The Realization
For several days, Park Isang's words lingered in her ears like a vicious tinnitus. Even when eating with Cheolsu, watching TV in the living room, or lying beside his sleeping form, that vulgar yet seductive voice would suddenly paralyze her reason. Her ordinary daily life felt like a precarious mask.
Then one afternoon, as usual, with Cheolsu gone to work and Seoyeon left alone at home to kill time idly, her phone rang. The caller ID read 'Igaen.' The name of her former group member—and once-cherished rival, laced with love and hate.
During their group days, Igaen had been the second most popular after Seoyeon, the undisputed center. When Seoyeon abruptly announced her retirement, Igaen had been the fiercest in condemning her.
"Do you have any idea how much a member's departure impacts an idol group? If you quit like this, what about us? You've hogged all the spotlight until now, and suddenly you retire?"
Seoyeon still couldn't forget the chilling glare in Igaen's eyes that day, as if she might slap her. In the end, no one could fill Seoyeon's vacancy, and the group faded from the public's memory before disbanding. The other members scattered, leaving the industry behind, but Igaen was different. She debuted successfully as a solo artist and now dominated acting and variety shows, riding high on wave after wave of success.
And success brought her leisure. No longer needing to resent Seoyeon, she'd started contacting her casually about a year ago. Seoyeon didn't welcome the calls, but she couldn't bring herself to cut them off coldly.
"Hello?"
"Oh, Seoyeon! How've you been? Your voice sounds so drained."
Igaen's voice brimmed with its usual cheer and confidence. Seoyeon sank deeper into the sofa, forcing a dry smile.
"No, it's nothing... Just been cooped up at home. You must be busy."
"Busy? Swamped to death. But I missed you, so I called. We've got history, right?"
The word ‘history’ pricked Seoyeon’s ear like a thorn. Under the pretense of checking in, Igaen launched into her success stories, as if she'd been waiting for the chance: how her latest track topped charts for weeks, her year-end concert sold out in a minute, and just recently, she'd been named ambassador for a French luxury brand.
Seoyeon murmured soulless exclamations, praying the call would end soon.
"So, Seoyeon, how about you? What've you been up to?"
"Me? Just... at home. When my husband's at work, I do housework... Nothing special."
"Oh... So you're a housewife. Hubby's at work?"
"Yeah... Just the usual..."
"That company—big corp or not, the pay's peanuts, right? Chicken feed compared to what you made as Ciel. You okay with that?"
Igaen's voice carried a sly mockery.
"I'm happy now. My husband's a good man."
"Good for you. But doing nothing but housework all day—doesn't it make you feel left behind? Useless? I mean, you used to outshine me by miles. Life's unpredictable, huh? Hahaha."
"Everyone's... happiness is different..."
Seoyeon answered with effort. But her timid retort seemed to fall on deaf ears.
"Gotta run. Off to shoot a promo vid at a luxury shop. Tomorrow's an ad shoot... God, life's hectic. Sometimes I envy you. Taking care of hubby, living quietly... No worries. The simple happiness we could never imagine, right?"
The line went dead with a beep. In the wake of Igaen's bright voice, a heavy silence poisoned the living room like venom.
Seoyeon sat frozen on the sofa, clutching the cold, hard phone. Humiliation clawed at her heart as Igaen's parting words echoed: 'living quietly... no worries.' Was her life, her choice, truly so trivial and meaningless?
Heat surged from her nape, flushing her face. Trembling, she gripped the phone tighter. She had to check. Was the world she'd abandoned—the self she'd turned from—really so dazzling?
Her thumb hovered, then, as if entranced, tapped the red YouTube app icon. The familiar screen loaded; she took a breath. In the search bar, with shaking fingers, she typed the word she'd long forbidden herself: ㅅ, ㅣ, ㅇ, ㅔ, ㄹ. 'Ciel.'
Videos flooded the results. She clicked the one with the most views—a stage performance. The screen filled with a galaxy of tens of thousands of lightsticks. At its center, bathed in blinding lights, shone Seoyeon. No, Ciel.
Freely owning the stage, soaking in fans' cheers with her whole body, wearing the world's happiest smile.
That... was me...
Truth be told, she'd never once regretted retiring. It was a choice born of true love for Cheolsu, and by then, she'd grown weary of the idol illusion, disillusioned with the industry.
But was it Park's word "forsaken"? Or Igaen's mockery today? For the first time, she squarely faced what she'd forsaken: the roars of cheers, the feverish heat, the ecstasy of the stage. And the money, the fame.
Does my husband... know how much I've given up?
Once that melancholic thought took root, it spiraled, consuming her.
What have I gained by forsaking it all? What's left for me now? Am I happy? This relationship is just a barely patched time bomb. And does Cheolsu even satisfy me? Do I have to forsake physical pleasure for him too?
Her thoughts reached that point when the phone rang again—Cheolsu, saying he'd left work and was heading home. Seoyeon rose with a deep sigh to prepare dinner.
When Cheolsu opened the front door, she was curled on the sofa. Normally, she'd greet him at the entrance with "You're home?"
"Honey, I'm home. ...Something wrong?"
Cheolsu noticed her listless air. He suggested a walk, offered to buy something tasty, even tried clumsy aegyo. But Seoyeon just forced a smile, insisting she was fine.
The night deepened in heavy silence. Lying in bed, Cheolsu couldn't sleep, wary of her mood. Then Seoyeon burrowed into his arms first.
"Honey... shall we...?"
She desperately wanted pleasure from her bond with Cheolsu—to fill this void, this thirst.
That night, Seoyeon was far more aggressive than usual. She climbed onto the bed first, bracing on knees and hands. Twisting only her head, she gazed at Cheolsu on the bed's edge, hips thrust back provocatively, waist arched narrow—a silent plea: 'from behind.'
