The car turns a corner, and the sleek skyscrapers that had dominated the skyline give way to a patchwork of lower buildings. The streets of Gireum-dong unfurl before me, vibrant yet showing signs of wear — not quite neglected, but lived-in, like a well-thumbed book.
Stores with colorful signs in Hangul huddle close together, their awnings flapping gently in the breeze. A small market buzzes with activity, the scent of street food wafting through the air as vendors call out to passersby. It's a stark contrast to the orderly, high-powered feel of the city center I had glimpsed on my way here.
The people here move with purpose, but there is an ease in their steps — a camaraderie I sense as neighbors greet each other, their conversations flowing like a familiar song. This place has character, woven into its very fabric; it feels like a neighborhood with a story.
As we drive deeper into Gireum-dong, I notice how the buildings show the marks of time — paint chipped here and there, signs faded by the sun. It isn't dilapidated, but it has a different kind of beauty — one that doesn't rely on grandeur or opulence. It's authentic, unassuming.
I lean back in my seat, watching children chase each other down narrow alleys while elderly folks watch from benches, their laughter filling the air. There is life here — unpolished and raw — so different from the controlled aesthetics of the city center.
Did I live here? Had I lived here with … Yul? With both of them? They had two separate homes, I've been told. Where's Inha? Does he live nearby? I'd visited Korea yearly when I was young, but my grandparents lived closer to Hongdae. I'm not familiar with this area. Or at least, I shouldn't be. The more streets we turn though, I can almost recognize the switches and curves. I feel like I've been here before. How much of that is my memory lingering?
My reflection stares back at me from the window — a woman out of time and place. Yet as we near our destination, a tiny flicker of excitement sparks within me. Gireum-dong isn't just Yul's neighborhood; it's a part of my story, too. What of myself am I going to find here?
The car slows to a stop outside a modest building that seems to blend seamlessly into its surroundings. This is it, I guess — Yul's place. My breath shudders out as I reach for the door handle, nerves churning in the pit of my stomach.
I step out of the car, my heels clicking against the pavement as the vehicle pulls away. The apartment building looms before me, its façade a collage of weathered bricks and faded paint.
The paper in my hand trembles slightly as I double-check the apartment number. I navigate the narrow walkway leading to the entrance.
There's no doorman, and I push into the lobby and walk past the rows of mailboxes, scanning briefly. I don't see Yul's name, but I don't linger to search for it either. I reach the elevator and look at the floor numbers listed on the panel. When it opens I press the button for the fifteenth floor, tap my foot impatiently as it goes up.
The hall is empty when I step out onto the fifteenth floor. A window at the end of the hall spills light onto pale floor tiles. The doors that line the hall are all closed and quiet. I read the numbers as I pass, stop at door 1508.
I hesitate at the door, staring at the keypad. My thumb hovers over the buttons; I have the code — it was among the few items provided with my belongings. But pressing those numbers feels too personal, too invasive for me.
Instead, I press the doorbell and wait.
The seconds stretch out like hours as I listen for any signs of movement inside. My heart races, and an odd sense of anticipation curls in my stomach. What will he be like? The images from my phone gave nothing away about his personality — just his appearance.
Footsteps approach from within — slow and measured. The lock disengages with a soft click, and then the door swings open.
There he stands — Yul. His height strikes me first, even more imposing up close, his black hair falling past his ears in an untamed cascade. He pulls it back in a loose bun, a few strands rebelling against order. Tattoos climb up his arms, black-inked characters in Chinese and Korean.
"Yena," he says, his voice is a low tenor that makes a shiver skate up my spine. I hear it echo in my head, said in a hundred different intonations and cadences. I know every pitch in his voice already, know what each slight shift means. That takes me out a moment. The familiarity in the voice of this total stranger. I know him so well, and yet I don't, really.
My gaze travels over his features — the sharp jawline softened by the faintest hint of stubble, eyes dark and fathomless. He's dressed simply in black, as if he wears the shadows themselves. But it's not the color that makes him seem part of the night; it's the way he moves, fluid and quiet, like a whisper across silk.
