POV: Kang Min-jae
Day 7 – Saturday Afternoon
Setting: Abandoned Theater in Jongno, Lotte World
I changed the plan at the last minute.
Saturday morning, I wake up with absolute clarity about what I need to do today. Tell Ji-won about the bet. No more delays, no more excuses. We'll explore the abandoned buildings like we planned, and somewhere between the forgotten spaces and honest conversations, I'll find the courage to say: *I need to tell you why I really asked you out.*
But at 10 AM, while I'm making coffee and rehearsing different versions of the confession in my head, my phone rings. My mother.
"Min-jae-ya, your father and I need to move tomorrow's dinner to next Sunday. His conference schedule changed."
Relief and disappointment hit simultaneously. "Okay. I'll let Ji-won know."
"Don't sound so relieved. We will meet her eventually. Just not tomorrow."
After we hang up, I stare at my phone. I should feel better—one more week before family complications. But instead, I feel unmoored. The timeline has shifted. Tomorrow was supposed to be the deadline forcing my hand, making me tell Ji-won before meeting my parents became impossible.
Now I have another week. Another seven days of this precarious balance between what's real and what's hidden.
I text Ji-won about the dinner change. She responds immediately.
Ji-won: Oh. Okay. That's fine. Totally fine.
Me: You sound disappointed.
Ji-won:No! I mean, I was prepared. But next week is good too. Less pressure.
Me: Still want to do abandoned buildings today?
There's a long pause before she responds.
Ji-won: Actually... can we do something else? Something lighter?
Me: Like what?
Ji-won: Something fun. Spontaneous. No deep conversations or forgotten spaces. Just... fun.
I stare at that message, trying to decode it. She was the one who wanted to explore abandoned Seoul. Now suddenly she wants something lighter? No deep conversations?
Was she planning to have a serious conversation today too?
Me: Lotte World?
Ji-won: The amusement park?
Me: Yeah. It's ridiculous and crowded and the opposite of abandoned buildings. Is that light enough?
Ji-won: Perfect. When?
Me: I'll pick you up at noon.
I set down my phone, feeling both relieved and guilty. She said no deep conversations. Which means I can delay the confession another day. Which makes me a coward, but maybe also gives us one more day of this—whatever this is—before I potentially ruin it.
At noon, I pick up Ji-won from her building. She's wearing jeans, a cream sweater, and a denim jacket, her hair in a high ponytail. She looks young and happy and nothing like someone preparing for a serious conversation.
"Hi," she says, sliding into the passenger seat.
"Hi. Ready for the most touristy day ever?"
"I'm ready to eat overpriced theme park food and go on rides that will probably make me nauseous."
"That's the spirit."
We drive to Jamsil, and I can feel something different in the car today. Not tension exactly, but a kind of careful energy. Like we're both being deliberately light, avoiding the deeper currents underneath.
Lotte World on a Saturday afternoon is exactly as chaotic as expected. Families with children, groups of teenagers, couples on dates—everyone packed into Seoul's massive indoor/outdoor amusement park. We buy tickets and VIP passes that let us skip most lines, and I watch Ji-won's face light up at the sight of the park spreading before us.
"I haven't been here since high school," she says. "Came with friends for someone's birthday. We rode the gyro drop five times and I threw up."
"Should I be concerned about your stomach today?"
"Deeply concerned. But also committed to the experience."
We start with the easier rides—the carousel, the swinging ship, the slow-moving river ride where we sit side by side in a boat shaped like a swan. It's silly and perfect, and I watch Ji-won more than I watch the scenery.
She's different today. More present but also more guarded. Like she's decided something but isn't ready to share what.
I know the feeling.
"So," she says as we exit the river ride. "Tomorrow's dinner got postponed. Does that bother you?"
"No. Does it bother you?"
"I don't know. I was mentally prepared for it. Now I have to prepare all over again."
"What were you nervous about?"
She's quiet for a moment. "Meeting your parents feels significant. Like crossing a threshold. Once you meet someone's family, you can't cross it."
"We don't have to go if you're not comfortable."
"No, I want to. I'm just aware that it means something." She looks at me directly. "What does it mean to you? Bringing me to meet your parents?"
The question catches me off guard. "It means I'm serious about you."
"After a week?"
"Time isn't linear when it comes to feelings. At least, I don't think it is." I take her hand. "Is a week too fast for serious?"
"I don't know what's too fast anymore. Nothing about this feels like it's following normal rules."
We're standing in the middle of Lotte World, surrounded by screaming children and carnival music, having a conversation that feels too important for the setting.
"Do you want it to follow normal rules?" I ask.
"No," Ji-won says quietly. "But I also don't know what rules we are following."
"Neither do I. Maybe that's okay."
She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Maybe."
