Chapter 1
Solace
The Atrium — Third Floor,
Seongsu-dong
11:07 AM
Late October. The leaves were turning yellow, but not yet falling.
The soft hum of filtered air filled the therapy room. No music, no ticking clock — just the stillness, designed to magnify every action and emotion. The room smelled faintly of jasmine and warm wood.
Yoon Yeorin sat in her usual wooden chair, wearing a powder blue blazer over a fitted cream blouse and high waisted, navy culottes, reaching her ankles and pointed nude slingbacks with low heels on her feet.
Her legs crossed and a notebook sat in her lap. She leaned forward to put down the papers in her right hand on the narrow wooden table in front of her and once again looked up to glance at the figure in front of her.
Across from her, the woman sat in the corner of the beige velvet sofa, holding one of the cushions in her lap.
After filling the intake form that woman hadn't spoken yet, obviously nervous and hesitant. That was common for first-timers.
Yeorin studied her — not unkindly, but clinically — as she was supposed to.
'Mid-thirties. Lawyer, if her intake form was accurate. High-functioning, precise handwriting, a hesitation in listing emergency contacts.'
"You wanna continue?" Yeorin said finally, when the woman didn't speak even after several minutes, her voice smooth, unaffected.
The woman glanced up. Her eyes still not meeting with Yeorin's. She said after taking a deep breath, as if convincing herself. "I almost cancelled this morning."
"Why didn't you?"
A breath. Then a laugh, too short. "Because I'm tired of pretending I'm not jealous of my own friends," she said. "Is that... pathetic?"
Yeorin didn't react or show any emotion on her face. This is not something surprising to her. "It's not," she answered, adjusting the gold framed glasses that rested on the bridge of her nose. "It's human."
'It's human. Right?'
The woman's eyes shifted. Something cracked there, for sure, —not a breakdown, just a fracture. Small. Honest.
"I think I want what they have. Or at least... I think I want to 'want it'. The career. The perfect partner. The right bag for the right dinner party. But when I imagine living that life, it doesn't feel like me. It feels like a well-lit stage."
Yeorin nodded slowly in understanding, her left hand holding the matte black pen, motionless and asked. "So what feels like you?"
Silence again. This time heavier.
"I don't know," the woman whispered. "That's the problem. I only know when I'm watching them. Wanting what they have makes me feel real. But it also makes me feel... smaller."
Envy. But not the ugly, screaming kind. The soft, chronic type. The one that leaves no bruises, only a quiet erosion.
Yeorin uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, just slightly. "You should be aware of one thing if you want to choose me.
Most people come here hoping I'll tell them how to fix the desire. The anger, the craving, the jealousy. But the truth is, the goal isn't to erase it. It's to know it. Then you decide what it gets to do."
The woman blinked in confusion. "What it gets to do?"
"Yes."
Yeorin's voice didn't rise or fall—it just settled. "Whether it gets to run and ruin your life. Or sit quietly in the passenger seat while you drive."
The woman shifted on the sofa, the soft cushion still clutched against her chest.
"So you're saying I can't get rid of it."
"No," Yeorin said simply. "You can numb it. Medicate it. Shame it. Or run from it. But it'll still be there. Just quieter. Waiting."
The woman exhaled, her fingers digging into the cushion's seams. Her voice dropped.
"Sometimes I imagine myself as... this ugly version of myself. Bitter. Watching everyone be happy. And I hate that image. I hate her."
'Hate. Do I hate her?'
Yeorin's eyes stayed steady. "What does she want?"
The woman blinked. "What?"
"This 'ugly version' you imagine. What does she want that you keep telling her she can't have?"
The woman didn't answer right away. Her lips parted, but nothing came out of her mouth. At the end she swallowed.
"She wants... attention. To be chosen first. To walk into a room and not feel like everyone's already decided where she belongs. Or worse—doesn't belong."
Yeorin nodded, her pen still resting, motionless.
"That version of you isn't ugly," she said. "She's just tired of being edited."
For the first time since she arrived, the woman looked directly at Yeorin. Her expression was less guarded now, though her eyes had glassed over slightly—on the edge, not of breaking, but of softening.
"I've worked so hard to not look like I care," she said. "But I do. I care too much. And it's exhausting."
"You care," Yeorin repeated. "That's not weakness. That's awareness. It means you're not frozen."
The woman gave a short breath of something between laughter and a sob. "You talk like it's simple."
"It's not," Yeorin said. "But it's yours."
A quiet knock sounded at the door—one of Yeorin's timed cues from her assistant outside. Their hour was already over.
The woman sat up straighter, obviously startled by the knock. She looked at the cushion in her lap. Gently, she placed it back where it belonged.
"I didn't expect to say all that," she said.
"Most people don't."
She rose, smoothed her skirt, and picked up her bag. At the door, she paused.
"Thank you. I... think I'll come back."
Yeorin offered the smallest nod. "That's up to you. But the door is always open."
Once the woman was gone, the room returned to stillness. The soft hush of the city beyond the window. The faint smell of jasmine. And Yeorin, alone again with the quiet weight of other people's truths.
She finally clicked her pen.
The page remained blank.
---
Yeorin opened the door and stepped out of the therapy room.
Her assistant, Kang Minjae, stood at the reception desk, scrolling through a tablet. Hearing the door open, he looked up immediately, his posture straightening out of habit rather than nervousness.
"Are you leaving?" he asked, setting the tablet aside.
Yeorin nodded. "No more appointments today, right?"
"None scheduled. A few inquiries for next week, but nothing urgent."
She tapped her finger lightly against the desk, once. "Good. Clean the space, close it down, and you can head out for today."
Minjae gave a small bow. "Ok. Have a good afternoon, Dr. Yoon."
Without another word, Yeorin turned and walked ot of the clinic and turned toward the elevator. Her heels clicked softly against the floor, not rushed but precise.
---
Ground Floor — Café Amarre
The café buzzed with a mellow afternoon rhythm—laptop screens open, ceramic mugs clinking gently, someone laughing softly near the window. Warm lighting spilled over minimalist furniture in blond wood and concrete accents.
Yeorin entered like a wave slipping beneath the surface—noticed, yet unobtrusive.
She approached the counter. The barista, a young woman with faded pink hair, gave her a small smile.
"Your usual, Dr. Yoon?"
Yeorin scanned the pastry case for a second longer than necessary.
"No. Let's change it today. An open-faced salmon toast, and an iced matcha. Less sweet."
The barista nodded and keyed in the order without further questions. That was something Yeorin appreciated about this place—no one here tried to talk her into anything just because she was a regular.
She moved to her preferred seat: a corner table by the tall glass wall, half-shaded by a trailing plant installation. The café overlooked a pedestrian path lined with ginkgo trees, their leaves just beginning to gold.
She sat. Folded her coat neatly over the back of the chair. Slid her phone screen-down onto the table.
No music. No distractions. Just the faint murmuring of life around her.
When her food arrived, she ate slowly—each bite deliberate, but not performative. As if tasting was a private act. She looked out at the street as she chewed, but her eyes weren't really focused on anything.
Her mind drifted—not to the woman from earlier. Not yet.
Instead, it lingered on the question she always asked but never answered for herself:
'What version of me have I edited out so well that I've forgotten what she wanted?'