POV: Seo Ji-won
Day 8 – Monday Afternoon
Setting: Bukchon Hanok Village
The text arrives at 11:23 AM while I'm pretending to work at my Metro Pulse desk.
Min-jae: Random question. Are you free this afternoon?
Me: Depends. Define free.
Min-jae: Free enough to do me a huge favor that involves traditional Korean architecture and looking beautiful on camera.
Me: That's very specific.
Min-jae: I need a couple photos for the Luminé pitch. Real couple, real moments. The photographer can meet us at Bukchon at 2. Please? I know it's last minute.
I stare at my phone screen, weighing the request. Today is Day 8—technically the day we were supposed to confess everything before postponing to tomorrow. Now he wants me to be his fake girlfriend in a professional capacity for a jewelry campaign pitch.
The irony is almost beautiful.
Me: Okay. But you owe me.
Min-jae: I owe you so much already. Adding this to the list.
Me: See you at 2.
I save my work—another useless attempt at the satirical article—and tell my desk neighbor I'm leaving for an "interview." Which is technically true. I'm interviewing for the role of "authentic girlfriend" in a campaign about authentic love, while being an inauthentic girlfriend in real life.
The irony remains beautiful.
On the subway to Bukchon, I think about what Min-jae said: *Real couple, real moments.* That's what he needs for his pitch. That's what we've been doing this whole time, despite the lies—real moments built on fake foundations.
Tomorrow we fix the foundation. Today we pretend it was never broken.
Bukchon Hanok Village sits in the heart of Seoul like a time capsule—traditional Korean houses with curved tile roofs, narrow alleyways, and stone walls weathered for decades. It's absurdly picturesque, which is why it's always crowded with tourists taking photos and couples in rented hanbok doing pre-wedding shoots.
I find Min-jae waiting at the main entrance at exactly 2 PM. He's wearing dark jeans and a camel-colored sweater that makes him look like he walked out of a fall fashion editorial. His photographer—a woman in her thirties with serious camera equipment—stands beside him reviewing shots on her display screen.
"Ji-won!" Min-jae's face lights up when he sees me. "Thank you for doing this. You're saving my entire pitch."
"I'm aware. You can repay me for dinner and honesty."
"Tomorrow. I promise." He takes my hand naturally, and I notice the photographer watching us with professional assessment. "This is Hannah. She does all our campaign photography."
Hannah nods, friendly but focused. "Nice to meet you. Min-jae's been talking about you all morning. Let's get started before the afternoon light changes."
She leads us deeper into Bukchon, away from the main tourist paths, to quieter alleyways where traditional houses line stone steps. The October afternoon is perfect—clear sky, leaves turning gold and red, the kind of light photographers call "magic hour" even though it's only 2:15 PM.
"Okay," Hannah says, positioning us in front of a particularly beautiful hanok with persimmon trees visible over the wall. "I need a natural couple of moments. Don't pose. Just exist together. Talk, laugh, whatever you normally do."
Min-jae and I stand there awkwardly for a moment.
"What do we normally do?" I whisper.
"Apparently avoid important conversations and develop feelings while lying to each other."
I try not to laugh. "That's not very photogenic."
"Probably not."
Hannah starts shooting. "Min-jae, put your arm around her. Ji-won, lean into him. Good. Now look at each other. Talk about something."
We follow instructions—his arm around my shoulders, me leaning against his side. It feels natural despite the artificiality of the setup.
"What should we talk about?" Min-jae asks.
"I don't know. Your pitch? Is it ready?"
"As ready as it's going to be. James Woo called this morning—he's excited to see the revision. No pressure or anything."
"You'll be amazing. The concept is brilliant."
"The concept is based on you. On us. On—" He stops himself. "On what we've been building."
Hannah circles us, shooting from different angles. "Perfect. Keep that energy. You two have good chemistry."
Chemistry. That's what everyone keeps commenting on—how natural we look together, how easy our dynamic seems. If only they knew the truth. If only they knew we're both performing authenticity while hiding entirely different deceptions.
"Walk with me," Hannah instructs. "Down these steps. Hold hands. Talk naturally."
We descend the stone steps, hands linked, while Hannah follows with her camera. The street is quiet here—just us and the traditional architecture and the afternoon light painting everything golden.
"Can I ask you something?" Min-jae says as we walk.
"Sure."
"What are you going to tell me tomorrow? When we confess?"
The question catches me off guard. "I thought we were waiting until tomorrow to talk about it."
