A bead of sweat slid down his forehead and caught on his lashes. Min-su pretended to be asleep, eyes half-open, watching me. Without thinking, I lifted a finger and flicked his brow—tok. A shiver ran down my spine. He closed his eyes, but a sharp, sweet thrill had already spread from my fingertip.
What I ground between my teeth in silence
Twelve years. The first time you appeared at our café, you wore faded jeans and a white shirt. I still keep the pink dress I wore that day folded in the back of the closet. When I take it out and lay it across my lap, I can smell the sunlight of May 2012 drifting in on the wind.
Last week you asked, “Why do we have so many knives in the house?” While rearranging the spoons I answered, “Just a hobby—decorative ones.” A lie. At 3 a.m., while you slept, I pressed my fingertip to the kitchen blade and imagined the soft tok of skin parting. You would wake, catch my hand, ask, “Are you all right?” My heart would pound—painful, delicious.
The scent of living organs
I can’t do this anymore. Four thousand three hundred and eighty days—too long.
Yet why does the sound of my name in your voice still soak me to the bone?
Last week, while you slept, I opened your phone. When the biometric lock clicked free, the name Yujin flashed. “Thanks again, oppa.” Oppa? I’ve known for twelve years you have no younger siblings. I sat at the foot of the bed and pulled your hair, strand by strand. What if this were the last time? I could snip a lock, keep it in a tiny bottle, carry it everywhere. Even if you left, the scent would stay.
A foretold scent of soap
Last night Chae-won pressed her mouth to her boyfriend’s towel. The mingled smell of soap and sweat tickled her nose. As she started the washer she thought: If only this could be the last time. While he showered she slipped the car keys from the living-room table into her pocket. Tomorrow at seven, on his way to work, she pictured the intersection where the brakes would fail. Not a fatal crash—just two broken legs. Then he could never leave. He would stay in the house, beside her, forever.
Anatomy of desire
We no longer want simple love. I ache to fold him into my body, yet inside I long to chew his bones to dust.
When love lingers, we steep in a corrupted nostalgia. The first flutter is gone; terror is sharper now. The fear that he might vanish is more vivid than anything we already possess. Psychologists call it erosive obsession—the moment the impulse to destroy and the urge to protect become one. Twelve long years lull us: a little damage won’t break us now. Such arrogance.
Why we are drawn to this endless gesture
Remember the bedtime story your mother told? The baby bear throws jars of honey to the tiger so it won’t eat him, but the tiger keeps coming and the bear finally hides deep in the forest and dies. I always wanted the real version—where the bear runs to the tiger and whispers, “Devour me.”
Perhaps we long to be consumed. Or to consume while being consumed. Each night, after you fall asleep, I open the drawer beside the bed and take out a small envelope: yesterday’s fingernail parings, my dried tears, the lipstick we wore for our first kiss. A tiny altar. I am ready to sacrifice these twelve years.
The morning without him
A letter waits on Min-su’s pillow, the ink unshaken.
I will vanish to a place you cannot find. For twelve years I hid my madness beside you. I can bear it no longer. When you wake and see my empty side, only then will you feel that as I disappear, a part of you dies too.
I shoulder my bag and turn the doorknob. Maybe Min-su will wake and ask, “Another dawn walk?” I will smile and answer, “Yes—today I’ll walk far.”
The moment someone steps away from twelve years and out the door, I want to ask you: Right now, aren’t you too quietly sharpening a knife on the footprints of the one you love?