Until It Hurts
A story between truth and invention.
A love that may have happened,
or still be happening.
Whose reality is this?
Hers, mine, or yours?
Chapter 1: Magnetic
Part I: Irene’s Backstory & Escape
January 2017 was supposed to be a beginning. But for Irene Bae, it felt more like a jailbreak.
She stepped out of the train station in Seoul that cold morning, her suitcase rattling behind her, and exhaled into the winter air. Frost curled from her lips like smoke, and for the first time in her twenty-one years, she felt a strange lightness in her chest. Not joy, not exactly. But freedom — thin, brittle, and fleeting, like glass she was afraid to drop.
People around her bustled — students lugging bags, office workers rushing, couples sharing coffee. No one looked at her twice. That was the beauty of Seoul: she was invisible. She could be anyone here. And after everything, anyone was better than the daughter she’d been back in Daegu.
At home, Irene had been raised in a house where appearances mattered more than oxygen.
Her biological mother, Tiffany Hwang, was the darling of their small town: a political figure with glossy hair and a permanent smile. Everyone adored her — neighbors, church friends, reporters. She was always praising Irene in public, her perfect little daughter, a reflection polished for display. “She’s brilliant, she got into the best universities. She’s doing her master’s now in Seoul — can you believe it?” Tiffany never tired of bragging.
Behind closed doors, though, Tiffany’s hand was quick and her patience razor-thin.
One wrong tone of voice, one poor grade, one secret revealed — and Irene paid for it.
And then there was Taeyeon.
Technically, she wasn’t Irene’s mother. Tiffany never married her, but Taeyeon had been around since Irene was four. Sixteen years of partnership, practically co-parenting. Taeyeon loved Irene in her own way — or maybe she thought she did. She cooked for her, taught her to ride a bike, helped with homework. But she loved with fists and harsh words, convinced pain was discipline and fear was guidance. Her affection was a weapon, sharp and heavy.
So Irene learned early: in public, she smiled. In private, she flinched.
The worst night came when she was seventeen.
She had been dating a girl from her volleyball team — young love, all nerves and stolen kisses in locker rooms. They weren’t careful enough. A text message left open. A slip of paper in her bag.
Her mothers found out.
Tiffany’s rage was biblical. She didn’t just scream — she picked up the guitar Irene had been learning to play and swung it down on her left shoulder, the one already weakened from years of volleyball injuries. The crack was deafening. The pain exploded white-hot. Irene dropped to the floor, her breath torn out of her.
That was the night volleyball ended for her. Her shoulder never healed properly. She could never serve again, never spike the way she used to.
The girl she loved disappeared soon after. Fear, shame, survival — it didn’t matter. Irene was left with bruises, a wrecked shoulder, and the bitter lesson that her parents could take anything from her.
So when Seoul National University’s Film Department sent her an acceptance letter for a master’s program, Irene clutched it like scripture.
Film was her excuse. “Because I love movies,” she told people when they asked. And it was true — she did love movies, loved the way they offered escape, loved how a camera could turn pain into art. But more than that, film was her alibi.
It was her way out.
Daegu to Seoul was hours away. Far enough that her mothers couldn’t barge in at a moment’s notice. Far enough that she could breathe.
And so, in January 2017, she boarded the train with one suitcase and a backpack. She didn’t tell her mothers she was leaving early. She didn’t kiss them goodbye. She just walked out of the house, locked the door behind her, and promised herself she wouldn’t turn back.
Her first weeks in Seoul were messy but blissful.
She rented a cramped one-room studio near campus, where the pipes clanged all night and the radiator barely worked. She didn’t care. It was hers. The floor was hers, the chipped desk was hers, the silence was hers. She could stay out until sunrise if she wanted, eat ramyeon three nights in a row, cry without anyone pounding on her door.
At university, she melted into anonymity. No one cared that she was Tiffany Hwang’s daughter. No one called her by her last name in that clipped tone of disappointment. Professors only knew her as Irene, the quiet girl in the second row who scribbled furious notes during lectures.
Film became her refuge. Sitting in dark screening rooms, Irene felt at peace. The projector whirred, the stories unfolded, and for two hours at a time, she didn’t exist. Only the images did.
