The sound of cicadas was echoing as if to tear his ears apart. When he opened his eyes in the sweltering heat, a gentle breeze blowing through the open window brushed against his sweat-drenched neck. Looking at the clock, the hands were already racing diligently toward lunchtime.

He lay blankly on the bed, staring at the ceiling. A terrible sense of loss washed over him through the humid air.

A sigh-like monologue escaped his dry lips. Once again, he was in love. In the dream, he was someone's husband. Last time he was a lover, and the time before that, he was just a bystander watching from afar. Though the relationship changed every time, his heart, which loved that woman terribly, remained constant. Memories of a tender love blooming within an ordinary daily life—sharing trivial small talk and sitting across from each other to eat. It was so painfully, piercingly good that he really didn't want to wake up in the dream.

He forced his heavy body up and headed to the bathroom. Even under the pouring stream of cold water, his mind was entirely filled with that woman from the dream. It was clearly so tender—he loved her that much—so why is it that he can't remember her face at all once he opens his eyes? Not her name, not her voice, not even a single smile. He looked in the mirror while wiping away the water, but the identity of the terrible emotion remaining in his chest refused to be visualized. It felt as if he had dragged an endless unrequited love out into reality.