Back in her glittering 2026 life, Jisoo tries to laugh off the vivid dream of a gentle husband and a baby kicking under her heart — until the memory of his warmth against her skin refuses to fade. But when she closes her eyes again, the dream returns… and this time, it feels far too real.
2026 | Seoul
The morning after the dream-that-felt-too-real dream, Kim Jisoo made toast.
It felt like an act of profound normalcy, a ritual to tether herself to the reality of her stainless steel kitchen, her marble countertops, her life. The bread was artisanal sourdough from a bakery in Hannam-dong that charged ₩12,000 for a loaf. She placed two slices in the chrome toaster and pressed the lever down with more force than necessary. The clunk was satisfyingly real.
While the bread heated, she measured coffee beans—Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, single-origin—into the grinder. The machine’s whirr filled the silent apartment. Dalgom padded into the kitchen, his nails clicking on the polished concrete floor, and sat politely by his food bowl, looking up at her with expectant eyes.
“Good morning,” Jisoo said, her voice still rough with sleep. “You have a busy day today? Lots of naps scheduled? Some strategic pillow rearrangement?”
Dalgom thumped his tail once.
“Right. Important work.” She poured kibble into his bowl, the dry rattle another anchor in the real world. “I have two meetings and a shoot. You’ll hold down the fort?”
He began eating with single-minded focus, which she took as agreement.
The toast popped up. Perfectly golden. She spread unsalted butter—French, of course—and a thin layer of homemade plum jam a fan had sent to the BLISSOO office. The first bite was crisp, sweet, tangy. She chewed slowly, leaning against the counter, and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window. Seoul stretched before her, a geometric tapestry of glass and steel under a pale morning sky. The city was waking up. Tiny cars crept along the Han River bridges. In the distance, the jagged silhouette of Namsan Tower pierced the haze.
This is my life, she told herself firmly. This is real.
But her skin still remembered the weight of a flannel shirt against it. Her lower back held the faint, phantom ache of a different body’s posture. And when she closed her eyes for a second, she didn’t see the cityscape—she saw a narrow street with cobblestones, and mountains in the distance, and the sea.
“Stop it,” she muttered to herself, opening her eyes.
She took her coffee—black, no sugar—and the remaining toast to the small dining table by the window. Her journal lay there, a beautiful leather-bound thing from a stationery shop in Milan. She’d bought it thinking it would be filled with profound thoughts about art and legacy. Mostly it contained grocery lists, random lyrics, and doodles of Dalgom.
She opened it to a fresh page. The blank cream paper stared back at her.
Pen in hand, she hesitated. Then she wrote, her script neat and controlled:
March 17, 2026. Strange dream last night. Very vivid.
She paused, took a sip of coffee.
I was in the 1990s. In a small town. Gunsan, I think. I was pregnant. (????)
She drew a little arrow and sketched a quick stick figure with a huge, round belly. She added two dots for eyes and a straight line for a mouth. The figure looked bewildered.
I was married. His name was Suho. He owned a stationery shop. Moonlight Stationery. He put slippers on my feet when I went outside barefoot.
Her pen hovered. The memory of his hands on her feet—warm, careful, kneeling on cold stone—was so tactile it made her shiver. She wrote faster, the letters becoming less precise.
It felt completely real. The smells. The light. The way the bed creaked. The taste of the food. The sound of his voice.
She stopped. Her face grew warm. She could feel the flush creeping up her neck.
And then…
She didn’t write it. Instead, she drew a series of frantic, scribbling lines, blacking out the bottom third of the page. Then, over the scribbles, in bold, emphatic strokes:
MY SUBCONSCIOUS IS A MENACE.
She underlined it three times.
She closed the journal with a soft thump. Picked up her coffee cup. Drained it.
The cup was empty. The toast was gone. The city outside was still there. Dalgom was licking his bowl clean.
Normal. Everything was normal.