And slowly, she allowed herself to exist in other ways too. She didn’t have to hide in Seoul. She could wear rainbow pins. She could flirt in bars. She could call herself what she always knew she was: a lesbian.
But freedom is lonelier than it looks.
She didn’t know anyone in Seoul at first. No family, no friends, no one to call when the silence in her studio grew too heavy.
That’s when she met Wendy.
It happened in March, two months into her program. They were paired up in a class project analyzing queer cinema. Irene had seen Wendy around — a petite woman with warm eyes, always raising her hand in class, always scribbling song lyrics in the margins of her notes.
Wendy was nine years older, but from the first group meeting, age didn’t matter. They clicked instantly.
They debated Wong Kar-wai films in cafes until midnight. They shared playlists and swapped childhood stories. They laughed until Irene’s ribs hurt. Wendy had a way of looking at her — steady, kind, like she actually mattered. For the first time, Irene had a sister. Not by blood, not by obligation, but by choice.
When Irene told her little fragments of the truth — “My moms are… hard on me” — Wendy didn’t push. She just nodded, poured her another cup of coffee, and said, “You’re safe here.”
Irene believed her.
But safety never lasts long.
Her mothers still called. Tiffany left voicemails laced with honey and venom: “Call me back, Irene-ah. Don’t forget who put you through school.” Taeyeon’s texts were shorter, sharper: “Answer your phone. Where are you?”
Irene ignored them as best as she could. But every missed call still sent a cold shiver down her spine. She knew what would happen when she went home for breaks. She knew the bruises waiting.
Still, Seoul was hers. Her freedom, her secret garden.
And in that garden, new names were about to bloom.
Part II — Sanctuary
Wendy was falling apart.
By late November, her smiles were duller, her laughter heavier. Irene noticed it most in class — how Wendy sat with her chin in her hand, eyes somewhere far away, lost in the wreckage of Nayeon’s mixed signals. Irene had always thought of Wendy as this grounded, older sister figure, but lately, Wendy seemed like a teenager in love for the first time: giddy, reckless, and crushed all at once.
Nayeon had played her well. For months she dangled her heart like a shiny toy, letting Wendy believe there was a chance, that maybe she’d leave her ex and choose her. Then, just like that, she ripped it away. “I’m still in love with my ex. I can’t do this with you.”
Irene saw Wendy break in real time.
So when Wendy suggested they hang out to take her mind off things, Irene didn’t hesitate. She even agreed to bring Seulgi along. Seulgi, who she’d only met once but who lingered in her thoughts more than she wanted to admit. Their chats online had gone from cautious to shamelessly flirtatious in weeks. It wasn’t love yet, Irene told herself — it was just fun. Just someone who made her laugh, who made her forget the bruises at home, the phone calls she dodged, the constant fear of her parents’ shadow.
That Thursday night, they met at a cozy café near campus. Seulgi arrived later than everyone else, apologizing with an awkward grin, her long coat dusted with the November chill. At thirty-two, she didn’t quite look her age — youthful features, easy smile, though her eyes carried a weight Irene couldn’t name yet. What stood out wasn’t her lateness, but the way her presence shifted the air. Irene felt it the moment their eyes met.
The café became a blur. Irene had the strange sense that she’d known this woman forever, though she knew almost nothing about her.
And Seulgi — well, she was reeling too. She’d seen Irene’s pictures online, yes, but in person Irene was magnetic in a way no photo could capture. The world didn’t just slow; it stopped. And for Seulgi, who had spent years in the gray quiet of her parents’ house, juggling freelance projects, eating dinners at her mother’s table like she was still sixteen, Irene was an earthquake.
But Irene wasn’t alone. Jennie had shown up, uninvited, her eyes glued to Irene in a way that made Seulgi’s hope deflate before it could bloom. Jennie knew what she wanted, and what she wanted was Irene.
The group moved from the café to the cinema, Wendy insisting they all watch a film together. For a while, Seulgi sat in the dark theater, trying to focus on the screen, but all she could think about was Irene two seats away, Jennie pressed close on the other side. She felt like a ghost, watching Irene smile and whisper to Jennie in the glow of the film.
