POV: Seo Ji-won
Day 9 – Monday Evening
Setting: Metro Pulse Office, Ji-won's apartment
I make it exactly three blocks from PRISM Creative before I have to stop.
There's a small park—more of a pocket garden really—between buildings in Seongsu-dong. I collapse onto a bench, and the tears I've been holding since leaving Min-jae finally come in full, ugly force. Not the quiet, dignified tears I managed in the conference room. Full-body sobbing, the kind that makes passersby give you concerned looks and wide berth simultaneously.
A bet. He dated me because of a bet.
And I dated him for an article.
We used each other. We both used each other. And somehow, in the process of using each other, we fell for each other, which makes everything worse because now the hurt is real and the betrayal is real and the loss is real.
My phone buzzes. Min-jae calling. I decline.
It buzzes again. Text this time.
**Min-jae:** Please. Let me explain more. Let's talk about this.
I turn off my phone.
I don't know how long I sit there. Long enough that the office workers passing by change from afternoon stragglers to evening commuters. Long enough that the October light shifts from clear to golden to purple-gray. Long enough that my tears dry into the kind of hollow exhaustion that comes after emotional devastation.
Finally, around 6 PM, I force myself to stand. I need to go somewhere. Do something. I can't sit in a park forever drowning in the wreckage of mutual deception.
The Metro Pulse office. I'll go there. Sit at my desk. Pretend to work. Maybe the familiar space will help me process this.
The subway ride to Gangnam is a blur. I sit in the corner, invisible in my grief, while Seoul's Monday evening crowds press around me. Everyone else is heading home to normal lives—to partners who didn't date them because of bets, to jobs that don't require weaponizing relationships for content, to uncomplicated Monday evenings.
At the office, the evening crew is sparse. Just a few people working late, the cleaners making their rounds, the ambient hum of a workplace winding down. I sink into my desk chair and stare at my blank computer screen.
I should check my email. Editor Kim was expecting the article this morning at 9 AM. I sent it at 8:47 AM—the honest version, the one about trying to lose someone and failing. I haven't checked to see if she responded.
I'm afraid to check.
I opened my email. There, sent at 11:23 AM while I was pretending to work and Min-jae was preparing his pitch:
*Subject: RE: How to Lose a Guy Article - NEED IMMEDIATE CALL*
My stomach drops. I opened it.
*Ji-won,*
*I received your submission. This is NOT what we discussed. This is NOT what I approved. This is a personal essay masquerading as the satirical exposé you pitched.*
*We need to talk immediately. Call me tonight. This article cannot run as-is. If you can't deliver what you promised, we're killing the piece and you're going back to beauty content.*
*Call me by 8 PM.*
*-Kim*
I check my watch. 6:17 PM. I have less than two hours to call Editor Kim and defend an article I can no longer defend because the relationship it's based on just imploded in mutual betrayal.
I should call her now. Explain that the experiment failed, or succeeded, or did both simultaneously. Explain that I fell for the subject and he fell for me and we both used each other and now we're both destroyed.
I should tell her to kill the piece.
Instead, I pulled up the article I submitted. Read it for the first time since sending it this morning, back when I thought tonight Min-jae and I would confess and somehow work through our mutual deceptions. Back when I thought honesty would save us.
*"How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days: A Confession"*
*I was supposed to lose him. That was the assignment—date a guy for ten days while deliberately sabotaging the relationship, then write a satirical exposé about dating culture and deal-breakers.*
*Instead, I fell for him.*
*His name is Min-jae. (Changed for privacy, though if you're reading this, you'll probably recognize yourself.)*
The article continues—honest, vulnerable, confessing my deception while describing how it became real. I wrote it at 2 AM Sunday night thinking I was being brave, thinking honesty would be enough.
I was naive.
The article makes us sound like star-crossed lovers who overcame initial dishonesty through genuine connection. It's romantic, almost. The tone suggests we'll make it through, that confession will lead to catharsis and then connection.
But that's not what happened. What happened was mutual devastation in a PRISM Creative conference room, both of us realizing we'd built something beautiful on rotten foundations.
I need to rewrite it.
I open a new document and start typing.