She opened the journal again. Flipped to the same page. In the margin, very small, as if trying to hide the words from herself, she wrote:
He was gentle.
Then she snapped the journal shut so hard Dalgom looked up, startled.
“Don’t give me that look,” she told him. “You don’t know anything.”
He blinked slowly, which felt deeply judgmental.
The BLISSOO office occupied the top floor of a modest building in Nonhyeon-dong. It was sleek but not ostentatious—white walls, exposed concrete accents, furniture in muted tones of grey and navy. Large windows offered a view of the bustling street below, a constant reminder of the industry they were navigating. Jisoo’s own office was at the back, separated by a glass wall. She kept the blinds open. She wanted to be visible, approachable. She was still learning what that meant.
Her small team—fifteen people, mostly in their late twenties and thirties, a mix of marketing, branding, and operations specialists—were already at their desks when she arrived at 8:45 AM. A low hum of conversation and keyboard clicks filled the space. The smell of coffee was permanent.
“Good morning, Jisoo-ssi,” her head of operations, Min-ji, said, falling into step beside her as Jisoo walked toward her office. Min-ji was in her early forties, fiercely competent, and had the calm demeanor of someone who had survived multiple entertainment industry cycles. She was Jisoo’s anchor.
“Morning. What’s first?”
“10 AM. The drama production meeting. The packets are on your desk. Three scripts.”
Jisoo nodded. “And the Salomon proposal?”
“Revised and in your inbox. They conceded on the creative control clause. I think they really want you.”
A small thrill, familiar and professional, went through her. “Good.”
Inside her office, she set her bag down and shrugged off her coat. The scripts sat in three neat piles. She settled into her chair, put on her reading glasses—a simple, tortoiseshell pair she’d bought specifically for this role—and opened the first one.
Love in the Moonlight (working title). A historical romance. A plucky palace maid catches the eye of a brooding crown prince. By episode three, he was saving her from a vicious rival. By episode five, she was teaching him about the “common people” through the power of her pure heart. Jisoo read the synopsis, then skimmed a few scenes. The dialogue was stiff. The female lead’s primary characteristics were “spunky” and “kind.” Her only conflict was whether to choose love or duty.
Jisoo put it down. Picked up the second.
My Lawyer, My Love. A modern rom-com. A chaotic, food-loving public defender falls for the cold, efficient corporate lawyer who is opposing her in a case. It was better. The banter had potential. But by the end of the treatment, the female lead had given up her job at the non-profit to join the male lead’s fancy firm, because “love means compromise.”
Jisoo sighed. She rubbed her temples.
The third script was thinner. Island of Shadows. A mystery-thriller. A reclusive forensic photographer on a remote island is forced to confront her traumatic past when a body washes ashore. The lead character, Soo-jin, was sharp, damaged, brilliant, and silent for long stretches. The story was about the pictures she took, the secrets they revealed, and her own slow journey back to the world. There was a potential love interest—a local fisherman with his own quiet sorrow—but he didn’t save her. They saved each other, sometimes by just sitting together in silence, watching the sea.
Jisoo read the first fifteen pages without looking up. When she finally did, the office outside her glass wall had come fully to life. She realized she’d been holding her breath.
The 10 AM meeting convened in the small conference room. Her creative director, Tae-hyun, and Min-ji joined her.
“So,” Tae-hyun began, tapping his tablet. “Love in the Moonlight. The production company is big. The PD wants you badly. It’s a guaranteed ratings hit. The public loves a palace romance.”
Jisoo leaned back in her chair. “The female lead has no interiority. She’s a plot device with a cute face.”
Tae-hyun blinked. “Well… it’s a romance. The focus is the love story.”
“The love story is boring if one of the people is a cardboard cutout,” Jisoo said, her voice mild. “Next.”
“My Lawyer, My Love. The writer is young, hot. The dialogue is very now. It’s fun.”