Halfway through the movie, Irene’s phone buzzed. Then again. And again. Her smile faltered. She stiffened, shoulders curling inward as if bracing for impact. Her fingers trembled as she silenced the call, only for it to ring again.
Seulgi watched her slip out of her seat. Irene bent over slightly as she passed, and with a fleeting, almost childlike gesture, she tapped Seulgi’s head — soft, playful, absurdly intimate. A smile flashed across her lips, small but real. Then she was gone.
Seulgi sat frozen. That single touch set her heart hammering. It was ridiculous. She was thirty-two, too old for crushes, too old for this fluttering nonsense. But her chest betrayed her.
Jennie followed Irene out.
By the time the credits rolled, Irene was already on a bus, tears brimming as she stared at her reflection in the window. Jennie had tried to come with her, hovering like a shadow, but Irene asked her to leave. Jennie wasn’t helping — she was suffocating. The panic from her phone vibrating nonstop was already enough to make her feel like she couldn’t breathe.
Her moms were calling. Again. Again. Again. Tiffany’s sharp voice, Taeyeon’s cruel patience — they were probably waiting in the living room, belt or hand or whatever was closest at the ready. Irene’s stomach twisted. She knew what was coming. She always knew.
But for a brief, stolen second on that bus, she thought about Seulgi. About the way Seulgi had looked at her, like she was sunlight.
That night, Seulgi messaged her. “I wish you stayed. Would’ve been more fun with you there.”
Irene read it through a haze of pain. She’d just stumbled into her bedroom, shoulder aching from another blow, the world muted by the ringing in her ears. She was numb, almost detached from her own body. But there it was — on her phone — a message from Seulgi.
Something inside her cracked open, a tiny flame flickering in all that darkness. She typed back hours later, fingers trembling: “Next time, just you and me. Promise.”
Seulgi’s lips curled into a smile in the dim light of her childhood bedroom, posters still on the wall, her parents asleep down the hall. She was thirty-two and still sneaking feelings like a teenager. But God — God, did it feel alive.
And so it began.
Flirty texts. Audio messages whispered late at night, voices low and heavy, laughter spilling into moans, dangerous and addictive. Photos passed back and forth, the kind that couldn’t exist in anyone else’s phone. Video chats that blurred the line between playfulness and intimacy until neither of them could pretend anymore.
Irene had never let herself unravel like this before. With Seulgi, she did. She wanted to.
And Seulgi — Seulgi was undone. Thirty-two, supposedly grown, still living in her parents’ house, and yet she was giddy, alive, restless. She would lie in bed after those calls, staring at her ceiling, heart racing. Irene wasn’t hers — not really — but she wanted her to be.
Meanwhile, Wendy was falling apart. Nayeon’s rejection had left her drunk more nights than sober, bitter and sharp where she’d once been soft. Irene tried to comfort her, but it was Seulgi who finally suggested they meet at her place. “My parents are out for the night. We can hang there, just relax.”
So they did.
That night, Wendy downed her liquor like water, drowning in heartbreak. Irene hovered beside her, worried. Seulgi moved around the kitchen, fetching snacks, pouring drinks, stealing glances at Irene when she thought no one noticed.
At some point, Seulgi leaned close, whispering in Irene’s ear: “Want to see something? Our old family computer — it’s in my room.”
Wendy was too gone to notice them slip away.
Inside Seulgi’s room, Irene felt the air shift. Posters on the wall, books stacked everywhere, the faint smell of paper and wood polish. The computer hummed quietly in the corner. Irene laughed softly. “Still living here at thirty-two? Bold move, Kang Seulgi.”
Seulgi grinned, a little embarrassed. “Yeah, well. At least the WiFi’s free.”
The laugh broke the tension for a moment. But then Seulgi stepped closer. The look in her eyes was different now, heavier, hungrier. Irene felt it in her chest, her throat, her stomach.
The kiss came fast, inevitable.
And just like that, everything changed.
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Part III — Irene & Seulgi
The first time they had sex, Irene was twenty-one and thought she knew what casual meant.
She had seen it on TV, heard it whispered between girls at school: casual was careless, quick, sometimes sloppy. A kiss that meant nothing. A body that filled a space for a night and then vanished. She thought she could do that. She thought she wanted to.