I feel something inside me shift — a foreign burst of emotion at the sight of him. It's bewildering; he's new to me, yet my body reacts as if it knows him intimately. I'm drawn to him, pulled by an invisible thread.
His expression is unreadable.
For a heartbeat, something flickers across Yul's face — a spark, maybe surprise or something tender, and then something more conflicted, something like pain. It's gone before I can grasp it. Then, as if he's put on a mask, his features settle into a neutral calm.
"Hey," he says, the word hanging between us, not quite a question or a greeting.
His eyes hold mine for a moment longer than necessary. I'm caught in their depth, trying to make sense of him, of his relation to me. He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter wordlessly.
I cross the threshold into the apartment. The space feels lived-in —pairs of shoes by the door, a jacket slung over the back of a chair. There's an air of masculinity tempered with care. It's nice. Not what I expected.
He follows me inside, closing the door with a soft click that seems to echo too loudly in the quiet space. His movements are measured as he takes a few steps away from me, creating distance as if unsure of how close he should be.
I glance around the room, taking in the scattered elements that speak of Yul's life — our life? Books piled on shelves, a camera resting on the side table. I can almost picture him moving through these rooms, can almost feel the echo of our shared history in this space.
He clears his throat gently and I turn back to him. "Can I get you something to drink? Water? Tea?" There's an undercurrent of tension in his voice that doesn't match his casual words.
"No, I'm fine, thank you," I reply. My voice sounds foreign to my ears — too steady for someone whose world has just tilted on its axis.
Yul nods and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking for all the world like he wishes they could find something to do there. He leans back against the wall slightly and crosses his ankles casually but his gaze is anything but relaxed as it flits about the room before settling back on me with an intensity that's hard to meet.
"I guess this is weird for you," he finally says, and there's an honesty there that doesn't need elaboration.
"Yeah," I admit with a half-laugh that doesn't quite mask my nervousness. "It's… a lot."
His eyes soften for just a moment and I think I see the hint of concern before he schools his features back into neutrality.
"It'll take time," he says. And even though there's distance in his posture and carefulness in his tone, those words seem like a comfort.
I step further into the studio, the simplicity of the space striking me. It's compact, the layout efficient with every item having its place. There's a small kitchenette to my left, clean and sparse, with a couple of pans hanging from a rail and a few spices lined up like soldiers at attention.
The bed in the corner is made up neatly, the comforter dark blue and smooth, no wrinkles in sight. It's large enough for two but there's an unmistakable singularity about it, as if it's only ever known Yul. My gaze drifts over to a modest desk against the far wall, cluttered with photographs, camera lenses, and scattered notes.
I move closer to the desk, drawn to the photos. They're stunning — vibrant shots of cityscapes, intimate portraits that feel like stolen moments. There's artistry here, a passion for capturing life in still frames. But there's nothing personal — no snapshots of family or friends.
The rest of the apartment feels equally masculine — there are no soft touches or decorative flourishes that might suggest a woman's touch. A pair of dumbbells rests against one wall, and a guitar leans against another.
As I turn back to Yul, I notice how his presence fills the space even as he tries to make himself small against the wall. He watches me explore his world, his expression unreadable.
I feel an odd sense of intrusion; this is his sanctuary and I'm the interloper. The lack of evidence of children or any shared life with a woman adds to my disorientation. Where do I fit into this picture? How do we bridge this gap between us?
My eyes catch on a small potted plant on the windowsill — the only hint of life apart from Yul himself.
"Nice place," I say, trying to keep my voice even as I look back at him. "It feels… like you."
Even as I speak those words, they feel hollow — how can I know what feels like him when I'm grasping at shadows? But there's truth there too because something about this space resonates with what little I know — or feel — about Yul.
He nods once, almost imperceptibly.
"Yeah," he says simply. Off-handed.