“It is fun,” Jisoo agreed. “Until she gives up her career that she’s passionate about because he has a nicer office. Why does she have to be the one to compromise? Why can’t he leave his soulless corporate job and go work at the legal aid center with her?”
Min-ji hid a smile behind her hand.
Tae-hyun looked pained. “That’s… not the fantasy.”
“I’m not interested in that fantasy,” Jisoo said. She pushed Island of Shadows across the table. “This one.”
Tae-hyun picked it up, scanned the title page. His eyebrows shot up. “This is… dark. Small production. First-time writer. The director is known for very arty, very low-budget indie films. There’s no guaranteed audience.”
“I like it,” Jisoo said simply. "Soo-jin. She’s not just reacting to things happening to her. She’s doing things. She’s solving something. Her silence is active. It means something. I want to play someone who has a rich inner life, even if the camera isn’t spelling it out with a voiceover. But the ending was a little too unrealistic. Keep your eyes open. Find me something similar to this.”
There was a beat of silence. Min-ji nodded slowly. Tae-hyun looked at the script again, a new respect in his eyes.
“Okay,” he said finally. “We'll keep our eyes open. But Jisoo-ssi, these kinds of indie project isn't guaranteed success. It's not safe for—”
“I don’t want safe,” Jisoo said, and for a dizzying moment, she wasn’t sure if she was talking about the script or something else entirely.
The brand collaboration meeting was smoother. Salomon, the outdoor apparel company, wanted her not just as a face, but as a collaborator on a limited-edition line of hiking wear. “For the urban explorer,” their sleek Korean marketing head explained. “For the person who finds nature in the city.”
Jisoo reviewed the mood boards—photos of misty mountains, dew on spiderwebs, the textured bark of trees in Bukhansan. The proposed designs were functional but stylish. She pointed to a jacket. “This color. The olive green. It’s too… military. Make it softer. Like the color of moss after rain.” She tapped a pair of pants. “The cut here is too tight for actual movement. If we’re selling freedom of movement, the clothes need to allow it.”
The marketing head nodded, making notes. “Of course. We want your genuine input.”
“Good,” Jisoo said. “Because I won’t wear something I wouldn’t actually hike in.”
As the meeting wrapped up, her phone buzzed on the table. A text from her older sister, Jiyoon.
Unnie:Mom made kimchi jjigae… when are you coming? I’ll send you a picture.
A second later, a photo arrived. A steaming, rust-red clay pot of kimchi jjigae, bubbles breaking on the surface, packed with tofu, pork, and translucent noodles. On the side, a dozen small banchan dishes covered the table—spinach, bean sprouts, seasoned cucumbers, fried fish. Their parents’ kitchen table, the wood worn shiny with years. Her father’s hand was visible at the edge of the frame, holding a spoon.
A sudden, visceral ache hollowed out Jisoo’s chest. It wasn’t just hunger. It was a longing for that specific chaos, that loud, overlapping talk, the way her mother would scold her father for taking too much kimchi, the way the television would be on in the background to some afternoon drama.
And then, unbidden, another kitchen table superimposed itself over the image in her mind. Smaller. Wobbly. In a tiny kitchen that smelled of doenjang and wood polish. A single bowl of stew, steam rising in a shaft of morning light. A man across from her, pushing his glasses up his nose, telling her a silly story about a customer as he carefully picked out the best pieces of tofu for her bowl.
The memory was so vivid she could taste the fermented soybean paste on her tongue.
“Jisoo-ssi?” The Salomon representative was looking at her, concerned.
Jisoo blinked, forcing the other kitchen away. She smiled, the professional one. “Sorry. Family text. The stew looks delicious.” She held up her phone as proof.
“Ah, mom’s cooking. Nothing compares,” the woman said with a sympathetic smile.
“Nothing,” Jisoo agreed, her voice a little tight.
The Dior photoshoot was in a studio in Gangnam, all white cyclorama walls and towering softboxes. Jisoo was transformed—hair sleeked back into a severe ponytail, makeup bold and graphic, emphasizing her eyes and cheekbones. She wore a structured black blazer over nothing but a lace bodysuit, the lines sharp and powerful.
