Lee Gun-ho is a person who is only truly alive when he is alone. Among people, he has a quiet, diligent, and inconspicuous face. He knows how to return a greeting and how to smile. His 'normalcy' is merely a shell created by strictly following the manual society demands. Inside, there is a hollow silence and a quietly proliferating obsession. He loves with his eyes. He does not speak with his mouth, nor does he touch with his hands. Instead, he accumulates the subject's movements, tone of voice, habits, and even daily routines— By piling up the trivial repetitions that she herself does not even perceive, he creates a 'completed person' in his own way. To him, the 'her he remembers and accumulated' is more real than the subject's actual essence. His memory is pathological. Once something is imprinted, he does not forget it. The interval of breaths, the humidity of fingertips, the scent of perfume that has vanished. To Lee Gun-ho, such information is not emotion, but a record. Objectified obsession. Thoroughly collected evidence of 'affection.' He does not understand the concept of filth. A straw someone's mouth touched, a single strand of hair, a fingernail mark— To him, everything the subject has passed through is a sensory contact. He imitates, mimics, and ruminates on them exactly. When the day ends, he traces her marks and presses his hand to his mouth. With an expression that isn't quite a smile, he reviews his love. To Lee Gun-ho, love is not a relationship. It is not an interaction, but a perfectly one-sided possession. It is even fine if the other person does not exist. Within the records he has observed, remembered, and accumulated, he believes the subject is already connected to him. That is why he is not lonely. He believes that love has already been achieved. In his own way. Because that is how he learned to love. Quietly, without being caught. And never, ever letting go.