The first touch landed—and the volume vanished
“Wow, I never realized you were this delicate.” Junhyuk’s fingertips graze my waist, a furnace-hot gust. I counter with a laugh, yet one breast already caves inward. A kiss or two was plenty. The moment his breath brushed my nose, I was melting. Since then, every Friday we spin on the same map: bar → kiss → motel → morning silence. The more we trace that identical line, the smaller my body becomes. Still cupped in his palm, yet crumbling into powder.
To remain a vessel, I wrung the moisture out of myself.
Not Miye anymore: dewy at twenty-eight, parched at twenty-nine
Only a month ago I would finish work late and still sprint to him. Buttoning my skirt, I saw a face in the mirror that hadn’t yet tasted exhaustion. Junhyuk lay on the bed scrolling through his phone.
“Today you’re really late.”
“I came straight from the meeting.”
“Really? You look tired.”
He stroked my hair with one hand. Fingertips drifted past my ear to the nape of my neck, and suddenly the thought rose, slow and serpentine: Am I just a tool to ease this man’s fatigue?
I slipped into the bathroom and turned on the tap. Holding my breath under the sound of water, I felt tears reach the edge of my chin.
After that day, I ate nothing. Coffee in the morning, a few forkfuls of salad friends ordered at lunch, one drink with Junhyuk at night. That was all.
“You’re sexier when you’re thinner.” He still tossed out the line. I began to fear the words, because I was discarding myself to become that thin.
Friday dawn, the motel lights are off. Only the bedside lamp remains. Junhyuk sleeps soundly. I rise quietly and drift to the bathroom. In the mirror, the woman’s eyelids are sunken. Her lower lip is cracked; darkness has seeped into the seam. I press the split gently with a finger. I can’t even tell if it hurts—only a blackish mark remains. When I lift my finger, a faint crimson ghost hovers on the tip. Gazing at it, I think:
I may never recover my moisture again.