She knew this dance. The photographer, a renowned Italian named Marco, called out directions in a mix of English and enthusiastic Italian.
“Yes! Jisoo, give me strength! Like you are queen of the world! Perfetto! Now, softer. Look through me. Like you have a secret. Sì! Bellissima!”
She shifted her weight, tilted her chin, let her gaze go distant then sharp. The camera shutter was a rapid, mechanical heartbeat. Click-click-click-click. She was good at this. She knew how her body looked from every angle, knew how to create a narrative with a single glance. It was a performance, and she was a master performer.
During a lighting change, she checked her phone. The BLACKPINK group chat was alive.
Jennie: [A 47-second voice note. The sound of Parisian traffic, then wind, then her voice, slightly muffled.] “I’m in Paris. It’s raining. I’m eating a croissant that cost €9. It’s good, but not €9 good. I miss Korean food. Life update over.” [The sound of a bite, then a thoughtful hum.]
Rosé: jisoo unnie did you try the pasta recipe I sent? the one with the lemon and chili? it’s so easy i promise
Jisoo: yes
(She had not. The recipe involved zest and a specific kind of pecorino she was sure she couldn’t find in Seoul.)
Lisa: [A 3-second video of a fluffy white cat attempting to jump onto a table, misjudging, and sliding off in a slow, graceful collapse. The camera shook with silent laughter.]
Jisoo smiled, a real one this time. She typed a string of crying-laughing emojis.
Jisoo: that’s me trying to adult
Jennie: you ARE an adult. a CEO adult. it’s terrifying.
Jisoo: don’t remind me
Rosé: unnie are you eating well?
Jisoo looked at the text. Are you eating well? The universal Korean check-in. She thought of the toast, the delivery tteokbokki she’d order later. She thought of the mandu from Halmeoni Ok-soon, steaming and perfect.
Jisoo: yes. you?
Rosé: yes! made kimchi fried rice at 3am
“Jisoo! We’re ready!” Marco called.
She put her phone away, the smile lingering on her lips as she walked back to the mark. The lights were blinding. She took her position, let the persona settle back over her like a second skin.
Click-click-click.
The vocal lesson was in a small, soundproofed studio in Apgujeong. Her coach, Park So-min, was a legend—a tiny woman in her sixties with the presence of a general and the ears of a bat.
“Warm up from the middle,” she instructed, her hands moving as if conducting an invisible orchestra. “Don’t push from the throat. Support, support.”
Jisoo stood at the microphone, eyes closed, running through scales. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah. Her voice felt good. Clear. The solo track they were working on was a ballad, melancholic and soaring. It was about memory, about something beautiful and lost that you couldn’t quite grasp.
They ran through the first verse and chorus. Jisoo’s voice wrapped around the melody, soft on the verses, opening up on the chorus with a controlled power that made the hair on her own arms stand up.
“Good,” So-min said from behind the console. “Now, the second verse. More intimacy. Like you’re whispering a secret to someone sleeping next to you.”
Jisoo nodded. She took a breath, opened her mouth to sing.
“The shape of your hand on the pillow next to mine…”
And suddenly, she wasn’t in the studio. She was in a dark room, yellow light just extinguished, the scent of old paper and clean skin in the air. A warm hand was splayed over her stomach. A voice, thick with sleep and love, murmured into her hair.
“Sooya…”
Her voice cracked. A flat, ugly note where a soft, floating one should have been.
The music stopped. The silence in the studio was absolute.
Jisoo’s eyes flew open. Her face was burning.
So-min was looking at her through the glass, one eyebrow arched. She didn’t say anything. She just pressed a button on the console. “Again. From ‘pillow.’”
Jisoo swallowed. Her throat felt tight. She nodded.
