“Ah, really…” The moment Jun-yeong let the word trail off and met my eyes, I knew. It wasn’t over. Years could pass, other bodies could hold me, but this man was blood and sinew I couldn’t shed. When his gaze skimmed mine, the fever from three years ago stirred and moved, alive.
The memory of a heat that nearly suffocated us
Jun-yeong and I used to run into each other in a cramped bar off a Jongno back alley. Love at first sight? Hardly. Just a peculiar man who kept catching my eye. Each glance scorched the inside of my thigh. No words, yet the air between us carried breath. When the soju rose, his gaze clung like a shadow. Every time I was sure he feels this too, my heart slammed against my ribs.
One night he suggested another drink. We ducked into a late-night tent bar. He brushed the back of my hand—slow, deliberate. That was the match. I felt the flame spread from fingertips to every vein. I wanted to bolt. My feet wouldn’t obey. Later, in his room, we clawed into each other. We nearly died of it.
Anatomy of desire: why I swore it could never happen again
People fear white-hot affairs. What blazes brightest leaves only ash, they say. I feared it too. Jun-yeong and I burned, then burned out—petty jealousies, misunderstandings, the blunt wall of reality. Yet the real reason was simpler: I was terrified I would melt first.
‘This is dangerous. In front of him I stop being anyone at all.’
Three years ago I couldn’t endure that. Not love—possession. Everything that made me me dissolved. So I severed it. Blocked him. Avoided every street, every bar, even the clothing brand he favored.
He hadn’t changed; neither had I
Then, three years later, an opening in an Insadong gallery. Jun-yeong still carried fire in his black pupils. Our eyes locked; in three seconds we were back at zero.
“…You’re late,” he said, closing the distance. Every memory flashed—breath, trembling hands, lips grazing my nape. I couldn’t speak, only nod. He smiled, the same smile that used to whisper straight into my bones.
“Coffee? Or… a drink?” I pretended to consider. Already I knew. Coffee or whiskey, it would end at his place—same script as before. Still I told myself this time will be different. Different how? Me?
Someone else’s story: what happened to Sujin
Around the same time, Sujin reunited with Hyun-su, the man she’d left two years earlier. Their heat had matched ours; their reason for parting, identical: fear of losing herself in loving him too much.
This time Sujin changed one thing. She made him promise: “We’ll be the ones to end it.” Both knew they’d have to cut it off again. Yet starting with that knowledge thrilled them even more.
‘We’re already finished, so we meet prepared to finish.’
The certainty became its own taboo. They burned out once more. Sujin has no regrets: “I felt that heat again.” That was enough.
The sweetness of the forbidden: why we return even when we sense failure
Psychologically, a relationship whose ending is foreseen becomes more intense. The brain fears uncertainty yet craves a guaranteed finale. Once we know how it ends, we can burn without caution—no future, no accountability. Obsession begins here: just this once mutates into just one more time.
The three-year gap between Jun-yeong and me meant nothing. One look told me we were both still ready to burrow into each other’s weakest places. Who will dissolve first this time? Perhaps both of us.
One last question
Tonight Jun-yeong texted again.
“Come over. Or I’ll come to you.”
I haven’t answered. Before my eyes is not the ash of three years ago but the live coal still glowing.
Can I truly hold the line this time? Or rather, will I be able to let go first?
Or will we simply ignite again? Still, this time—this time, surely… what, exactly, will be saved?