The apartment feels like a riddle with pieces missing. I frown, searching for something, anything that might hint at the rest of my family or even myself. But there's nothing — no toys scattered about, no family photos, not even a stray hairband. The space could belong to any single man with a penchant for photography and sparse living.
Yul's eyes track my movements, his gaze sharp and attentive. He must notice the confusion knitting my brows because he pushes off from the wall and takes a tentative step closer.
"What's on your mind?" he asks, his voice low and cautious.
I let out a breath. "It's just that… this place looks like a bachelor pad." My voice is more accusatory than I intend, my words hanging in the air like an unspoken question.
His eyes don't waver from mine, but something flickers behind them — recognition or maybe understanding. There's a tension in his jaw as he processes my words, the silence stretching between us as he formulates his response.
"Yeah," he finally says, his voice steady but there's an undercurrent there, something unspoken. His hands find their way out of his pockets, hanging loosely at his sides now.
His gaze shifts, a silent admission of discomfort as he confronts the question hanging in the air. He rubs the back of his neck, a tell that I instinctively know means he's searching for the right way to frame his words.
"The kids… they live with Inha," Yul begins, his voice carrying a detectable weight. "And you — you don't actually live here. You're with them most of the time. You just… come over sometimes."
I blink, taken aback by the revelation. This place, as much as it whispers of his life and passions, holds no space for me or the children we share. A surge of questions rises within me, but I press my lips together, trapping them inside.
He watches me closely, as if trying to read my reaction, to gauge whether he's said too much or perhaps not enough. There's an apology in his eyes — for what, I'm not sure.
"So, this is just your space then?" I probe further, trying to piece together this puzzle of our lives. "Where do I fit into all of this if not here?"
Yul's shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. He moves towards the window, the light casting shadows that play across his face.
"it's just easier," he says after a moment's silence. "Inha's place is bigger, more comfortable for you and … Closer to work and… well, it's where you spend most of your time."
My mind races at his words. I live away from him. The family separated. I wonder at the kids. Some of them must be his right? His own children don't live with him? And still more questions swarm: Why separate homes? Why this arrangement with our children?
He turns back to me, arms folded across his chest in a self-protective gesture that tells me even without knowing how to read his expression that he's put his guards up.
"It's complicated," he adds quietly, almost as if to himself.
Complicated indeed.
The room feels smaller suddenly. A knot forms in my stomach — this interaction is not helping my already frazzled nerves.
I step closer to him without realizing it, driven by an urge to understand — to find some familiarity here.
"And when I'm here," I start tentatively, "what is it like between us?"
My question hangs between us, and for a moment, Yul's eyes hold mine with a depth that feels like it could burn right through the silence. He shifts, a slight movement that tells me more than he says.
"It's… comfortable," he starts, his tone is careful, like he's navigating a minefield. "We're friends, Yena. Good friends."
Friends. The word settles into my thoughts with an odd fit. Not the warmth of a shared bed or the intimacy of a marriage — just friends. I wonder if that's disappointment lacing that word for him, or if maybe I'm projecting.
He continues, his gaze never wavering from mine. "We talk about photography, your designs… We share meals, sometimes watch films." A faint smile touches his lips as he recounts these simple shared moments.
I nod slowly, absorbing his words, picturing the scene he paints — two people sharing space and time, connected yet separate. It still doesn't fit somehow.
His smile fades as he watches me process this new information. "But it's not…" He trails off, searching for the right words. "It's not what you're probably expecting."
I sense the caution in his voice, see it in the way he holds himself — like he's ready to step back or forward depending on how I take his next words.
"And what should I be expecting?" My voice is softer now, laced with genuine curiosity rather than challenge.
Yul takes a deep breath before answering. "Not this," he gestures around the apartment with a sweep of his hand. "This isn't where we build our life together. It's more like an escape — for both of us."
Escape. The word echoes in my mind, and I wonder what we're both escaping from. Is it the pressure of a world turned upside down? The weight of responsibilities? Or something else entirely?