This time, she nailed it. The note was perfect, the emotion pitched exactly right—aching, tender, distant. She finished the run-through flawlessly.
When she came out of the booth, Soo-ah was sipping tea. “Better,” she said. “What was that before? A ghost walked over your grave?”
“Something like that,” Jisoo mumbled, busying herself with her water bottle.
“Hm.” So-min’s eyes were knowing. “The best art comes from a real place. Even if that place is… inconvenient.” She stood up, patting Jisoo’s arm. “Good work today. Don’t be a stranger to the feeling. Use it.”
Jisoo just nodded, her ears still hot.
Home, again. The automatic lights flickered on as she entered, revealing the pristine, empty expanse of her apartment. Dalgom came skidding around the corner, tails whipping, overjoyed at her return. The explosion of life, of noise, of need was a relief. She knelt, letting him lick her face, his warm body wriggling against her.
“Okay, okay, I missed you too,” she laughed, the sound echoing in the space.
She ordered tteokbokki and fried mandu from the place down the street that knew her order by heart. While she waited, she changed into soft sweatpants and an old BLACKPINK hoodie from their debut days. The fabric was worn thin, comforting.
She ate on the large sectional sofa, a drama playing on the huge television. It was a popular one, a fantasy romance. The male lead, a celestial being, was confessing his eternal love to the human female lead on a cliff under a magical moon. The dialogue was poetic, sweeping. The music swelled.
Jisoo chewed a rice cake, watching. It was pretty. It was empty.
Her mind drifted. To the shop. To the ledger with its neat columns. To Suho’s worried frown over the price of paper. A real problem. A small, tangible problem. She found herself mentally calculating—if they offered a discount for bulk school orders, if they created a simple loyalty stamp card, if they rearranged the window to highlight the beautiful hanji paper near the light…
She shook her head. Not your problem. Not your shop. Not your life.
But the thought persisted, a persistent, nagging tune.
After eating, she opened her laptop. The glow of the screen was the only light in the dark living room. Dalgom and Love were asleep on the rug, a pile of fluffy limbs.
She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keys. Then she typed, the letters clicking softly.
달빛문방구 군산
Search.
Results: Modern office supply chains with similar name. Nothing exact.
이수야, 군산, 1969년
Search.
A few results for people named Lee Soo-ya. A graduate student in Seoul. A nurse in Busan. None born in 1969 in Gunsan.
임수호
Hundreds of thousands of results. A common name. A baseball player. A politician. A poet.
She closed the laptop with a loud snap.
She sat back, a strange mixture of disappointment and relief washing over her. Of course there was nothing. It was a dream. A spectacularly detailed, emotionally devastating, physically convincing dream, but a dream.
“See?” she said aloud to the empty room. “Just a dream.”
But her body didn’t believe it. The memory of physical sensation was too precise. The soreness in muscles she hadn’t used. The ghost of a touch on her skin. The way her own body had responded, eagerly, to a stranger in the dark.
A stranger she had thought was a figment of her imagination.
A fresh wave of heat flooded her face. She put her head in her hands. Oh my god. She had… with a dream character. Because she thought it was safe. Because in dreams, you don’t have consequences.
But what if it wasn’t a dream?
The question, once allowed, was terrifying.
She opened the laptop again. Typed a new search.
Can dreams feel physically real?
She read three articles from psychology and neuroscience websites. They talked about lucid dreaming, about the brain’s ability to simulate sensation, about how emotional memories could be remembered and slowly fade over time. It was all very rational, very scientific.
It didn’t explain the taste of the doenjang jjigae. It didn’t explain the specific grain of the wood on the banister. It didn’t explain the feeling of a hand, calloused and gentle, guiding her foot into a slipper. Didn't explain the Ultra HD memory with every minor detail, not fading, but printed permanently on her memory.
She closed the laptop with a definitive click that was louder than necessary in the quiet room.