Stunned by his wife's bold lead yet thrilled by the sight, Cheolsu scrambled behind her. Seoyeon guided him in with her own hips.
She pistoned her waist and hips frantically, craving the sensation of Park's thing stabbing her womb. But no matter how deep she arched, Cheolsu's couldn't reach.
"Honey, a bit more... no, not like that... thrust your hips harder..."
Recalling her acts with Park, she directed Cheolsu. He followed clumsily, but she found no satisfaction.
Seoyeon finally stilled. Strength drained from her body; she collapsed face-down on the bed. Hope turned to despair in that instant.
She caught her breath, rolled to face him, and pushed lightly on his chest.
"Not like this... wait..."
Her voice held desperation. She lay before him, urging him atop her. Missionary—the basics. But as he positioned to enter, she stopped his shoulders.
"Wait. Put my legs over your shoulders."
Breath ragged, she lifted her legs, draping them deep over his shoulders—the pose with Park that folded her in half, humiliatingly filling her to bursting.
She pulled his torso close with her legs, bodies flush.
"Now... thrust. All the way..."
Her pleading voice shattered Cheolsu's restraint; he slammed in with all his might. But his limits were clear. It couldn't reach that secret depth Park's blunt glans had battered—bouncing off futilely.
Frustrated to madness, Seoyeon yanked his waist.
"Deeper! More! Don't lift your hips—crush me with your body!"
She strained to recreate it: squeezing her walls around him, twisting for angle. But only empty motions swirled in void.
Her desperate efforts only inflamed Cheolsu; oblivious to her despair, he reveled in her "skill."
"Honey, lie down. I'll ride."
Her voice carried cold resolve. She shoved him flat and straddled without hesitation, rocking her hips. Eyes shut, she focused solely on sensation, hunting even a spark.
First, pounding like a pestle—thud, thud—slamming down. Sweat poured, hair clung, but nothing.
Then circular grinds, rubbing every wall against him. He groaned in ecstasy, but her core stayed ice-cold.
Finally, angling sideways for Park's obsessive spot. Nothing. No rapturous friction or pressure from his massive girth.
Cheolsu panted on the brink, mistaking it for devotion to him. But Seoyeon's body lied still: drenched in sweat, yet her pussy parched, abdomen unmoving. Nothing.
"Honey... hold me and thrust up..."
Last resort: airlift. She dismounted, facing him standing. Guiding his arms under her thighs to the crooks of her knees.
Airlift—the overwhelming pierce while airborne with Park. Gravity's aid to drive him deep, just once.
Her body yearned.
Cheolsu swallowed at the novel demand. Her pleading eyes and urgency peaked his arousal. Gripping legs and ass firm:
"Up!"
As he heaved with full strength, Seoyeon relaxed, entrusting her body, anticipating that longed-for depth. Tension crested; the room brimmed with explosive anticipation.
Then—
"Ack!"
Not a hot groan, but a sharp yelp from Cheolsu. All erotic tension and her desperate hope shattered in that cry, crumbling absurdly.
He didn't lift her—instead, clutching his back, he toppled sideways. Everything ended in anticlimactic farce.
Seoyeon stood dazed on the cold sheets, uncomprehending. Cheolsu groaned, clutching his waist; the room's heat vanished, leaving awkward, wretched silence.
Swallowing surging disappointment, she asked mechanically:
"You okay?"
Her voice emotionless. She turned slowly, gazing blankly at her sweat-slick, pained husband.
She fetched an ice pack from the freezer, wrapped it in a towel from the drawer. Returning silently, she pressed it to his waist.
Cheolsu groaned in pain, apologizing profusely. His sorrys cut deeper than any words.
"It's fine. It's late, and with your back hurt, no straining. Let's sleep. You've got work tomorrow."
She tucked the blanket to his chin. Silence fell again.
Cheolsu tossed with embarrassment, guilt, and pain before drifting off with weary breaths. His snores grated.
Seoyeon lay beside, eyes closed. Sleep evaded her. In pitch dark, she replayed it: her flailing for pleasure, his yelp snuffing final hope. A black comedy.
Then, from an empty corner of her heart, a cold question rose:
Where... do I even find solace?
-
The next morning, Cheolsu's back had stiffened overnight. He insisted he could walk, shuffling stiffly to prepare for work. Seoyeon helped him out; the door clicked shut, leaving her rooted in the living room.
Silence blanketed the house. Alone, she drifted to the balcony window, forehead to cold glass. Beyond the frosted pane, a gray sky choked in hazy smog—unchanged from yesterday, devoid of hope.
She stared blankly at the city. Amid that vast world of lives buzzing on, she felt utterly alien.
No, this can't be.
She clung to her fraying reason.
Cheolsu loves me. Clumsy and foolish at times, but his heart is true...
Yet last night's memory clawed back: her pathetic writhing, his yelp crushing final hope. The ridiculous end drew a hollow laugh.
But... acting every night, feeling nothing... forever?
Park's voice echoed anew:
"You choose."
He'd demanded choice. Perhaps not blackmail—but her own salvation from this venomous void, this unquenchable thirst.
She eyed her reflection: dark circles, lifeless lips. Once Korea's top idol Ciel's face. Now just a weary woman's, lost between desire and reality.
She stood long like that. Thoughts stormed wildly. Then, abruptly, they ceased. In the aftermath, an eerie calm settled.
No more agonizing. The answer was set.
Her reflected face shed turmoil. In its place: deep resignation of one forsaken all, or cold resolve toward a new path.
She peeled from the glass, turned slowly. Step by step, like learning to walk, toward the sofa.
The black phone atop it—no mere device now. Gateway to salvation, or eternal damnation.
She halted before it. With steady hand, she picked it up.