Minjae admits the truth

We had agreed to go to a nearby cafe for lunch, a quiet corner spot, tucked away on a side street with minimal foot traffic. It was still risky, knowing that she could be recognised by a random stranger, our relationship exposed, but it would be a lie to deny that the possibility excited us. The thrill of the forbidden, of stolen moments in public places—there was an exhilaration that we both craved.

But before that, she pulled me to the bedroom, asking me to help her change into something more comfortable before we headed out. She came to a stop in the middle, bathing in the pale, glowing light filtering through the curtains. Her back faced me as she gathered her hair, the red ribbon swinging tantalizingly around her neck.

"Help me take off my sweater ," she said softly, turning her head just enough for me to see the curve of her cheek.

I reached around her and began to undo each button from top to bottom, my fingers fumbling slightly from a mixture of eagerness and nervousness. The air felt charged with anticipation, making my heart race. When the last button was undone, I pulled it off her shoulders, exposing her milky white skin, her torso now entirely bare except for her bra.

"You can take that off too, if you don't mind me going out without one ," she said, still facing away from me.

I ran a hand over her shoulders, feeling the smooth texture of her skin, making her breath catch as her muscles twitched under my unexpected touch. My hands drifted to her back and unclasped her bra, letting it fall forward and join the discarded sweater on the floor. My eyes were transfixed on the imprint lines left on her otherwise flawless back, crisscrossing her skin in thin red lines that I couldn't help but trace with my fingers, drawing a shiver from her that seemed to go through us both. I had forgotten how sensitive she was to my touch, how much I enjoyed worshipping her body.

She looked, in that moment, like a piece of priceless art before me—an impossible combination of beauty and fragility, her imperfections only making her more perfect, carved by the hands of a master.

I must have paused for too long, for she turned back, her hands covering her breasts, her gaze shyly finding mine. Her lips curved into a smile as she caught my eyes wandering over her body.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

How could I answer her question? What could I say that would encompass the storm inside me? She stood before me, a goddess in the flesh, every curve and contour of her body a testament to the divine. Her hair, still tied up in that red ribbon, cascading down her shoulders in dark waves, seemed to frame her face perfectly. Her skin was like porcelain, pale and smooth, glowing with an ethereal beauty that left me breathless. And then there were her breasts—oh, how I ached to hold them—perfectly shaped and firm, squished tightly against the palms of her hands as if begging for release, for my touch. All of this, combined with her teasing smile, made me want to kneel before her in both reverence and desire, to worship at the altar of her existence, to show her with my lips and hands and heart just how much she meant to me.

"I think," I began slowly, "that I understand how Michelangelo felt now."

She giggled. "The artist? Or the turtle?"

I smiled back, though my tone remained serious. "The artist. He must have stood before his works, knowing they were destined to belong to others and not himself. Maybe he despaired, knowing that his creations would never truly be his alone. Or maybe..."

I stepped forward and reached around her waist, drawing her closer to me until our bodies were pressed against each other. Her hands moved from her breasts, allowing me to feel them fully against my chest. My lips brushed hers, and I could feel the warmth of her skin beneath my touch.

"Maybe he was content," I whispered, "Having found his pride in the praise. Maybe the act of sharing something so perfect was what sustained him, to see them beloved and worshipped, as they were meant to."

She let my words sink in, her head coming to rest on my shoulder, her face hidden from view. She said nothing for a long time, letting the silence hang in the air.

I felt her shudder, and I pulled away, my eyes searching for hers. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. It was then I saw the glimmer of tears clinging to her lashes, the tremble of her lower lip that threatened to break my heart.

"Why can't you be more selfish?" she asked, her voice trembling, fragile as glass. "If I'm so perfect, why don't you want to keep me all to yourself? Why must you be so willing to share me with others?"

The words struck me like a blow, sharp and unexpected. I hadn’t realized she had been carrying this question, like a stone in her heart, waiting for the moment it might shatter us both. I stepped closer, my hands hovering near her face, unsure if I should touch her, unsure if I deserved to.

"I'm not willing, Haeun. I’m anything but willing," I began, trying to keep my voice steady. "And it hurts me more than I can say. Even now, I'm finding excuses to make it make sense, to turn my pain into pride. I'm scared... scared that if I don’t, I'll be left with nothing but my own resentment and anger. I am selfish, Haeun, so selfish that I lie even to myself."

I was breaking down, the words tumbling out of me in a **** flood. I could feel my voice beginning to falter, my eyes burning with tears that threatened to spill over.

"I know it’s twisted, that I’m twisted. But please... let me be selfish. Let me pretend that I am okay. That this is something you want too. Because if I don't..." I struggled to finish the sentence, my throat closing up, hot tears carving down my cheeks. "then I would have to live with the fact that I'm so fucked up I gave the love of my life away for my own selfish pleasure."

She stared at me for what felt like an eternity, her face a canvas of warring emotions—pain, understanding, love, and something else I didn't recognize. Finally, she reached up, her fingers brushing away my tears.

"You idiot," she whispered softly, her voice tinged with both affection and sadness. "You complete and utter idiot."

With those words, she drew me down, pressing her lips against mine in a kiss that felt like salvation.