“It was a dream,” she told Dalgom, who had lifted his head at the sound. “A very, very, very detailed dream. My brain is just… creative. And maybe a little lonely. And has weird pregnancy fantasies. That’s all.”
Dalgom rested his head back on his paws, his expression one of profound canine skepticism.
She tried to call it an early night. She went through her skincare routine with robotic precision. She read a few pages of a novel but the words swam meaninglessly. She lay in the center of her king-sized bed, in the silent, temperature-controlled darkness, and stared at the ceiling.
The memories played behind her eyes, unbidden and in high definition.
The forehead kiss. The way his lips had felt, warm and dry against her skin. A simple, domestic gesture that had felt more intimate than any staged photoshoot kiss.
The slippers. Him kneeling on the cold floor for her.
The hand on her stomach. The awe in his voice. “Hello there.”
And then… the lamp clicking off. The darkness that wasn’t empty, but full of him. The warmth of his body covering hers, the scratch of flannel, the solid weight of him. The way he’d whispered “Sooya” against her neck like it was a prayer, a secret, a promise. The feeling of being known, wanted, loved in a way that was quiet and total and had nothing to do with being Kim Jisoo.
Her face burned in the dark. A full-body cringe of retrospective mortification twisted through her. She had participated. Eagerly. She had arched her back and tangled her hands in his hair and moaned into the dark of a stranger’s bedroom.
“It was a dream,” she whispered fiercely to the empty air. “Dreams don’t count. There’s no such thing as dream infidelity. It’s not… it’s not real.”
But her protest sounded weak, even to her. The line between felt real and was real had blurred into nothingness.
She rolled onto her side, punching the pillow. Dalgom, from his dog bed in the corner, let out a soft whuff.
“Don’t judge me,” she muttered. “You dream about chasing squirrels.”
Sleep, when it finally came, was a slow, reluctant surrender. Her mind was a whirlpool of half-formed thoughts—ledger columns, script pages, the smell of old paper, the sound of a rooster, the pressure of a hand on the small of her back.
Her last conscious thought was a desperate, silent plea: It was just a dream. A one-time, hyper-realistic, incredibly embarrassing dream.
1994 | Gunsan
The transition was different this time.
It didn’t start with a fade-in of sound or smell. It started with a knowing.
One moment, she was adrift in the dark soup of near-sleep, the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets cool against her skin.
The next, she was aware. The air was cooler, damper. It smelled faintly of mildew and wood polish and the lingering scent of ginger. The mattress beneath her was softer, lumpier. And there was a profound, solid warmth pressed against her entire back, from her shoulders to her knees.
A heavy arm was draped over her waist, a hand splayed possessively over the pronounced swell of her belly.
Jisoo’s eyes flew open.
Yellow morning light. Faded blue flowers on thin cotton curtains. A hairline crack in the plaster ceiling.
Her heart didn’t just hammer; it seemed to attempt a violent escape from her ribcage. A cold, sharp clarity sliced through the last remnants of sleep fog.
This is not a dream.
The thought was not a question. It was a statement of terrifying fact. The evidence was too multisensory, too consistent, too continuous. She remembered this room. She remembered the feel of these sheets. She remembered the exact pattern of the crack on the ceiling.
And she remembered, with a lurch of her stomach that had nothing to do with pregnancy, what had happened in this bed the last time she was here.
She had slept with him. She had let him touch her, kiss her, make love to her, thinking it was a safe fantasy. A private theater of her own mind.
But it wasn’t private. He was real. This body was real. The consequences, whatever they were, were real.
A wave of pure, unadulterated panic, hot and nauseating, rose up her throat. She had violated a life. She had stepped into someone else’s marriage, someone else’s pregnancy, and she had…
From behind her, Suho stirred. He made a soft, sleepy sound—a contented hum—and nuzzled the back of her neck. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer against his chest. His hand on her belly splayed wider, a gentle, claiming weight.
“Sooya-ya…” he murmured, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep. “Five more minutes. The shop can wait.”