But nothing about Kang Seulgi was careless.
Seulgi was thirty-two and still living in her parents’ house, which Irene had mocked in her head at first — wasn’t that pathetic? — until she realized it wasn’t shameful for Seulgi at all. She wrote stories, scribbled in journals, worked freelance jobs here and there. She wasn’t trying to climb ladders or win approval. She was building a life that made sense only to her. Irene hated how much she admired that.
So when they ended up in the same room one night, the pretense flimsy (something about Irene wanting to see the “family computer” she didn’t care about), she thought she could handle it. Just sex. Just a body. Just an escape.
But Seulgi didn’t touch her like that.
Her hands hesitated, paused, checked. Her lips brushed like they were asking permission each time. She pulled Irene closer afterward, not away, as though Irene’s small, trembling body was something sacred she had been entrusted with.
It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t rough passion. It was gentleness. And Irene — whose twenty-one years had been marked by sharpness, fists, voices that cut — was undone by gentleness.
She lay there, skin damp, her chest heaving, and realized she had never felt safe like this before. Not once.
She told herself it was casual. That she could tuck the memory away and move on. But then it happened again. And again. And every time, Seulgi ruined the definition of casual further.
Because Seulgi kissed her forehead when she didn’t have to. Seulgi laughed at her dumbest jokes, the ones Irene thought no one heard. Seulgi let her ramble about movies and music and trauma without cutting in, her silence an attentive kind, not a dismissive one. Seulgi never grabbed, never demanded, only waited, offered.
How could she not fall?
It crept up on her — the craving. She wanted Seulgi in ways that weren’t just physical anymore. She wanted her voice before falling asleep. Her messages in the morning. The silly memes Seulgi sent at 2AM, captioned with “this is us.”
And then, suddenly, all of it stopped.
No memes. No calls. No warmth spilling from the screen. Just absence.
The silence was crueler than rejection. Rejection had an answer; silence was a question Irene kept answering with her own self-hatred. She checked her phone every hour. She scrolled through old messages, reread Seulgi’s words until they blurred. She told herself it was casual. It wasn’t supposed to matter. She hated herself for caring this much.
But she did. God, she did.
Weeks passed. Her days became performance. She went to class. She smiled at Wendy. She nodded when Taeyeon asked how she was. Inside, she was caving in. Every vibration of her phone made her heart seize, only to crash again when it wasn’t Seulgi.
By the third week, she started writing unsent messages:
Hey.
Are we okay?
Did I do something wrong?
She never sent them. She wanted to seem strong, above it, but inside she was twenty-one and aching, and Seulgi was the first person who had made her feel safe. How do you move on from that?
Then — December 24th.
Her phone lit up. She almost didn’t look, already bracing herself for disappointment. But it was her.
How’s your heart?
Three words. That was all.
No apology. No explanation for the silence. Just a question that made Irene dissolve.
She could have resisted. She could have held the line. She could have demanded more. But she was starving, and Seulgi had dangled food. Irene forgave instantly, without being asked. She replied like a puppy wagging its tail at the return of a master who had left it outside in the rain.
That night, they spoke on the phone. Not small talk. Not even catch-up. They went straight into intimacy, like the silence had been nothing but a pause in the music.
It began with soft laughter, Seulgi teasing, Irene pretending to be fine. Then it shifted. Irene’s voice grew breathless, Seulgi’s instructions low, steady, coaxing. Irene touched herself with Seulgi listening, moaning into the line, her body arching toward a phantom presence that wasn’t in the room but might as well have been.
It was sex, but it wasn’t.
Because afterward, they didn’t hang up. They whispered. They confessed little nothings — Seulgi saying, “I missed this,” Irene admitting, “me too.” They talked about movies, about Christmas lights flickering outside their windows, about nothing and everything.
There was still no label. No promises. No clarity. Just a sweetness dangerous enough to trick them both into believing they belonged to each other.
That was the first red flag.
But Irene, twenty-one and in love without saying it, ignored it. And Seulgi, thirty-two and afraid of what love demanded, let it happen.
And so the cycle began.