*"How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days: The Real Ending"*
*I was supposed to lose him. Instead, I fell for him. And then I lost him anyway—not because of my sabotage, but because we were both dishonest about why we were there in the first place.*
*His name is Min-jae. We met at a gallery opening. I chose him as my article subject. He chose me as his bet subject. We both thought we were using each other. We were both right.*
*For nine days, we built something real on fake foundations. We had coffee and talked about wanting to be taken seriously. We went to a fish market at 3 AM and shared fears. We watched the sunrise and said things that felt true despite being said by people lying about their fundamental motivations.*
*Day 9, we both confessed. And everything shattered.*
*The lesson isn't about dating culture or red flags or how to lose someone. The lesson is that you can't build real connection on deception, no matter how real the feelings become. At some point, the foundation cracks, and everything built on top comes crashing down.*
*I lost him. Not through sabotage, but through honesty that came too late.*
*The question I'm left with: If the feelings were real, does it matter that the beginning was fake? Can you retroactively make something honest? Can two people who used each other transform that into something genuine?*
*I don't know the answer. I'm sitting in my office at 6:30 PM on Day 9, crying into my keyboard, trying to write an ending to a story that doesn't have one yet.*
*Maybe that's the real article. Not "How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days" but "How to Fall for Someone While Lying to Them and Then Lose Them When You Tell the Truth."*
*That's a terrible headline. But it's honest.*
*And honesty is all I have left.*
I stopped typing. Read it back. It's raw, unpolished, probably unpublishable. Editor Kim wanted satirical and shareable. This is neither.
But it's true.
My phone—which I turned back on—buzzes. Multiple messages.
**Yu-jin:** Where are you? You're not answering calls. I'm worried.
**Yu-jin:** Mi-sun just called. Tae-hyun told her something happened at Min-jae's office. Are you okay?
Yu-jin: I'm coming to find you. Office or apartment?
Me: Office. But I'm fine.
Yu-jin: That's bullshit and we both know it. Stay there.
Twenty minutes later, Yu-jin appears at my desk with takeout fried chicken and beer. She doesn't say anything, just sets the food down, pulls up a spare chair, and waits.
I tell her everything. The photoshoot yesterday, the pitch today, Min-jae calling me to the office, the confession about the bet, my counter-confession about the article. The way it all fell apart in less than fifteen minutes.
"We both used each other," I finished. "And somehow that makes it worse. If it was just him lying, I could be righteously angry. But I was lying too. We're equally culpable."
Yu-jin opens a beer and hands it to me. "Were the feelings real?"
"Yes."
"For both of you?"
"I think so. But does that matter when everything was built on lies?"
"I don't know." Yu-jin opens her own beer. "My instinct says yes—that real feelings override fake beginnings. But I also understand why it doesn't feel that way right now."
"I submitted the article this morning. The honest version. Editor Kim hates it."
"What did she say?"
I showed her the email. Yu-jin reads it, frowning.
"She wants you to call by 8 PM. That's in an hour."
"I know."
"What are you going to tell her?"
"That I can't write the satirical piece. That the experiment failed. That she should kill the article and I'll go back to beauty content and pretend this never happened."
"Is that what you want?"
I think about that. What do I want?
"I want to go back to nine days ago and not pitch this stupid article. I want to meet Min-jae honestly, without an agenda. I want to not have destroyed something real by treating it like content."
"You can't go back. You can only decide what to do now."
"What should I do now?"
Yu-jin looks at me seriously. "Do you want to lose him? Actually lose him, not as article research but as someone in your life?"
"No."
"Then fix it. Call him. Talk to him. Figure out if two people who both fucked up can move forward."
"He used me to win a bet, Yu-jin."
"And you used him to write an article. You're even. Which means you're starting from the same place—both wrong, both sorry, both having real feelings anyway. That's as level as foundations get."
My phone buzzes. Min-jae again.
Min-jae: I know you probably don't want to hear from me. But I need you to know: I'm sorry. For the bet, for not telling you sooner, for using you to prove a point. You deserved honesty from the beginning. I'm sorry you didn't get it.
Min-jae: But everything after Day 2 was real. My feelings were real. If you can find a way to believe that, even after what I did, I'd like a chance to talk. Really talk. No more secrets.
Min-jae: Take whatever time you need. I'll wait.
I show Yu-jin the messages. She reads them and hands back my phone.