We move on to bigger rides. The Atlantis water coaster where we get drenched and laugh until our sides hurt. The Pharaoh's Fury where the swinging boat goes higher and higher until we're nearly vertical. Each ride, Ji-won screams and clutches my arm and then laughs at herself for being scared.
It's perfect. Too perfect. Like we're both performing happiness to avoid the conversations lurking underneath.
At 3 PM, we take a break for food—overpriced hot dogs and nachos that taste exactly like theme park food should. We find a bench near the outdoor section, overlooking the Magic Castle, and eat in comfortable silence.
"Can I ask you something?" Ji-won says, setting down her hot dog.
"Sure."
"Why did you really ask me out? At the gallery. What made you approach me specifically?"
My heart starts racing. This feels like a test. Like she knows something.
"You spilled wine on me," I say, trying to keep my tone light. "That's a pretty memorable introduction."
"But you could have just taken my number for dry cleaning and never called. Why did you actually want to see me again?"
I think carefully about how to answer honestly without revealing everything. "Because you were different. Most people at those events are performing—showing off their cultural knowledge, networking, saying what they think they should say. You just said what you actually thought. About the art, about being there for the wine. It was refreshing."
"Refreshing." She tests the word. "Is that all?"
"No. You were also beautiful and funny and when you looked at me, you didn't see what people usually see."
"What do people usually see?"
"Someone useful. Good-looking enough to introduce around, connected enough to open doors. They see what I can do for them, not who I am."
Ji-won is quiet, processing this. "And what did I see?"
"I don't know. That's what I wanted to find out."
She looks down at her nachos, no longer eating. "What if what I saw wasn't accurate? What if I was seeing what I wanted to see?"
"Were you?"
"I don't know anymore."
The conversation has taken a turn into territory neither of us seems ready to navigate. I changed the subject.
"Come on. We haven't done the gyro drop yet. Isn't that what you came for?"
"I came to throw up, apparently. Let's fulfill that destiny."
The gyro drop looms over Lotte World—a tower that shoots riders up and then drops them in freefall. The line is long even with VIP passes, winding through switchbacks with warning signs about heart conditions and pregnancy.
"Are we really doing this?" Ji-won asks as we inch forward.
"You said you wanted to do something fun."
"I'm reassessing my definition of fun."
As we get closer to boarding, I notice Ji-won getting quieter. Her hand in mine is slightly clammy.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Terrified. But in a good way? Maybe?"
"We don't have to do this."
"No, I want to. I need to." She looks at me. "I need to do something scary today. Prove I can handle it."
There's weight to those words that I don't fully understand, but I squeeze her hand. "We'll do it together."
Finally, we're strapped into our seats—harnesses locked, safety bars secure. Ji-won's hand finds mine, gripping tight.
"If I die, tell Yu-jin she can have my plant collection," she says.
"You're not going to die."
"You don't know that."
The ride begins its ascent. Slowly, painfully slowly, we rise up the tower. Seoul spreads out beneath us—the Han River snaking through the city, buildings stretching to the horizon, the late afternoon sun painting everything gold.
At the top, suspended 70 meters in the air, there's a moment of perfect stillness. No sound except the wind and our breathing. Seoul laid out like a promise below us.
Ji-won's grip on my hand is painful now. "Min-jae—"
"Yeah?"
"I need to tell you—"
The drop happens.
We plummet. Stomach-lurching, gravity-defying freefall. Ji-won's confession is replaced by screaming—mine and hers and everyone else's. The ground rushes up impossibly fast, and then just before impact, the brake engages and we slow, bouncing slightly before coming to rest at the bottom.
For a moment, we just sit there, hearts pounding, adrenaline surging.
"Holy shit," Ji-won breathes.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm alive. Shocked, but alive." She turns to me, and her eyes are bright with tears—from fear or exhilaration, I can't tell. "That was terrifying."
"But you did it."
"We did it."
They release our harnesses, and we stumble off the ride on shaky legs. Ji-won leans against me, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders.
"What were you going to say?" I ask. "Right before we dropped?"
She stiffens slightly. "I don't remember. The fear erased everything."
It's a lie. I can tell it's a lie. But I don't push.
We spent another hour at the park. The photo booth where we take ridiculous pictures—making faces, wearing silly props, laughing at how terrible we look. The arcade where Ji-won destroys me at a shooting game despite claiming she never plays video games. The gift shop where I buy her a stuffed character she doesn't need but smiles anyway.
As the sun starts setting and the park transitions to evening mode—lights twinkling, music shifting to something more romantic—we find ourselves walking slowly toward the exit.
"This was good," Ji-won says. "Thank you for suggesting it."
"Thank you for agreeing. Even though you were planning something else."
"The abandoned buildings can wait. Today was better. Lighter."
"Is lighter what you need right now?"
She considers this. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just avoiding heavier things."
"What heavy things?"
Ji-won stops walking. We're near the Magic Castle, the park's centerpiece, with its fairy-tale architecture and strategic lighting. Couples are taking photos, children are running around, life is happening in cheerful chaos around us.
