We had only ever stolen glimpses of each other’s lips through glass. On my third birthday, she sent a kiss that brushed my cheek on the screen instead of a cake. Next time, the real thing. That whisper clung to me for 1,095 days.
I changed nothing about myself. No makeup, extra weight, skin gone dull—nothing concealed. Maybe if he tires of me, it will be easier, I told myself, yet every night I recorded the sound of his breathing on the video call. Solo audio porn I replayed in secret.
Why did she still refuse to “put herself together”?
Video calls are the perfect device for erasing guilt. Filters, angles, lighting. Even if the faint steam of the bathhouse leaked through the curtains, he only smiled. “I like you natural.” At that, I wore the same checked shirt for thirty-six months straight.
It wasn’t laziness. It was the fear that if I dolled myself up, he might stop coming back. The forbidden had to stay forbidden for the desire to survive. Not dressing up became the quietest vow: I will not change; therefore, do not ask me to.
Case 1. Eugene, 28, designer
Eugene has been video-dating a man known only as “Senior Hyun-jin” for 1,200 days. Back in college they never once locked eyes, yet Hyun-jin slid into her DMs with Can you recommend a book?
“Still wearing glasses, huh?”
“Yeah, can’t do contacts.”
“Cute. Really cute.”
One sentence, and Eugene clung to her black frames long after graduation. She booked a contact-lens consultation—then canceled. Through the screen, Hyun-jin’s breath seemed to murmur, Stay just like this.
Case 2. Min-jae, 31, developer
Min-jae and the thirty-three-year-old he calls “Hyung” have repeated the same “Hollis chat-room” routine for three years. It began as a casual afternoon coffee meet-up in text, but soon Hyung started policing Min-jae’s outfits.
“Same look again?”
“Yeah, gray tee.”
“Good. That’s the most you.”
Min-jae’s closet is now eleven identical gray cotton shirts. When one fades, he buys the same again. Hyung has never seen Min-jae’s real face—no photos, no video. Yet every Friday night he confesses he pleasures himself imagining the curve of Min-jae’s neck. Min-jae screenshots the confession and tucks it into a hidden folder.
Why are we spellbound by “not changing”?
Psychologist Bruma wrote, Taboo is desire’s last thermostat. Three years of appearing unpolished on screen is not sloth; it is perfect control. The terror that meeting in the flesh might change us without permission. So we freeze ourselves in the other’s memory, a taxidermy of longing.
A kiss through glass can never truly arrive. Therefore we reproduce it thousands of times in the mind: exact temperature, scent, microscopic tremor. And because we know it can never be perfect, we end up loving ourselves with exquisite cruelty.
Final question
If tomorrow he suddenly says, Let’s meet, would you still wear that same checked shirt? Or would you close your eyes and swipe on a red lipstick—just once? When your hand shakes, will it be from thrill or from fear?