Swan's Fire

8. What Is Love?

Minji's apartment was a reflection of her sophistication and taste. The room was adorned with a minimalist but chic design. Dark blue and muted tones dominated the space, creating an atmosphere of elegance and refinement. The plush, inviting couch we sat on was the focal point of the living area, and soft, warm lighting added to the cozy ambiance.

As we settled in, Minji's words caught my attention. "Don't worry, it's not always like that," she said, addressing the events at the gala. I met her gaze, my curiosity piqued. "Please," she continued, guiding me to open up. We sat on the dark blue couch, and I scrutinized her, waiting for the conversation to unfold.

Minji's next words indicated that she wanted to delve into a deeper discussion about the role. I acknowledged her with a smile, appreciating her willingness to engage in an open conversation. "I don't want there to be any boundaries between us," she admitted, her nose scrunching slightly in determination. I nodded in agreement, echoing her sentiment with a murmur, "No, me neither."

Her inquiries about my personal life, particularly my relationships, shifted the conversation into more personal territory. "So, you got a boyfriend?" Minji probed. I looked away, my voice barely audible as I confessed, "No." She continued, digging deeper, "and you had many in the past?" I managed a small smile, revealing, "A few, but nothing serious."

Minji offered reassuring words, her gaze locked onto mine. "Nothing to be embarrassed about," she assured me before taking a sip of wine. I followed her lead, taking a sip of the wine to put my unease aside.

But Minji was relentless in her pursuit of a candid conversation. "So, do you enjoy having partners?" she asked directly, her tone playful. I averted my gaze, feeling the discomfort of the subject matter. "Excuse me?" I replied, caught off guard by her audacity.

Her laughter filled the room, and she pushed further, asking, "Oh, come on, love. Do you enjoy it?" I looked away, unable to provide a direct response to such a personal question. Minji, however, remained persistent. "We need to be able to talk about these things," she emphasized.

My eyes remained fixed on my lap, and I began to fiddle with the diamonds adorning my dress. Minji, seemingly satisfied with our conversation, changed the topic. "I've got a little assignment for you," she declared. I shifted my gaze to her, intrigued by her request.

"Go home and read a poem about love," she instructed, leaving me blinking in surprise. "Live a little," she encouraged, her words holding a hint of amusement. I bit my lip and looked away, contemplating her request.

Eventually, she decided it was late and set down her glass, indicating that our evening was coming to an end. "Long day tomorrow," she said, rising from the couch. I stood up as well, and we moved to the kitchen, where Minji prepared to see me off.

As I observed my surroundings, skepticism crept in, and I couldn't help but question the authenticity of her apartment. "This isn't your real home, is it?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. A hint of suspicion lingered in my voice as I continued, "Is this where you... engage with all your students?"

Minji laughed at my accusation and provided a genuine response, "I don't have romantic involvement with my students, Haerin." My grumbling continued as I looked away, my doubts still evident. She wasn't done, though, as she pushed further, inquiring, "Why? Do you want me to?" My response was unequivocal: "No. Why not?" Minji pressed, prompting me to respond, "Because it's wrong."

She shrugged in acknowledgment of the ethical boundaries, explaining, "I know it's wrong, which is why I don't do it." Her curiosity persisted, and she probed deeper, asking me why I didn't want her to engage with me in such a way. I pouted, unable to provide a clear answer, but Minji didn't let it rest. She circled the kitchen island and gently touched me with her warm, wet hands, causing me to shiver in response.

Minji acknowledged the late hour and the need to get me back. She looked at my lips, and I nodded in agreement. As she leaned in to kiss my cheek, her lips lingered for a moment longer, suggesting that there was more to say. With a sigh, she wished me a simple "goodnight, Haerin," and I departed, the complexities of our conversation lingering in my mind.

Upon returning home, I found myself greeted by my mother's unusual warmth. She was smothering me, a display of affection that was not the norm in our relationship. "I wish I could've come," she said, her hands deftly undoing my French roll. I mumbled in response, "You were invited." She sighed, seemingly disappointed, "Well, I didn't want to impose, did I?" I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes in response to her overbearing concern.

Her attention then shifted to the dress I was wearing, and before I could stop her, she began to unzip it. Irritated, I snapped, "I can do that myself." I grabbed her hand, halting her efforts. She gasped at my hands, scrutinizing them closely. "You've been doing it again, those hallucinations," she accused. I couldn't help but roll my eyes this time. "Mom, stop. I'm better now," I whined in annoyance. However, her response was anything but supportive. She dragged me to the bathroom, forcing me to sit down.

I frowned as she proceeded to stuff pills into my mouth, causing me to gag. "It's the role, isn't it? I knew it'd get too hard for you," she undermined me, her words laced with condescension. I groaned, growing increasingly exasperated with her constant interference.

The following morning, I woke up with a sore throat, my mother's actions from the previous night still fresh in my mind. As I reached for my phone, curiosity got the better of me. I mumbled to myself, Curiosity killed the cat, and began searching for a love poem.

The concept of love, so sweet and idealized, unfurls before me as I delve into the verses of various poems. The notion that someone would willingly break their own heart for another, or the comforting realization that love can exist without the need for spoken words, runs through my mind. Absentmindedly, I run my fingers through my hair, a gesture that seems to mimic the tenderness conveyed in those poems.

I continue scrolling through the verses, each line resonating with a poignant emotion. By the time I reach the end of the third poem, tears have welled up in my eyes. Unbeknownst to those around me, I step off the train, allowing the rhythmic clatter of its departure to fade into the background.

With a sense of purpose, I make my way to my destination, the weight of conflicting emotions bearing down on me.

My determined stride falters as I reach her door, and with a deliberate movement, I rap my knuckles against the wood, feeling its textured surface respond to my touch. The door swings open almost instantly, enveloping me in a warm, dimly lit space. As I step inside, my gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the details of her office.

The wood of the door has a subtle grain, a testament to its natural origin. It feels smooth under my fingertips, a stark contrast to the rigid exterior I often project.

"Mrs. Kim?" I call out, my voice betraying an uncharacteristic softness, a departure from the usual frigid demeanor associated with me. I repeat, this time addressing her informally, "Minji," drawing out the words.

A creak echoes through the room, drawing my attention to another door beside the desk, labeled 'storage' with a platinum plate. The door, slightly ajar, beckons my curiosity. I approach and push it open, revealing Minji perched on a stool, sorting through a box. She startles at my presence, and I instinctively step back.

Exiting the storage room, she dusts off her hands, the particles of neglect following her into the room. Settling the box down, she turns to face me, a question lingering in her eyes. "What brings you here so early?" she inquires, glancing toward the blinds that conceal the darkness outside, subtly hinting at the unearthly hour—perhaps 2 or 3 am. In an attempt to justify my presence, I offer, "I finished my homework," though the feeble excuse hangs in the air.

I wondered if it would work this time.