Ah Young sat in the dark, her back pressed against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she hugged her knees to her chest. The taste of bile lingered in her mouth, a bitter reminder of the intimacy she had just endured. Across the room, the faucet dripped rhythmically, each drop punctuating the silence like a quiet accusation.
From the bedroom came the sound of Wang Sung-woong turning in his sleep. She could almost picture him, his face serene and his lips curved into a faint smile. He always looked so peaceful after their nights together, blissfully unaware of the turmoil raging inside her.
She rose slowly, her legs trembling, and caught her reflection in the mirror. Her pale face and hollow eyes stared back at her, accusing and ashamed. What’s wrong with me? The question gnawed at her like a parasite, feeding on her insecurities and self-doubt. She splashed cold water on her face, as though it could wash away the unease that clung to her like a second skin.
Others side of the city, Kim Hyuk-soo stared blankly at the ceiling of his small apartment. His wife, Clara, was curled up beside him, her body radiating warmth. Her fingers rested lightly on his arm, a touch so gentle it might have been comforting to anyone else. But to Kim, it felt suffocating. He wanted to pull away, but guilt rooted him in place.
“You don’t love me anymore,” Clara had said once, her voice trembling. “I can feel it.”
He had denied it, of course. He did love her—just not in the way she wanted, not in the way that movies and songs told him he should. He cared deeply for Clara, admired her sharp wit and infectious laugh. But every time she reached for him, his body recoiled. He felt like an actor stumbling through a play he didn’t understand, trying desperately to keep up with a script written for someone else.
One night, unable to bear the weight of his confusion, Kim turned to the internet. He typed words into the search bar that felt clumsy and inadequate: no desire for intimacy, marriage without touch, what’s wrong with me?
The answers came slowly, a cascade of forum posts and articles that painted a picture of something he had never considered. Words like asexuality and ace leaped off the screen, each one a small revelation. His heart raced as he read, the pieces of his fragmented self falling into place.
Somewhere across town, Ah Young was on a similar journey. She sat alone in her apartment, scrolling through her phone as tears streamed down her face. The stories she read mirrored her own: the confusion, the shame, the isolation. She wasn’t broken. She wasn’t alone. For the first time in years, she felt a glimmer of hope.
Their paths crossed in an online support group, their first messages tentative and careful.
“Do you ever feel like you’re living someone else’s life?” Ah Young asked.
“All the time,” Kim replied. “It’s exhausting.”
As days turned into weeks, their conversations deepened. They shared stories of their childhoods, their marriages, and the weight of expectations that neither of them could meet. They spoke of the guilt they carried, of the love they felt for their spouses that was real but incomplete.
“I wish I could tell him,” Ah Young confessed one night. “But I don’t know if he’ll understand.”
Kim hesitated before replying. “Maybe they won’t. But don’t we owe it to ourselves to try?”
When they finally met in person, it was in a quiet park on a gray afternoon. The air was cool, and the trees swayed gently in the breeze. They sat on a bench, their hands clasped around steaming cups of tea.
“I feel selfish,” Ah Young admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “He deserves someone who can love him fully.”
“So does Clara,” Kim said. “But pretending hasn’t helped anyone. Not them, not us.”
They made a pact that day: to live honestly, no matter the cost.
The conversations with their spouses were not easy. Ah Young sat across from Sung-woong at their small kitchen table, her hands trembling as she spoke. She told him about the years of confusion, the self-loathing, and the discovery that had changed everything.
“I love you,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “But I can’t keep pretending to be someone I’m not.”
Kim’s conversation with Clara was no less fraught. Her initial reaction was anger, followed by disbelief. But as he spoke, pouring out his heart, she began to understand. “I always thought it was my fault,” she said quietly. “That I wasn’t enough.”
“You are enough,” Kim said firmly. “This isn’t about you. It’s about me finally understanding who I am.”
In time, the pain of those conversations gave way to a new understanding. Clara found solace in her friends and her own journey of self-discovery. Sung-woong, though hurt, chose to remain in Ah Young’s life, their bond evolving into something more like friendship than romance.
As for Kim and Ah Young, their connection deepened. It wasn’t love in the traditional sense, but it was something just as profound: a shared understanding, a quiet companionship that filled the spaces left by a world that had never quite fit them.
One evening, they stood together on a rooftop, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. “Do you think we’ll ever find what we’re looking for?” Ah Young asked.
Kim smiled, his hand brushing hers. “Maybe we already have.”
Sometimes, love doesn’t look like what we’re taught it should. But that doesn’t make it any less real. Years later, they sat together on a quiet beach. Between them, their surrogate baby giggled, the sand squishing between tiny toes. The waves whispered against the shore as the sun painted the horizon in shades of lavender and gold.
“I used to think love wasn’t meant for me,” Ah Young murmured, her eyes fixed on the ocean.
Kim turned to her, a smile tugging at his lips. “I think love isn’t a single thing. It’s what we make of it.”
She reached out, intertwining her fingers with his. “We made something beautiful, didn’t we?”
He nodded, watching their child reach for the setting sun. “We did. And we’ll keep making it, in all its strange, infinite forms.”
As the night wrapped them in its embrace, their silence was no longer empty. It was full—of understanding, of acceptance, and of the love they had carved out for themselves, unshaped by convention but wholly their own.
“Love isn’t a formula to follow. It’s a language you write together, finding the words that are yours alone.”
