’s impossible.” “I have a moment like that.”
He pressed lightly. For an instant I felt my heart stall. Min-seok lifted his head; his gaze met mine—once, as if he truly saw me—then clouded.
“Ah, it’s already time.”
He withdrew and stood. The lights snapped off; the door shut with a long sigh. Alone, I touched my chest. 88, 88, 88. The number kept running, guarding me after he had gone.
Lunar New Year. The hospital held a fair. Min-seok volunteered at a blood-typing booth in front of the med school. I walked past; he saw me, yet his gaze slipped instantly to my chest. I felt the weight of it—a look that settled where my heart beat.
I turned away. His hands would never touch me there again, but 88 still pulsed. Halfway up the stairs I stopped. My heart called out, not my name, but his number.
From that day on, only one name stirred inside me. Min-seok, Min-seok, Min-seok.
Graduation day. The lab door was locked. I peered through the glass: a single stethoscope rested on an empty table. I gripped the handle—useless.
Then a voice behind me.
“Still racing here.”
I turned. Min-seok stood there, new black gloves already on. He pointed to my chest; the rhythm leapt to 88 bpm.
“I don’t need to listen anymore.” “Then what?” “The sound of you—alive—is enough.”
I nodded. He offered his hand; I took it. Warm. No longer cold. The beat of my heart—my own pulse—was our connection. Even with the lab dark, we followed a private timetable: 88, 88, 88.
Min-seok’s hand never left my heart again.