*Minjae unravels

I have become an observer of my own undoing, locked in the prison of my own mind. Each day, my resolve unraveled steadily, though I stop short at severing the threads, for fear that nothing is left behind, that I have gone too far past the point of no return.

It hadn't started this way, of course. That first night was ****, yes, but a necessary one, a sacrifice made to save my relationship with Haeun. Was it guilt of my own actions that had carried me through that night? Was it shame? Was it love?

Now, I cannot say I feel much of anything, my arousal so tangled with longing and despair that I could scarcely tell them apart.

She would notify me each time they had sex, a factual, clinical message that read more like a chore list. Still, she insisted on it, wanted me to know what was happening, asking for my consent for every action she took. It was to help build trust, she said, to acclimatize me, to ensure that I am not blindsided by jealousy and anger in the future.

But as time passed, something changed—her texts, so matter-of-fact before, started taking on a different tone. They became more descriptive, each detail of their liaisons carefully chronicled for my pleasure, or perhaps torment. Whereas previously she might have simply sent me "3.45pm, in the dance studio", she now describes how they had found an unused room between practice, where he pressed her up against a mirrored wall, taking her from behind while she watched herself get fucked.

It wasn’t long before she began sending photos—initially, innocuous snaps of them together before the deed. But gradually, these gave way to risqué images of her in compromising positions, in various states of undress, or of them both still recovering from the rigorous lovemaking moments before.

I found myself craving these updates, a masochistic hunger gnawing at me each time my phone buzzed with a new message. I couldn't stop myself, the desire to know, to see, overpowering any semblance of self-respect I clung to. The pictures she sent were like a ****, each one more tantalizing than the last, pulling me deeper into the abyss while pushing me further from her light.

I loved it. I loved every minute of it—the thrill of voyeurism, the heady rush of knowing something you held dear was being appreciated by others. It was wrong, it was twisted, but god, it felt so fucking good. I would lie awake at night, scrolling through the album that I came to possess. It was all-consuming, this need that had taken root within me, growing stronger with every passing day.

And still it wasn't enough. I begged her for more, for evidence of them in the act, anything to stoke the unquenchable flames in me, to keep my cock hard and aching and ****.

Yet, despite my pleading, she refused to budge on this matter. She wouldn’t share what I desired most—the most intimate parts of their lovemaking. "Jihoon is not comfortable with that still," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Give him time to be ready."

I argued, pleaded, and then finally conceded—what did "ready" mean anyway? Wasn't this the point?

I craved more, more, more, my mind consumed by thoughts of them entangled in passion, of Jihoon's hands on her skin, his lips on her neck. What was it like for him to feel her soft, supple curves beneath him, to hear her moans and gasps as he pushed deeper, harder, her nails raking down his back with every thrust?

I wanted to capture that moment, to freeze it in time, so that I could revisit it over and over again. I wanted the image seared into my mind, like a brand on my consciousness, so that I would never be able to forget the ecstasy on her face, or the raw, carnal energy of their union.

For me, it wasn’t about humiliation or degradation. It wasn’t about being made to feel less, or denied something I should have by right. No, it was about the exquisite agony of longing, the bittersweet pleasure of watching the one you love being loved so thoroughly, even if it's by another.

By the circumstances of life, we were torn apart; but if she could somehow be satisfied, is that not also a form of love to set her free? To find pleasure in her pleasure, to revel in her ecstasy even as an observer?

And so on the fateful day when she finally made the call, telling me that Jihoon was ready to take that step, I felt liberation at last.