Shackles Only I Can See

The campus air on Monday morning was brutally refreshing. I applied my makeup with far more care than usual, as if scrubbing away the lingering fishy aftertaste that had clung to the house all weekend, then took my seat in the lecture hall. The makeup techniques were among the things Cha Seolah’s mother had taught her only daughter during winter break before leaving her behind. Somehow, the memories surfaced so clearly that my fingers moved on their own.

In the mirror I had become the “familiar” Cha Seolah once more, yet the nipples hidden beneath my thin blouse and bra twitched at the slightest brush of fabric, resurrecting yesterday’s memories with horrifying clarity.

“As all of you have heard from your seniors, the main assignment for this class is to record your own life in the form of an autobiography.”

A collective groan rose at the elderly professor’s words from the lectern.

“History isn’t some grand affair. It is the accumulation of individual records that creates an era. Submit your unfiltered account before finals.”

An autobiography. Obviously I would have to write it using Cha Seolah’s memories, but with so many gaps… so many shattered fragments, I had no idea how much I could fabricate. Or perhaps I was supposed to document the “dirty history” of kneeling like an animal in that restroom last weekend.

…There’s no way I can write that.

“Seolah, you didn’t go to the freshman orientation, right?” Choi Suyeon leaned over from the next seat and whispered. “There’s technically no page limit, but rumor says the longest paper gets an A+ and the shortest gets a failing grade for retaking the class. So every year the seniors compete, and the ‘minimum length’ keeps creeping up.”

“Then… how many pages do we need this year?”

“I heard it’s probably over forty this time.”

I had written countless reports after joining the workforce, but filling forty pages about the single subject of “me” was an entirely different dimension of difficulty. The reports I was used to were about “the company.” To write that much about one person’s life, there had to be real substance… If I simply wrote “I grew up comfortably with good parents,” even I as a professor would hate to give it a good score.

I tightened my grip on the pen. But the assignment wasn’t the real problem right now. In the corner of my vision, the remaining days were still ticking down.

Finals were in June, but at this rate my lifeline would snap at the end of March. I wouldn’t even get to see the cherry blossoms, let alone enjoy the university festival, before vanishing like dust.

…Ah, so university students normally miss the cherry blossoms because they’re too busy studying for exams?

A pointless thought flickered through my mind, but the cold tension crawling down my spine quickly dragged me back to reality. The destructive stimuli Park Hangyeol had forcibly awakened fed on even the smallest anxiety, gnawing at my reason.

The moment the lecture ended, I ignored Choi Suyeon’s call and stood up. I needed cold water to clear my head.

***

Inside the women’s restroom. After splashing my face with cold water at the sink and stepping into a stall, I heard the click of several pairs of heels outside. Their voices filled the tiled space. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I couldn’t tell if they were retakers or enthusiastic seniors involved in department events, but the topic was unmistakable.

“Hey, did you guys see her? The 12th grader named Cha Seolah?”

“Oh, the one everyone says is insanely pretty?”

“Yeah, that Cha Seolah… I mean, she is pretty. But did you see the blouse and bag she wore today? Straight-up logo-covered luxury brands.”

“I bet. She’s pretty, but doesn’t something feel off? Haven’t you heard the rumor? Someone saw her getting out of a foreign car near Gangnam Station on the weekend.”

“No way, seriously? Well, with a face like that, if she came from a rich family, why would she even come here? She’d study abroad. Acting all pure and innocent on the outside while already getting sponsored on the inside, huh?”

Their sneering laughter bounced off the tile walls and stabbed my eardrums.

“Pure? With a face like that?” Someone thumped their own chest with a dull sound.

“Hey! Why are you suddenly hitting your chest?”

“I’m talking about that bitch’s tits.”

“Oh. You’re such a flat-chested stick, I thought you were pissed about something.”

“Crazy bitch. Anyway, how can anyone call those tits pure? Her upper body is so aggressive.”

“Kekeke. True. Must be nice. Just shake them a little and some guy buys her luxury bags and drives her around in a foreign car, right?”

I closed the toilet lid and swallowed a hollow laugh. The “logo-covered luxury items” they had pointed out were actually the product of my own taste. When I had rummaged through the dressing room my parents left behind, the pieces with the largest, most obvious brand marks had simply looked the most expensive to me. Thirty-five years of living by cost-performance ratios and logo reliability meant my brain contained zero concept of so-called “old money looks” that the wealthy enjoyed. My vulgar aesthetic, which believed luxury had to be instantly recognizable to be worth the money, had apparently transformed in this cramped female-dominated society into “proof of a vulgar sponsor.”

They were fabricating eyewitness accounts at Gangnam Station that never happened, shredding the reputation of a freshman who had only just enrolled. Compared to the character assassination I suffered from my superiors in my previous life, it was almost cute, but their blatant inferiority complex still clung to my skin like an unpleasant film.

I opened the door and stepped out slowly. The faces of the senior girls gathered at the sinks froze instantly. Treating them like air, I walked to the sink, took out my pouch with deliberately slow, elegant movements, and applied lipstick. My eyes in the mirror were coldly calm.