"We are. But I'm curious. And nervous. Is it something that will change everything?"
I think about my answer carefully. "It might. It's something I should have told you before now. Something that will make you question whether any of this was real."
"Was it real? For you?"
We reach the bottom of the steps, and Hannah gestures for us to stop. "Stay there. Perfect lighting. Ji-won, look up at Min-jae. Min-jae, look at her like—well, like you have been. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."
"Yes," I say, answering his question while looking into his eyes for the camera. "It was real. It is real. But it started wrong, and I don't know if it is enough to overcome it wrong."
Min-jae's hand tightens around mine. "It might be. If we're both willing to work for it."
"Are you? Willing to work for it?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "Whatever you tell me tomorrow, I want to try. I want to figure out how to make this work."
Hannah lowers her camera. "Okay, that was beautiful. Whatever conversation you're having, it's translating perfectly on camera. Let's move to the next location."
We follow her through Bukchon's winding paths, stopping at various photogenic spots—stone walls with traditional gates, narrow alleyways with wooden doors, courtyards with autumn leaves scattered on the ground. At each location, Hannah positions us: sitting on steps, walking hand-in-hand, standing close with foreheads touching.
"For this shot," Hannah says at a particularly beautiful hanok with red leaves framing the entrance, "I want a kiss. Doesn't have to be dramatic. Just natural, like you're saying goodbye after a date."
Min-jae and I look at each other.
"Is that okay?" he asks quietly, just for me.
"Yeah. It's for the campaign, right?"
"Right. The campaign."
But when he kisses me—soft and brief, his hand is cupping my face—it doesn't feel like it's for the campaign. It feels like every other time he's kissed me: real, present, full of everything we're not saying.
Hannah shoots rapidly. "Perfect. That's the one. That's going in the pitch deck."
We break apart, and I can see something in Min-jae's expression—guilt, maybe, or the weight of tomorrow's confession pressing on him.
"One more location," Hannah announces. "There's a viewing spot at the top of this hill. Overlooks the city. It'll be perfect for the final shots."
We climb stone steps worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. At the top, Bukchon spreads below us—traditional roofs in the foreground, modern Seoul rising behind them. The contrast is striking: old and new, tradition and innovation, existing simultaneously.
"This is the shot," Hannah says, excited. "This is the metaphor Min-jae wanted—traditional jewelry meeting modern love. Ji-won, stand at the railing. Min-jae, stand behind her with your arms around her waist. Both of you look out at the city."
We arrange ourselves. Min-jae's arms circle my waist, and I lean back against his chest. Below us, Seoul continues its afternoon—traffic, construction, life happening in miniature. From up here, everything looks manageable. Like problems are just details too small to matter from a distance.
"Beautiful," Hannah murmurs, shooting. "Hold that. Perfect."
"Can I tell you something?" Min-jae says quietly, his voice just for me even though Hannah is three feet away with a telephoto lens.
"Now?"
"Before tomorrow. Before the official confession. Just one thing."
"Okay."
"Whatever happens after we tell each other the truth—whatever we're both hiding—I want you to know that these eight days have been the most real thing I've experienced in years. Maybe ever. The feelings are real. The wanting to see you is real. The 3 AM fish market and the sunrise and the library and this—" His arms tighten slightly. "This is real."
My throat constricts. "Min-jae—"
"You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know. Before tomorrow I will complicate everything."
Hannah lowers her camera. "Got it. That's the series. Let me review and we'll wrap up."
While Hannah scrolls through her shots, Min-jae and I stay at the railing, still wrapped together, looking out at Seoul.
"I need to tell you something too," I say quietly. "Before tomorrow."
"Okay."
"The thing I'm going to confess—it's going to hurt you. It's going to make you question everything about how we met and why I agreed to date you. But I need you to know that the person you've been getting to know—the real me, the one who watches old movies and writes articles about things that matter and falls for people she shouldn't—that person is real. The feelings are real. I just—I made choices at the beginning that I regret. Choices that were about me and my career and nothing to do with actually seeing you as a person."
"And now?"
"Now I see you. Really see you. And I'm terrified of losing that."
Hannah calls us over. "Want to see?"
We cross to where she's standing, and she scrolls through the photos on her camera screen. They're stunning—the light, the location, the composition all perfect. But what's more striking is us. The way we look at each other. The ease of our body language. The obvious affection in every frame.
We look like a real couple. Because we are a real couple. Built on lies, heading toward confession, but real nonetheless.