Part IV — A Movie, A Secret, A Beginning (January 2018)
January 2018 slipped in like a secret. The city was cold, skies heavy with gray, and Irene was twenty-one with her heart racing toward something she couldn’t quite name.
That night, she washed dishes with a little too much speed, bubbles still clinging to her sweater when she dashed back to her room. She posted about it on social media — “Had to do chores so I can escape on a date ✌🏻” — half-joke, half-truth. The post was neatly hidden from her mother’s eyes and every nosy relative. Irene was an only child, and her mother’s gaze had always been sharp, expectant. Some secrets simply weren’t meant for family.
Seulgi picked her up for the movies. The theater was packed with couples, and they melted into the crowd like any other. Irene liked that — how they could pretend to be ordinary. She laughed at the film’s quiet wit, but what startled her was Seulgi laughing at the same parts. Thirty-two years old, sitting cross-legged in a darkened cinema, leaning close to whisper insights that rivaled Irene’s own. It made Irene feel like the universe wasn’t mocking her crush — maybe it was nudging her forward.
Afterward, Seulgi drove them to her condo. Irene had been here before, but never like this. The place wasn’t glamorous, but it felt lived-in — shelves stacked with DVDs, a corner littered with sketchbooks and forgotten paintbrushes. The kind of place that told you someone creative had tried, and failed, to stay tidy.
They curled up on the couch. Seulgi pulled out a stack of Oscar-nominated films, and soon the marathon began. Irene debated passionately about cinematography; Seulgi countered with calm, precise arguments. They laughed, teased, and somewhere between the second and third film, Irene’s head found Seulgi’s shoulder.
The kisses started shyly, then deepened. Clothes slipped away. By the time dawn crept through the curtains, they had crossed a line again, but it didn’t feel reckless — it felt inevitable.
“This doesn’t feel casual,” Irene whispered once, almost like a warning.
Seulgi kissed her harder, like an answer she couldn’t say aloud.
They fell asleep tangled in each other, woke up to coffee and bagels, then pressed play on another film as though nothing had happened.
It was perfect. Too perfect.
Irene, an only child used to carrying the weight of her mother’s expectations alone, felt something she never had before — seen. As if someone finally recognized her for more than grades or appearances.
Seulgi, the third among four sisters, had always been the quiet one, the one who let others speak louder. But with Irene asleep in her lap, trusting her so easily, Seulgi finally admitted it to herself: she liked her. More than she should.
Neither of them told Wendy. Not now, not while Wendy was still shattered from Nayeon’s betrayal, still crying in secret. Irene couldn’t bear to share this happiness yet. And Seulgi — she wanted to keep Irene for herself a little longer, hidden away like a treasure no one else could touch.
For now, it was enough.
For now, it was peaceful.
For now, it was theirs.
Part V — The First “I Love You”
January stretched like an endless hallway. Irene hated January — it always dragged on, cold and heavy, like the year refusing to begin. But this time, she found warmth in telling stories. She had someone new to brag about, though she never called her by name. She’d slip it into conversation during class, with her classmates, with friends who leaned close to listen:
“I’m dating someone.”
And they’d all squeal, ask questions, try to drag details from her. She gave them pieces, never the whole picture. But she never said it to Wendy. Not yet. With Wendy, it felt too exposed, too real. Maybe Irene was afraid that once Wendy knew, it would no longer be a secret between her and Seulgi, but a truth that demanded permanence.
Then came the film shoot. Irene and Wendy’s project for class, with Seulgi cast as one of the leads. The day blurred with lights and cameras, clapperboards snapping, Hyeri fussing over lines, Wendy checking sound levels, Irene darting between directing and acting.
And then there was Seulgi.
Her eyes finding Irene’s even when they weren’t supposed to.
Her hands brushing Irene’s waist when no one was looking.
Their secret stitched into stolen glances, quickened heartbeats, and once — between setups — a kiss stolen just off set. Lips grazing fast, dangerous, as if the walls themselves would tattle.
Later, when the crew packed up, Irene’s voice trembled out of her chest like a confession she could no longer contain.
“I love you, Seulgi.”
The words should have landed like fireworks. But Seulgi froze. She pulled back, breath catching, fear lacing her voice.
“I… I can’t.”
