When their eyes pierce me
11 p.m., a narrow back-street of Hongdae. You and I were still ‘just friends.’ The lamplight kept flickering over the space between us. A couple walking past hesitated, shot us a sideways look. The woman pinched the man’s arm and whispered something; both of them laughed in our direction.
The thought, What did they see?, slid down my spine. Their laughter climbed all the way to my throat. They weren’t simply laughing — they were laughing at me. One gaze pointed straight at my fingers resting on the back of your hand. We both knew it: we were no longer merely friends.
A whispered wound, and how deep it goes
That look wasn’t idle curiosity. It was revenge for a love already finished, prophecy for a love not yet begun. In their pupils I saw the ending I had imagined for ‘us.’ The lovers folded into each other, having already seen tomorrow in full. Meanwhile I still couldn’t peel off the name-tag reading your friend.
What makes them so sure? The words slipped out before I could catch them.
—How long are we going to stay like this?
Case 1: Line 2, October smile
Min-ji, 28, an account executive at an ad agency. Every Thursday at 7 p.m. she boards Line 2. A month ago she noticed a man who always stood in the same car, gray hoodie, black AirPods. When she realized they got off at the same station, she began timing her commute for Tuesday evenings as well.
Last week another woman was glued to his side. Maybe a girlfriend, maybe not. Min-ji secretly snapped a photo and dropped it into a group chat. The replies were merciless.
—Looks like casual dating. His face says he’s not into it. —Her expression’s full of doubt.
Min-ji knew the truth: she was no different from that woman. That knowledge made the woman’s smile hurt twice as much. The pain came from knowing she herself was still nothing to him.
Case 2: In front of the convenience store, 2 a.m.
Jun-ho, 24, senior in college. Since spring break he’s worked the late shift at a convenience store. Every night at closing time, 2 a.m., a woman appears to change small bills. Same tone, same coy smile.
Last night she held out a ring.
—Someone new came into my life. What do you think of this ring?
Jun-ho’s heart plummeted. The circle of metal glinted. She searched his eyes for the answer she wanted to hear. He couldn’t manage a single word.
The moment she left, Jun-ho rummaged beneath the counter and pulled out the store speaker. Inside was a recording of her voice.
“What do you think of this ring?”
She had never once asked him. That absence wounded him more than any rejection.
The essence of desire, the swamp of taboo
Why, when we see other lovers, do we imagine both the beginning and the end of our own romance at once? The answer is simple: we try to turn a relationship that hasn’t started into one that has already ended.
The lovers on the street have leapt over that process. So we read the future in their eyes — the shaky future of ‘us.’ They show us today’s me, tomorrow’s you, the day-after-tomorrow’s us, all in a single glance. A terrible ending.
Will we end up like that, too?
The question pushes us deeper into ambiguity — a swamp with neither start nor finish. That is why it hurts.
A final question
Did you, too, lock me inside their gaze?