His eyes search mine as if trying to gauge whether I understand — whether I can accept this sliver of our life together without the memories that should accompany it.
"We're just…" He hesitates, then meets my gaze squarely. "We're just us here."
Just us. He makes it sound simple, but the look in his eyes and his obvious tentativeness tells me it's not. It doesn't tell me much about who we are together — who I am with him. I don't know what's going on here, but the atmosphere feels charged. Nothing about this arrangement seems relaxed or comfortable.
I take a small step forward, closing some of the distance between us. "Just us," I repeat softly, letting the words linger in the air as I try to imagine what that feels like — to be just us with Yul in this space we share apart from everything else.
"Tell me about yourself, Yul," I say, trying to bridge the distance between us with something tangible. "I mean, beyond what we've just talked about."
He shifts his weight, looking away from me. "What do you want to know?"
I nod toward the camera equipment on his desk. "Is this your job?"
"Yeah," he responds, a small spark flickering in his eyes. "I'm freelance. I don't work a regular nine-to-five. When I do work, it's usually big projects — magazine spreads, editorial shoots."
He walks over to the desk and picks up a camera, turning it over with careful hands. "Mostly products and cars," he continues. "Sometimes models."
His explanation paints a picture of a life in snippets. The idea that part of his world is about finding beauty or intrigue in the mundane or grand fascinates me.
I step closer, peering at the camera he holds. "It sounds exciting."
I can sense Yul's discomfort when he talks about himself. He's proud of what he does, but it's clear he'd rather not be the center of attention. I decide to shift the focus.
"What was I like?" I ask, tilting my head slightly, watching as his fingers still on the camera's body. His eyes flicker with a mix of emotions — hesitation dances there, reluctance.
Yul sets the camera down carefully and takes a moment before turning to face me. "You?" He pauses, as if searching for the right words. "You were… are… remarkable."
The way he says it — I can tell he's being honest. Yet I can also tell he's holding back, layers beneath his words.
"Go on," I encourage gently.
He lets out a soft laugh, more a release of breath than amusement. "When we were matched in the lottery," Yul starts, glancing away for a moment before meeting my gaze again, "I saw your profile and… I accepted without even reading it."
My eyebrows lift in surprise. "Really?"
"Yeah." He nods slowly. "Something about you just… well I thought you were the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen, honestly."
His admission sends a warm flutter through me, the confession would be endearing to anyone, but it weighs more, coming from him. I don't understand yet why.
"And then?" I press on, curious about this version of myself through his eyes.
Yul runs a hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish now. "Then I read your profile," he admits. "And I was afraid you'd reject me."
"Afraid?" The word tastes strange on my tongue — how could someone like him fear rejection from someone like me?
"Why would you think I'd reject you?" My curiosity piqued, I lean in, studying Yul's face.
He shrugs, his eyes darting away before locking back onto mine. "We come from very different backgrounds," he says, evasive. "I thought maybe… you wouldn't be interested in a guy like me."
"A guy like you?" I echo, my voice laced with both confusion and a touch of amusement. Looking at him now, I can't quite fathom that. Objectively, he's gorgeous. A touch edgy. Just the type I would've lost my mind over in high school, though despite his rough around-the-edges look I wouldn't peg him as the "bad boy" type.
"Yeah." He lets out a breathy laugh, looking around the apartment as if the walls could provide him some support. "You know, I'm just this nobody who barely finished high school. My family… we're not like yours. Or his."
I frown, considering his words. By him I guess he means Inha. Yul was the second husband, I remember, and Inha is from a pretty prominent family. Maybe he felt inferior to him in more than a few ways. I wonder about the relationship between the two of them.
"But I did accept the match," I point out, hoping to steer him away from his insecurities and get him on more comfortable ground. I don't want him to shut me out when I'm just getting to know him.
His eyes meet mine again, and this time they sparkle with a mixture of relief and something that resembles remembered joy. "You did," he agrees, and there's a warmth in his voice that seems to spread through the room. "And it was… the happiest I've ever been."