Every muscle in Jisoo’s body went rigid. She was a statue, a log, a piece of furniture. She stared straight ahead at the floral curtains, barely breathing.
His words from the other night—*their* night—echoed in her memory. “I love you. So much.” He had whispered it into her skin like a truth as fundamental as breathing.
And she had said nothing. Because to her, he was a phantom.
To him, she was his wife. The woman carrying his child. The woman he had fallen asleep inside just hours ago.
The nausea intensified. She had to get out. Now.
With a force of will that felt Herculean, she peeled his arm from her waist. It was heavy with sleep, but he let it go easily, mumbling something incoherent. She slid out from under the covers, the morning air chilling her sweat-dampened skin. Her movements were jerky, uncoordinated.
“Hmm? What’s wrong?” Suho’s voice was clearer now, laced with concern. She heard the rustle of sheets as he propped himself up on an elbow.
She couldn’t look at him. If she saw his face—sleep-soft, affectionate, trusting—she might shatter.
“Bathroom,” she choked out, the word strangled and too high-pitched. “I just… need the bathroom.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She fled, her bare feet slapping against the cool wooden floorboards, her borrowed nightgown tangling around her legs. She shut the bathroom door behind her and turned the old-fashioned lock with a shaky hand. The click was a feeble, pathetic barricade.
She gripped the edges of the small, porcelain sink, her knuckles white. She stared into the mirror above it.
Sooya’s face stared back. Her face, but not. The same eyes, wide now with panic. The same mouth, parted in a silent gasp. But the hair was longer, black and unstyled. The skin was bare, showing those faint, sun-kissed freckles. And there, unmistakable, was the proof: the curve of her belly stretching the thin cotton of the nightgown. A life growing inside a body that was both hers and not hers.
She saw the flush on her cheeks, the redness at the corners of her eyes. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly loved and was now thoroughly terrified.
“This isn’t a dream,” she whispered to the reflection. The sound was swallowed by the small, tiled room.
The reality of it crashed down on her, wave after crushing wave.
She was here. In 1994. In Gunsan. In the body of Lee Soo-ya, wife of Lim Suho, proprietor of Moonlight Stationery. She was pregnant with his child. And last night, she had shared a bed with him. She had shared everything with him.
Kim Jisoo, idol, actress, CEO, a woman whose image was controlled down to the pixel, who hadn’t been on a real date in years, had somehow, impossibly, had married, pregnant, 1994 sex.
A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat, sharp and painful. It came out as a sob.
What have you done?
The question had no answer. There was no protocol for this, no manager to call, no PR strategy to enact. She was alone in a way she had never been alone before.
A soft knock on the door made her jump.
“Sooya?” Suho’s voice was gentle, worried. “Are you okay? Do you feel sick?”
The concern in his voice was a knife to her heart. He thought his wife was unwell. He had no idea that the woman behind this door was a stranger, an imposter drowning in guilt and cosmic confusion.
She had to pull herself together. She had to act. For now, survival meant playing the part.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing air into her lungs. She splashed cold water on her face, the shock helping to clear the panic from her eyes. She patted her face dry with a rough towel hanging by the sink.
“I’m okay,” she called out, aiming for normalcy and landing somewhere near strained cheerfulness. “Just… morning sickness. I think.”
It was the first excuse that came to mind. Pregnant women got morning sickness. It was plausible.
There was a pause on the other side of the door. “Do you need anything? Ginger tea? I can run to the market…”
“No! No, it’s passing. I’ll be out in a minute.” She winced at the brittleness in her own voice.
Another pause. “Alright. I’ll start breakfast.”
She heard his footsteps recede down the short landing and then the creak of the stairs.
Jisoo slumped against the door, her forehead pressing against the cool wood. The immediate crisis was averted, but the ocean of impossible reality remained.
She was stuck here. In this life. In this body. With this man who loved a woman who was, in some fundamental way, currently her.
And she had no idea how to get home.