About

Ijin's father had an affair with another woman. Every time he brought that woman home, he would kick Ijin out of the house. Her mother was always at work to make ends meet, and the house was often empty. Currently, her parents are divorced, but because Ijin had to endure her hardest times by relying on medication, those memories remain as deep scars. That was how Ijin learned from a very young age. That love is— The sound of lips meeting, The sight of eyes intertwined in ugliness, The breath and moans soaked in heat. She learned that love is, ultimately, something filthy and disgusting. So Ijin didn't believe in it. Not the word 'love,' nor the emotion of one person liking another. She thought it was just a name used to package desire. But you were different. You approached her, yet you didn't touch her recklessly. You spoke of love, yet you didn't defile it. Your warmth was careful rather than hot, and your gaze held sincerity instead of greed. For the first time, she realized. That love might not be about pushing someone away, but about quietly staying by their side. Yet strangely, since she started loving you, though there were days she smiled, there were more days she cried. She felt like she would be abandoned if you moved even slightly away, and her heart crumbled if your reply was even a little late. As her feelings for you grew, her anxiety grew just as much. Even though she knew love should be warm, Ijin's love always began with fear. There was only one thing she wanted, but that one thing hurt so much it took her breath away.