“You always give me only half.”
At 11:47 p.m., my wife, perched on the edge of the bed with a half-finished beer, spoke as though the words had been fermenting all evening. The foam collapsing in her glass sounded louder than anything on the muted television. I kept my eyes on the screen, but I felt her gaze slide from the bedside lamp toward the living-room window. Through the darkened room glowed the faint outline of apartment 402—a sliver of elevator light sneaking across its far wall.
After that night, she was no longer quite my wife. When she came back from the shower, the mattress dipped only on her side, as though an invisible twin had already claimed the other half. A single strand of hair lay on her pillow—shorter than hers. At dinner her chopsticks floated in mid-air, magnetized not by the food but by the rectangle of glass and the apartment beyond it.
I started a folder on my phone titled “Window.” Three-hundred-and-twenty-seven photographs: nothing but my wife’s back and whatever 402 chose to reveal.
What I crave isn’t love itself, but the right to be loved. In her eyes I had already forfeited it.
Min-seo’s Diary—Saturday, March 12, 2022, Clear
402 lit up again. 22:03. If I crack the window the distant wail of a child quiets. My husband is on his third day in Busan. I lie on the sofa and watch 402. The curtain twitches. A man peels off his T-shirt slowly. Three small stars tattooed on his left shoulder. About six-foot-one; my husband is five-nine.
Day 23 of the vigil. Last night I heard him on the phone: “Darling, I’ll be late tonight.” A low, husky voice—exactly the timbre I long to hear. Seung-jun comes home and opens only his laptop. Last week he left a note—“Late again”—and walked in at 2 a.m. I sat on the sofa until 402 went dark.
Silhouette of 402
April 3, 3:21 a.m. My wife slipped out of bed. I pretended to sleep, breath shallow. Barefoot, she padded to the living room; the mattress exhaled then inhaled without her. A phone screen flashed once—she was typing. Moments later 402 lit up.
I eased from the bed and stood behind the shoe cabinet. She lifted her phone to her ear. Silence. Then one brittle sentence:
“Tonight… is it all right?”
402 remained lit. She ended the call and stared out for a long minute before drifting back. I pressed myself deeper into the shadows. When the bedroom door clicked shut, I stepped out and looked. 402 was still burning.
The Heart That Crossed the Window
When love is halved, people ransack the world for the missing piece. My wife sought hers in 402; I sought mine in the curve of her turned back. In the end we only cut each other down to halves.
That window is a frontier: inside and outside, what is granted and what is withheld, love and longing. Whatever lies beyond the pane can never be mine—therein lies its fierce sweetness. The heart that has drifted farthest from the nearest person gives itself to a stranger’s light.
May 8, Parents’ Day
Seven in the morning; she still slept. I left the apartment and stood in the corridor outside 402. The mailbox read Kim Hyun-su. A small CCTV blinked above it. I waited. The door opened a crack. A man’s eyes met mine for three full seconds, then vanished. I rode the elevator down in silence.
11:54 p.m. My wife sat on the edge of the bed, looking straight at me. The television was off.
“You always give me only half,” she said.
I took her hand instead of answering. Her fingers were cold. Outside, 402 went dark. She turned; I followed. The window showed nothing now. We searched each other’s faces for our missing halves, but the halves had already slipped through the glass and dissolved into the night.