It was like a blade pressed softly but sharply between them. Irene’s eyes dimmed, her hands retreating. She didn’t cry. She just nodded, lips pressed into a thin line, and left before anyone could ask why.
Wendy and Hyeri stayed behind with Seulgi, lingering at a nearby bar after the shoot. Nobody knew why Irene had suddenly disappeared, but her absence hovered in the air like smoke. After two drinks, Seulgi confessed.
“She told me she loved me… and I couldn’t say it back.”
Hyeri’s glass hit the table harder than it should have. Her anger was blunt, honest.
“She’s been bragging about you in class. About how happy she is. And you — what are you doing? If you’re not serious, Seulgi, let her go. Don’t keep her just to be afraid. Let her find someone who won’t hesitate.”
The words cut, but Seulgi stayed silent.
Days passed. Silence grew between them again. Irene smoked with Wendy and Jennie after class, the night settling around them like a blanket. Jennie leaned against the wall, exhaling her own smoke, her eyes soft when they found Irene’s.
“Go out with me tomorrow,” Jennie asked suddenly.
Irene, tired and bruised from silence, nodded. “Okay.”
But Wendy told Seulgi. She whispered it like a warning, or maybe like a challenge. Irene’s going out with Jennie.
And that was enough.
The next day, Seulgi was waiting outside Irene’s class, leaning against her car, looking at her like she belonged nowhere else. Irene’s steps faltered, her mind juggling promises and memories. Jennie’s invitation forgotten, Irene got into the car. And just like that, they began again.
They dated like two people who couldn’t stay away from each other, as if love was something they couldn’t name but couldn’t quit either. They weren’t official, not yet. No labels, just touches and laughter and nights that melted into mornings. Jennie was left behind, heartbroken but silent, watching Irene choose someone who could never seem to fully choose her back.
By March 12, Irene felt it again — the slow slipping of Seulgi’s presence, like sand running through her fingers. Desperate, she held her closer. That night, they made love, and afterward, Seulgi turned to her in the quiet, the weight of something unsaid pressing against her chest.
“Do you want to make this official?”
Irene blinked. “Yes.”
Her voice softened. “I love you.”
But Seulgi didn’t say it back. Not yet. Irene only smiled, pressing her lips against Seulgi’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll wait until you can.”
They were official, at last.
April arrived with spring warmth. On Wendy’s birthday — April 6 — they planned to see a band, then head to the bar. Irene had to lie to her mom, Tiffany, and her stepmom, Taeyeon. She told them she had an overnight shoot, swore she’d send photos as proof. She collated pictures from past shoots, careful enough to pass their inspection.
By 2 a.m. on April 7, Irene and Seulgi slipped back to the condo, leaving Wendy and the others behind. They curled into each other on the couch, exhaustion sinking in.
Seulgi’s voice broke the silence first.
“I love you.”
Irene’s breath hitched. She turned, eyes wide, certain she had misheard. But Seulgi’s gaze was steady, her hands trembling only slightly as she tucked hair behind Irene’s ear.
“I love you,” Seulgi said again, firmer this time.
Irene’s face split into a smile, her own words tumbling out without hesitation. “I love you too.”
They kissed, long and desperate, laughter breaking when Irene teased her for blushing. Seulgi only answered with touch, with urgency.
“I’m shy,” she murmured, fumbling for Irene’s skin. “Shy because I finally said it.”
Irene only pulled her closer, whispering against her lips. “Then don’t be shy. Love me.”
And Seulgi did.
The room smelled of sex and warmth when the door clicked open. Wendy stumbled in, half-drunken, her eyeliner smudged but her voice sharp. She paused, eyes narrowing, then smirked.
“Jesus, it reeks in here. You two could at least crack a window.”
Irene buried her face into Seulgi’s chest, cheeks burning, while Seulgi laughed, nervous but unashamed. Wendy tossed her bag onto the chair, kicked off her shoes, and shook her head.
“Don’t worry. I’m not your mom. Just… maybe buy a candle.”
She winked before retreating to the bedroom, still humming the last song from the bar. “Night, lovebirds.”
The condo grew quiet again, leaving Seulgi and Irene tangled on the sofa bed, the air heavy with something more permanent than before.
