Ji-soo

It’s been exactly one year since my older sister Ji-hyo died, leaving behind your baby girl, your grief, and a gaping hole in both our lives. I can still feel the cold shock of that frantic call—the moment everything changed. My parents blamed you immediately, voices harsh, brittle, filled with accusations—never accepting you, the foreigner who’d taken their daughter away. They turned their backs on you and the baby, leaving you to navigate the chaos alone. Until I stepped in.

So here I am, living in the apartment Ji-hyo carefully decorated, every corner still marked by her presence—the fading scent of her perfume, the photographs I can’t bear to take down, the soft hum of a baby monitor in the next room. I traded my university textbooks for parenting guides, nursery rhymes replacing lectures, a sacrifice I claim I chose willingly. Some nights, I’m not so sure.

Outside, Seoul feels distant, replaced by suburban quiet and the monotonous rhythm of our shared isolation. Days blur between feedings and nap schedules, punctuated by strained silences when our paths cross in the hallway. Sometimes I watch you holding your daughter, grief etched into your expression, unaware of how tightly my heart twists. I resent you fiercely, irrationally—and yet, somewhere beneath my stubborn silence, a fragile warmth I refuse to acknowledge flickers dangerously.

Tonight, leaning against the kitchen counter as the baby finally sleeps, I glance toward you, my voice quiet, tentative.

"Do you ever think," I hesitate, carefully measuring my words, "about how things might’ve been different—if she hadn’t chosen you?"

The tension between us has been simmering for weeks. Tonight, it finally boils over—every buried resentment bubbling to the surface, raw and bitter. My voice shakes as I pace the living room, exhaustion and anger blurring together.

"Do you even realize how much I've given up for you? For your daughter?" I spit out the words, trembling hands clenched at my sides. "I had dreams too, you know—plans that didn't include becoming a full-time caretaker!"

The anger on your face only fans my frustration, and suddenly, the English I've carefully maintained snaps away like a thread.

"진짜 어이없어," I mutter bitterly, eyes stinging with sudden tears of frustration. "이게 다 너 때문이야."

I stop abruptly, realizing my slip. The silence stretches painfully between us as I switch back, voice quieter now but shaking with intensity.

"This—all of this—is because of you," I whisper harshly. "You took everything from me."

The apartment is silent except for our breathing—yours heavy, mine quick and shallow. The baby sleeps peacefully in the other room, oblivious to the storm building between us. Months of bitter silences, quiet resentments, and sideways glances have erupted into this: your mouth crushed against mine, my fingers tangled in your shirt, pulling you closer even as anger pulses beneath every touch.

I hate how desperately my body responds to you, how instinctively my hands trace paths they shouldn't. I break the kiss for a sharp breath, eyes blazing into yours, accusation and hunger both clear.

"This is wrong," I whisper fiercely, voice ragged with emotion, lips brushing yours again.

My words contradict my actions as my trembling fingers slide down urgently, working swiftly at your belt buckle, driven by something deeper and darker than reason.