I knew all too well how cheap the comfort these girls gained by tearing each other down was at a mediocre prestigious university that wasn’t even part of SKY.

In the silence, I pressed my lips together with a soft pop, put the lipstick away, and tossed out without even glancing sideways:

“I heard everything, so next time try to be more creative with your trash talk. It’s too boring to listen to.”

“……What?”

Leaving the seniors standing there with their mouths agape, I spun on my heel and walked out of the restroom. Behind my arrogantly departing shoulders came a bewildered murmur, but I didn’t care.

***

I pulled out the smartphone I had buried deep in my bag. The number “1” beside the message I sent around 9 a.m. showed no sign of disappearing even though it was now 3 p.m. By my old standards of checking work messages with razor-sharp precision, was the current Baek Gangho finding my contact burdensome, or was he genuinely busy? His silence, not even bothering to check, kept pushing me toward increasingly extreme assumptions.

Suppressing the turmoil in my chest, I headed toward the next lecture hall.

The next class was a required liberal arts course—philosophy. Unlike my major classes, it was mixed with students from other departments, so I didn’t recognize a single face. That actually suited me. It let me escape, even briefly, from the jealous stares and excessive attention that had surrounded me since enrollment.

“The highlight of this semester’s philosophy class is the team project. I’ve assigned the groups arbitrarily, so please check the list and gather with your members.”

The moment the professor finished speaking, the slide changed and the group list appeared. Everyone except me, the freshman, was an upperclassman.

“Ah, you’re Cha Seolah, correct? Class of 12.”

Kim Ji-hong (class of 08) and Lee Su-han (class of 09) approached me with kind smiles. Next to me, Hwang Seok-jin (class of 11) sat down with sparkling eyes.

“Shall ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠we divide the roles? Seolah, is there any part you’d like to take?”

Kim Ji-hong turned toward me. He was clearly trying to play the gentle senior, making deliberate eye contact, yet his gaze kept slipping, dangerously skimming across my neckline and chest. The instinctive conflict—embarrassed to meet my eyes, reluctant to look away. Having lived as a man, I knew that conflict all too well.

“Um… since I’m a freshman, I don’t know much. I’d like to start by learning how to gather materials step by step. Would that be okay?”

When I narrowed my eyes and smiled sweetly, Kim Ji-hong’s gaze lost its way in midair and trembled. He nodded hastily to hide his panic, the tips of his ears already flushed red.

In truth, I was confident I could handle everything from report writing to PPT design far better than them, but I deliberately mentioned the part that looked least important.

“Materials? Oh dear, our Seolah will have to work hard. Then just look up a few simple keywords. The oppa’s will handle the rest of the organizing.”

“That’s right. It’s your first semester, so adjusting is what matters. I’ll stay up all night making the PPT look beautiful.”

Even Hwang Seok-jin chimed in, treating me like a fragile doll. It was absurd. Was this the so-called “power of a beautiful woman” I had only heard about? In my previous life I had been told “You can’t even do the work of one person” while chained to numbers, yet now a slight tilt of my head earned me special treatment.

The sweetness lasted only a moment. The instant the senior named Ji-hong leaned toward me, the strong scent of men’s cologne hit me like a wall and stole my breath. My heart thumped unpleasantly. Fragments of yesterday’s violent sensations flashed through my mind. My reason screamed in disgust, yet the cells of my body that had been violated instantly stood on edge at the mere presence of a man.

When my gaze unconsciously lingered on the thick ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠forearm he revealed, a sharp throb pulsed through my lower abdomen.

I’m going crazy… Is my body really broken?

It wasn’t thirst for pleasure that terrified me most—it was the fear that my body was no longer under my control. The very existence of the men all around me had become both a massive threat and a stimulant, tightening around me.

But what drove me even more insane was the smartphone that never vibrated even once until the end of class. The number “1” beside the morning message still refused to disappear even as late afternoon arrived. Had my confidence that I knew him well been a misjudgment? The heavy silence he offered felt like a sharply honed blade carving into my chest.

When class ended, I wandered up the hill toward the business school building as if possessed. The timetable I remembered and his current schedule were strangely misaligned. Maybe he was deliberately twisting his route to avoid me.

I loitered in the lobby for over ten minutes but never caught sight of that familiar back.

…Please, just look at your phone. Baek Gangho.

The deadline was tightening around my throat, yet the target I needed to capture had raised an iron wall. The dissonance pushed me toward the edge of a cliff. The survival instinct screaming that I wanted to live and the filthy desire to confirm once more the bitter pleasure I had tasted yesterday tangled together, turning my mind into complete chaos.

Biting my lip that still carried a faint fishy aftertaste, I looked down at the campus where the sunset was beginning to bleed across the sky. The longer Baek Gangho’s silence stretched, the more dangerous the thirst growing inside the “Cha Seolah” within me became.

That was when it happened.

A short, intense vibration rang out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from my bag, buried among heavy major textbooks. My heart plummeted. I practically snatched the bag open, rummaging desperately until I pulled out the smartphone. Trembling fingers fumbled across the screen.