"He's sorry. He wants to talk. The question is whether you're ready to."
"I don't know how to talk to him. What would I even say?"
"Start with 'I'm sorry too.' And go from there."
At 7:43 PM, seventeen minutes before Editor Kim's deadline, I called her.
She answers on the first ring. "Ji-won. Finally. What the hell was that article you submitted?"
"Editor Kim, I need to be honest with you."
"Please do. Because the article you sent was not what we discussed."
"The experiment didn't go as planned. I tried to sabotage the relationship, but it became real. I fell for the subject. And today we both confessed—he was using me for something too. It all fell apart."
There's silence on the line.
"So you're telling me," Editor Kim says slowly, "that you failed to execute the experiment as pitched?"
"Yes."
"And instead of losing the guy through deliberate sabotage, you lost him through mutual honesty about mutual deception?"
"Yes."
More silence.
"That's actually a better story," Editor Kim finally says.
"What?"
"Think about it. 'How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days' is cute. Satirical. But 'I Tried to Lose a Guy for an Article and We Both Fell for Each Other While Using Each Other'—that's compelling. That's honest. That's the kind of content that goes viral not because it's funny but because it's painfully relatable."
"You want me to write about mutual deception and failure?"
"I want you to write about what actually happened. The honest version. Not the essay you sent this morning—that was too soft, too hopeful. Write the version where both of you fucked up and you're figuring out if that's forgivable. That's the article."
"Editor Kim, I can't. I'm too close to it. It's too raw."
"That's exactly why you can. Raw is real. Real is shareable. Give me 2,000 words by Wednesday morning. The true ending, whatever it is. Can you do that?"
I looked at the document I started earlier—"How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days: The Real Ending." Already 500 words of painful honesty.
"I can try."
"Good. And Ji-won? I'm sorry you got hurt. But sometimes the best writing comes from the worst experiences. Use it."
After we hang up, I sit at my desk staring at the unfinished article. Editor Kim wants the true ending. But I don't know what the true ending is yet. Is it Min-jae and me destroyed by mutual betrayal? Or is it us somehow finding a way through?
Yu-jin leans over my shoulder, reading what I've written. "That's good. Honest."
"Editor Kim wants 2,000 words by Wednesday. The true ending."
"So finish it. Write what you know now. You can always revise if the ending changes."
"What if it doesn't change? What if this is the ending—both of us are ruined by our own dishonesty?"
"Then you write that. But you don't know yet. It's only been three hours since the confession. Give it time."
I pull up my text thread with Min-jae. His apology messages sit unanswered.
I type: **I'm sorry too. For the article, for using you, for not telling you sooner. You deserved honesty and I didn't give it to you.**
I stare at the message for a full minute before hitting send.
His response is immediate: **Can we talk? In person? Tomorrow?**
Me: I have an article due Wednesday. I need to write the ending.
Min-jae: What ending?
Me: I don't know yet. That's the problem.
Min-jae: Let me help you figure it out. Please. Tomorrow. Anywhere you want.
I think about Yu-jin's words: *Do you want to lose him? Actually lose him?*
No. I don't.
Me: Tomorrow. 6 PM. The Starfield Library.
Min-jae: I'll be there.
I set down my phone and returned to the article. I have until Wednesday to write the true ending. Which gives me until tomorrow night to figure out what that ending is.
Day 10. Ten days since we met. The official end of both his bet and my article timeline.
The day we find out if what we built can survive being built on lies.
I write until 11 PM, adding to the article it fits and starts. It's not finished—nowhere close. But it's honest. Raw. The opposite of the satirical piece I originally pitched.
Yu-jin drives me home. At my apartment door, she hugs me tight.
"You're going to be okay," she says. "Both of you. Maybe not right away, but eventually."
"How do you know?"
"Because you both already chose honesty over secrecy. That's the hard part. Everything else is just figuring out logistics."
After she leaves, I lie in bed staring at my ceiling. My phone sits on my nightstand, dark and silent.
Then it lights up. Min-jae.
Min-jae: Goodnight, Ji-won. See you tomorrow. We'll figure this out. Together.
I don't respond, but I save the message.
Tomorrow. Day 10. The day we started counting toward the ending.
Maybe it's a beginning instead.