"Min-jae, can I ask you something serious?"
My heart rate picks up. "Okay."
"Do you believe people can start something for the wrong reasons and still have it turn into something right?"
The question is so specific, so loaded, that I'm certain she knows. About the bet, about my ulterior motives, about everything.
"Yes," I say carefully. "I think intentions matter less than what you do with them. Why you start something isn't as important as whether you commit to it honestly once it matters."
"And when do you know it matters?"
"When the thought of losing it makes you feel like you're losing something essential."
Ji-won's eyes are bright with unshed tears. "What if telling the truth means losing it anyway?"
"Then you tell the truth and hope the other person understands. I hope that what you've built is strong enough to survive honesty."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I'm certain this is it—the moment she confesses whatever she's been holding back, the moment I confess my own secrets, the moment everything either breaks or transforms.
"I need to tell you—" she starts.
My phone rings. Director Choi's name flashes on the screen.
"I'm sorry," I say to Ji-won. "It's my boss. I should—"
"Take it. It's fine."
I answer the call, walking a few steps away. "Hello?"
"Min-jae, sorry to bother you on Saturday. James Woo just called. He wants to move Friday's pitch to Monday afternoon. Something about his schedule changing. Can you be ready?"
Monday. That's two days away. Two days to finalize the campaign that's supposed to be about authentic romance while I'm still lying to the person who inspired it.
"Yes," I hear myself say. "I can be ready."
"Good. 2 PM Monday. His office in Gangnam. Don't be nervous—he seemed positive about the earlier conversation."
After we hang up, I return to Ji-won. She wiped her eyes and composed herself.
"Everything okay?" she asks.
"Client meeting got moved up. Monday instead of Friday."
"The jewelry campaign? That's a big one, right?"
"Yeah. The most important pitch of my career."
"You'll be great." She touches my arm. "You believe in the concept. That's more than half the battle."
We leave the park as it's getting dark, the evening crowds streaming in for night rides and illuminated parades. In the car, driving back to Yeonnam-dong, neither of us says much. The radio fills the silence with K-pop and advertisements.
At her building, I walk her to the door one more time.
"Today was perfect," I say. "Thank you for being spontaneous."
"Thank you for not pushing me when I changed plans."
"What were you going to tell me? At the gyro drop, and then again by the castle?"
Ji-won looks at me for a long moment. "That I'm scared. Of this. Of how fast it's moving. Of how much I care after only a week."
"I'm scared too."
"Are you?"
"Terrified. But I'm showing up anyway."
She kisses me then—soft and brief and tastes like theme park cotton candy. "Goodnight, Min-jae."
"Goodnight, Ji-won."
I watch her go inside, then sit in the car for a long moment before driving away.
Seven days. Exactly halfway through the bet. Tomorrow, the family dinner that got postponed. Monday, the pitch that got moved up. And somewhere in between, a conversation that needs to happen but keeps getting interrupted.
At home, I open my laptop and pull up the Luminé campaign files. The pitch is good—better than good. It's authentic because it's drawn from something real. From 3 AM fish markets and sunrise by the river. From watching Ji-won's face light up in an empty library and holding her hand on a gyro drop and kissing her by a fairy-tale castle in an amusement park.
It's drawn from falling for someone while lying to her about why you're dating.
The irony is not lost on me.
I text Tae-hyun.
Me: Pitch moved to Monday.
Tae-hyun: That's two days away. Are you ready?
Me: The campaign is ready. Everything else is a mess.
Tae-hyun: Did you tell her about the bet?
Me: No.
Tae-hyun: Min-jae.
Me: I know. I'm the worst.
Tae-hyun: You're not the worst. You're just scared. But you need to tell her before Monday. Before the campaign succeeds based on a relationship built on a lie.
Me: What if telling her ruins everything?
Tae-hyun: What if not telling her ruins it worse?
I don't have an answer for that.
I text Ji-won before bed.
Me: Today was one of my favorite days.
Ji-won: Mine too. Despite the nausea.
Me: See you tomorrow?
Ji-won: Tomorrow. We should talk. Actually talk.
Me: I know. We will. I promise.
Ji-won: Okay. Goodnight.
Me: Goodnight.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind racing. Tomorrow, we talk. One of us confesses something—or both of us do. Monday, I pitch a campaign about authentic love while hoping I haven't destroyed the most authentic thing I've experienced in years.
Three days left on the bet. But the bet stopped mattering somewhere around Day Three, when Ji-won became more than a timeline, more than a point to prove.
The bet doesn't matter anymore.
What matters is finding the courage to be honest before Monday, before everything I've built—professionally and personally—comes crashing down around the foundation of lies I'm standing on.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I'll find the right words and the right moment, and I'll tell Ji-won everything.
I just hope tomorrow actually comes.