"These are perfect," Min-jae says. "Exactly what I needed for the pitch. Thank you, Hannah."
"Thank your girlfriend. She's a natural." Hannah starts packing her equipment. "I'll have the edited series to you by 6 PM. Good luck with the pitch tomorrow."
After Hannah leaves, Min-jae and I walk slowly through Bukchon. The afternoon tourists have thinned out, leaving the village quieter, more contemplative. We don't talk much, we just exist in the space of knowing tomorrow everything changes.
At a small café tucked between traditional houses, we stop for coffee.
"How are you feeling about the pitch?" I ask, cradling my americano.
"Nervous. Excited. The campaign is ready. The photos will be perfect. I just need to sell James Woo on the concept."
"Which is authentic love."
"Which is authentic love based on my inauthentic relationship." He gives a hollow laugh. "The irony isn't lost on me."
"What if it's not inauthentic? What if it started inauthentic but became real?"
"That's what I'm hoping. That really is enough to override wrong."
We're talking in circles, dancing around tomorrow's confession without actually confessing.
"Min-jae," I say carefully. "After tomorrow—after we both tell each other whatever we need to tell each other—do you think we can survive it?"
"I don't know." His honesty is brutal. "I want to believe yes. I want to believe that if we're both confessing, that means we're both choosing honesty over secrecy. But I don't know what you're hiding, and you don't know what I'm hiding, and maybe when everything's exposed, we'll both decide it's too much."
"Or maybe we'll decide it's worth fighting for."
"Maybe." He reaches across the table, takes my hand. "I'm going to try. Whatever you tell me tomorrow, I'm going to try to understand. I'm going to try to see past the beginning of what we've built."
"I'll try too. I promise."
We finish our coffee as the afternoon turns to evening. Outside, Bukchon's traditional houses glow with interior lights, creating silhouettes against the darkening sky. The village transitions from tourist destination to living neighborhood—people coming home, families eating dinner, life continuing in these ancient houses surrounded by modern Seoul.
"I should get home," I say. "Prepare for tomorrow. Figure out how to say things I've been avoiding saying."
"Me too." Min-jae walk me to the bus stop. "Thank you for doing the photo shoot. For being part of the pitch."
"Thank you for including me. Even though it's complicated."
"Everything's complicated. That doesn't make it less worth doing."
The bus arrives, and I step on, finding a seat by the window. Min-jae stands at the stop, watching, and raises his hand in a small wave. I wave back, and then the bus pulls away, carrying me back toward Yeonnam-dong and my empty apartment and the confession I need to finalize.
At home, I pull up both documents again—the satirical version Editor Kim wants, and the true version I wrote Saturday night. Tomorrow morning at 9 AM, I need to send one of them.
Tomorrow afternoon, I need to tell Min-jae which one I chose.
I think about his words at the railing: *These eight days have been the most real thing I've experienced.*
I think about the photos Hannah took—how natural we looked, how obvious our feelings were, how impossible it would be to fake that kind of chemistry.
I think about tomorrow—dual confessions, truth replacing performance, the possibility of everything ending or everything finally beginning honestly.
My phone buzzes. Min-jae.
Min-jae: Made it home. Looking at the photos Hannah sent. We look good together.
Me: We do. Almost real.
Min-jae: Not almost. Actually real. The feelings are real even if the circumstances were complicated.
Me: Tomorrow we un-complicate the circumstances.
Min-jae: Tomorrow. Are you ready?
Me: No. Are you?
Min-jae: Not even close. But we're doing it anyway.
Me: Okay. Together.
Min-jae: Together. Goodnight, Ji-won.
Me: Goodnight, Min-jae. Good luck at the pitch.
Me: And Min-jae? Thank you for today. For trusting me with your campaign.
Min-jae: Thank you for being someone worth trusting.
I set down my phone and opened a new document. Title: "Final Version - How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days."
And I start writing the article I'm actually going to submit. Not the satirical piece. Not the confessional piece. But something in between—honest about the experiment, honest about failing, honest about falling, but kind in how it treats Min-jae. An article that tells the truth without betraying the person at the center of it.
It takes me until 2 AM to finish. Word count: 2,847 words. Too long, probably. Too honest, definitely.
But it's what actually happened. And tomorrow morning at 9 AM, I'm sending it to Editor Kim.
And tomorrow afternoon, I'm telling Min-jae everything.
Day 9. The day we stop performing and start being real.
I just hope it doesn't mean the end.