His admission hangs in the air between us, it's significance. The happiest he's ever been — because of me? It's an odd sensation, feeling like someone knows me better than I do now. Saw something in me I don't know yet exists. What about older me was it that drew him in? Can I recreate that, or was that something I lost with my memories? How much about my past made me who I was? Who he knew?
I watch as Yul's demeanor shifts slightly with the confession; his shoulders relax and there's a hint of vulnerability in his expression. Like he's laid bare a part of himself. Opened up to me.
There is so much more I want to ask — about him, about us — but his last words linger in my mind, grounding me in this moment. It feels like a good place to start, or maybe continue.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, I simply look at him — really look at him — trying to connect the man before me with the feelings stirring inside.
The emotions in Yul's eyes does something inside of me. His transparency, the raw honesty of his words — they draw me in. Before I've thought it through, I move closer, driven by an instinct from somewhere buried deep behind the wipe of memories.
My hand reaches out, trembling slightly with uncertainty. The air between us charges with anticipation as my fingertips graze his arm.
He stiffens under my touch, a jolt passing through him as if my fingers carry an electric current. I can see the conflict in his eyes, a storm brewing behind the calm. He's like a deer caught in headlights — poised to run yet rooted to the spot.
Yul's breath hitches, and he swallows hard. He doesn't pull away, but every line of his body screams that he's shaken by this simple contact. His skin is warm under my hand, and for a moment, I can almost feel the pulse of his life against my palm.
I watch him carefully, looking for signs of what he might need — space or reassurance. My heart thumps loudly in my chest as I wait for him to make his move.
"I … I should let you get settled." Yul pulls away, and I battle with the abrupt sting of hurt I feel as he turns his back to me.
He walks across the room, giving us distance, and gestures at the couch.
"You can make yourself comfortable. It's actually technically your place."
I think I might hear a touch of irony in his voice and catch a small curve to his lips. Is that humor I see?
I smile a little, it helps ease that weird flash of pain I felt when he pulled away from me. It almost felt like I'd done that before.
I scan the room, the cozy apartment now feeling like a tight squeeze. The distance Yul's put between us seems to expand with each passing second, filling the space with an unspoken tension. I'm too restless, too wound up from the day's revelations to sink into the couch and pretend to be at ease.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself before I voice my next request. "Yul," I start, my voice a little more calm than I feel. "Would you mind taking me to the other apartment? I think… I need to meet Inha. And … I'd like to see the children."
He turns back to me, surprise flickering across his features before he schools them into a carefully neutral expression. There's a moment where he seems to weigh his options, the air thick with hesitation.
Finally, he nods, a slow bob of his head that seems to carry more weight than the simple gesture should. "Sure," he says, though there's a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there before. He blows out a hard breath, "Yeah, of course you would. Uh, give me a minute to get ready and we can go."
He runs a hand through his hair, his features tight.
"Thank you," I reply, feeling a small knot of anxiety loosen in my chest. It's not just about meeting Inha or seeing the children — it's about piecing together this life that feels both mine and not mine at all.
I sit down and wait while Yul goes to the washroom. I hear the water run and then I think I hear him talking to someone, maybe on the phone. It's too muffled to make out conversation.
Yul comes back out and nods at me as he walks over to grab his keys from a hook by the door, his movements deliberate and measured. As he passes by me, there's an electric charge in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the shift between us since my touch.
He opens the door and steps aside, waiting for me to exit before him. I walk past him, our arms brushing ever so slightly — a fleeting contact that makes me shiver.
The corridor outside is nondescript, but as we make our way towards the elevator, each step feels like moving towards the unknown. Yul presses the call button and stands beside me in silence.
As we wait for the elevator to arrive, I think of Inha — this other husband of mine — and our children. What kind of mother am I? What does home look like with them? My heart thumps in my ears. It's hard to imagine this other apartment that is supposedly more my home than this one has ever been.
The ding of the elevator arriving pulls me from my thoughts. And we step in without speaking.