A Confession on the Evening Commute “I want to see you right now.”
When my KakaoTalk buzzed, the neon of Seoul on the other side of the window seemed to mock me. I was nineteen—one month shy of twenty—and my hand was full of part-time work and exhaustion.
What would we even do if we met? We can’t do anything anyway.
Instead of answering, I clutched the single condom in my wallet. What I’d really prepared was a kaleidoscope of fantasies: I wanted to stay pressed to her without a single gap—not bodies, but gazes locked eye to eye.
Ice of Desire
Nineteen-year-old eyes always carry a sliver of ice. Touch the hottest skin, reach deep inside the mouth—the ice still refuses to melt. It isn’t fear. It’s the illusion that everything can still be undone. What you haven’t possessed feels eternal.
That night, staring at her reflection in the train window, I thought:
No one has yet called us dirty children. So we can’t be dirty.
Hye-jin’s Tattoo
“Take a picture here.”
In the club restroom mirror, Hye-jin lifted her skirt just enough. A tiny star tattoo fluttered on the inside of her thigh. She’d had it done the day she turned twenty—secretly, she said.
– When? – My nineteenth birthday. Alone.
She closed her eyes. A bead of vodka rolled from the tattoo and spread like a red star. I wanted to touch her leg, but my hands were busy gathering fallen strands of hair.
Hye-jin laughed. “Why won’t you touch it?”
I couldn’t say: Because I know it will end the moment I do. One fingertip and the world could collapse around that single star.
Min-seo’s Notebook
Another day, Min-seo handed me an envelope. Inside was a black memo pad.
July 3 – We only kissed, yet I felt like a criminal.
July 10 – His hand brushed my clothes. It’s over. All over.
July 25 – Today eye contact alone nearly burst my heart.
Page after page, the scrawls looked like a twelve-year-old’s diary. Min-seo whispered, “I still want to pause right here.” She showed me the scar on the back of her hand—stitched up at the hospital.
– What happened? – Nothing. They just said I wouldn’t be allowed to do anything until I turned twenty.
The Scent of Taboo
At nineteen the body is open, but the door is bolted. Not from fear—from the pleasure of waiting. A month, two days, the next birthday—something other than my own desire guarded us.
The first time we met behind the school warehouse, I stroked the back of her hand. My fingertips refused to travel farther. We stole glances at each other’s lips. Lips are the farthest place at the closest distance.
Why I Couldn’t Hold You Tonight
The day after graduation we met in the same warehouse. We were twenty now; no more excuses. As soon as the door shut, she pushed me against the wall. This time nothing stood between us.
But I caught her wrist. My fingers slipped into the circle of her pulse.
Are we finally allowed?
She asked. I shook my head. Or maybe I nodded. Or neither. I kissed her forehead, closed my eyes, and said:
“We still can’t.”
Final Question
On the night before you turned twenty, whose body did you long to hold?
Or rather—whose body didn’t you hold, and does your chest still burn for it?