She laughs by the copier, ruffling his downy hair with tender fingers. You swallow your breath behind the cubicle wall. “Hey, let’s grab lunch,” she said—the words still orbit your ears. No one knows you were first. A secret for two.
The Hours I Stole
Two years and seven months. Day 943, to be exact. At first, it was only her smile. When she clinked champagne to celebrate a promotion, her fingertips brushed the back of your hand. This means nothing. That night the touch stayed with you—in the shower, on the edge of sleep.
At lunch you sketched a vague border: just our team. You bought her coffee and labeled it because we’re friends. When she said she was drowning, you rewrote her reports until sunrise. I’m only a helpful colleague.
Yet why was a “helpful colleague” enlarging her Kakao profile at 3 a.m.?
By the time you noticed, it was too late. She was walking toward Min-jae—the man who shared your desk, your lunches, your after-work drinks. The one who waved and said, “Hyung knew her first, right?”
The Face of Hidden Desire
I was first—why does he get her?
This isn’t simple jealousy. What you wanted wasn’t her body, but the moment she would choose you. For 943 days you postponed that moment, terrified that an early confession might fail.
When Min-jae appeared, fear mutated into fury. You knew it was a game—whoever spoke first would win. You lost.
More brutal still: instead of admitting defeat, you want to believe she was fooled, that Min-jae betrayed me.
What Happened on Subway Line 2
“Yujin, wait.”
Friday, 7:23 p.m. You caught her wrist as the doors began to close. Seoul Station platform, bodies surging like a tide. She turned, startled.
“…Oppa?”
Not your name—just oppa. For two and a half years that was all you were to her. To Min-jae she would say Jae-ya.
“We need to talk.”
“Now? Here? Min-jae is—”
“Min-jae doesn’t know.”
Her eyes wavered; then comprehension dawned. She stepped back.
“I’m sorry. I… really didn’t know.”
But you knew she did. She had only pretended otherwise—waiting for you to speak first.
Min-jae’s Wedding Invitation
A month later a white envelope rested on your desk: Park Min-jae ♥ Lee Yujin. You turned it over and found a note.
Hyung, I’m really sorry. I couldn’t help it—Yujin made the first…
The sentence ended there. First kiss? First love? Or simply: not you first.
That evening you let the invitation fall to the subway floor. Shoes scuffed it black—like the purity you had guarded for two and a half years.
Why We Sink Into This Swamp
Psychologists call it the need for social ownership. The instinct to possess someone who shares our team, our space, our category.
Deeper still is exclusivity: the desire for a bond no one else can touch. An office makes it crueller. You see her every day, yet you can never have her. The gap feeds the hunger.
You never loved her; you loved the impossibility.
A Final Question to the Mirror
Min-jae and Yujin married, had a child. They still work at the company, another department now. When the elevator doors open, Min-jae lowers his head in apology.
But you know the one who should apologize is elsewhere.
You lied for two and a half years—not her.
You never loved her. You only pretended, knowing you didn’t deserve her love, and feigned ignorance to the end.
If your chest still aches when you think of her, it is because you cannot forgive the day you let silence finish everything.
Would honesty now change anything? Perhaps the real question is whether you want her love or simply, at last, to admit who you became during those 943 days of lies.