0. 11:47 p.m., the click of a phone unlocking
After the children had gone to sleep, Chaeryun, forty-two, sat on the sofa watching the back of her husband, Minseok, forty-three. He was buried in his laptop screen—as every night of their fifteen-year marriage had been. She swallowed a sigh, sipped the last of the beer in her glass, and traced circles on the carpet with her toes. Her feet were cold.
- Without turning, Minseok said,
“If I’m late for the company dinner again, just go to bed, all right?”
Instead of answering, Chaeryun took out her phone. The unlock tone cut sharply through the room. The screen lit up with a photo from a college retreat fifteen years earlier: she was resting her chin on the shoulder of a senior she had just met, his fingers brushing the back of her hand. The tremor of that instant still lived in her fingertips.
1. Saturday, June 3, a studio in Nonhyeon-dong
“Don’t press your face here.”
Mijin, forty-two, an accountant, slipped out to the living room after her husband, Jeongho, forty-five, a law-firm attorney, had fallen asleep. Every weekend he pored over legal tomes until two in the morning. She opened the laptop on the kitchen table and typed into the search bar: “age of a woman’s first orgasm.” Thirty-seven, thirty-nine, forty-two… numbers scrolling like rainfall.
She stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Hot water slid over her shoulders. With her eyes closed she summoned the memory of a junior colleague, Jaeyoung—twenty-nine at the time—she had run into at a company workshop five years ago. Jaeyoung had stood by the copier in a rolled-up white shirt, sweat-slick fingers gliding across the pages. That night Mijin lay in the retreat dormitory, eyes clenched shut, counting silently: twenty-one, twenty-two… until she slipped into sleep.
She turned off the water. In the mirror her eyes were bloodshot. She wiped her face; droplets slid down her cheeks. Why couldn’t I smile then?
- From that day on, whenever Jeongho texted, “Working late again,” Mijin replied, “My head hurts.” The headache was a lie; the ache was in her fingertips—an emptiness where nothing could be touched.
2. Thursday, September 12, the Pangyo underground garage
“Tonight, let’s meet where we first did.”
Sujin, thirty-nine, UX designer, discovered the note from her husband, Youngjun, forty-one, CTO of a start-up. He had set the Tesla key on the console and walked away without a word. Sujin rolled the note in her palm, then took out her phone. A map pin appeared: “Pangyo CGV, 3F back entrance.” There, fifteen years earlier when she was twenty-four, she had received her first kiss from a twenty-seven-year-old senior. After the credits rolled he had taken her hand in the dark corridor—hand to fingers, fingers to tips—beneath flickering neon, her first moment of breathless surrender.
She stepped out of the car. The fluorescent lights of the garage stung her eyes. Alone, she waited for the elevator. The doors opened and she rode up: first floor, second, third… her heartbeat climbing with the numbers. When the doors parted, the smell hit first—old popcorn. She walked slowly into the dim corridor, feeling the wall, no flashlight, just memory. The senior was out of touch now, somewhere in America. She took out her phone and typed, Where are you now? But she never pressed send.
- Standing at the end of the corridor, she stared at the flickering ceiling light. Why am I still here? She texted Youngjun: Going home first—too tired. A lie. What was exhausted was her mind, still carrying the imprint of that first kiss fifteen years ago.
3. That night, the living room
When Minseok was asleep, Chaeryun returned to the living room. Lying on the sofa, she stared at the ceiling. The fluorescent bulb pulsed faintly. Why have I endured this until now? Slowly she raised her hand; her fingers grazed the shadow above. She closed her eyes. First date with Minseok, first kiss, first time in bed… all of it surfaced, yet she felt nothing. Her hand sliced through empty air.
She rose. Her toes slid across the rough carpet. Why am I still standing here? She walked softly down the hallway. The bedroom door was ajar; Minseok snored. She closed it gently and returned to the living room, opened her laptop, and typed: “orgasm after fifteen years of marriage.” The screen went black; nothing came.
- She took out her phone and wrote: That night, why did I scream? But she did not send it. Perhaps it hadn’t been a scream at all. She closed her eyes and, for the first time in fifteen years, listened to the sound of her own breathing. It filled her throat, then slowly, slowly… she exhaled. Perhaps this is the beginning.