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# Chapter 66: The Lies That Fingers Tell
The traffic light turned green. The car moved. Kang Riou’s shoulders trembled. It was the tremor of despair rather than anger. Se-a realized for the first time that despair could make your entire body shake.
“Do you know what I’ve done for you?”
Kang Riou spoke. His voice had dropped lower. More dangerous. Anger rises, but despair sinks.
“Do you know what I’ve given up for you?”
Se-a didn’t answer. She knew. That he was planning to quit the company. That he’d broken with his father. That he believed everything was because of her. But that was a lie too. Se-a was sitting on top of lies.
“The company. My position. My relationship with my father. My future. I threw it all away. Why? For you. To save you. And you?”
Kang Riou’s hands left the steering wheel. The traffic light turned red again. The car stopped. This time, Kang Riou had stopped it.
“Last night, you pushed my arm away. When I reached out to you, you pushed me away.”
Se-a remembered that night. His villa. The bedroom. His arm. And her own hand. How cruel it had been. How clear her rejection was. But that was also a lie. She hadn’t pushed him away—she’d pushed herself away. To protect herself.
“Why?”
Kang Riou asked. Now the car was filled with silence. Seoul at dawn continued flowing outside the window, but inside the car, everything was still. As if time itself had stopped.
“What am I lacking? Money? Status? Looks?”
“It’s not that,” Se-a said for the first time. Her voice was thin. Like thread.
“Then what?”
Kang Riou looked at Se-a. Tears were forming in his eyes. Se-a saw them. But she couldn’t tell if they were real or false. After three years together, one thing she’d learned was that Kang Riou’s tears were always ambiguous. They could be sadness. They could be anger. They could be manipulation.
“You want to apologize to Junho. That’s your emotion. And I used that emotion. Because I couldn’t save Junho, I said I’d save you instead. But what did I actually do? I didn’t save you. I locked you in another kind of prison.”
The words came pouring out of Se-a. Even she was surprised. That such words could come from her mouth.
“What?”
“You weren’t trying to save me. You were trying to save yourself. Using my body to do it.”
The silence in the car shattered. Kang Riou’s hands moved again. Not gripping the wheel but striking it. It was anger directed at himself.
“Fine. You’re right. I used you. Your words are correct. But is that really so wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Then what do you want? Me to leave? You to be alone? Are you really that strong?”
Se-a didn’t answer. Kang Riou was right. But that didn’t justify it. You can’t use someone and call it love.
“Look at my hand.”
Kang Riou held up his left hand. His fingers were trembling. Se-a knew that hand. She’d seen it for months. The trembling hand. The hand that couldn’t make music anymore.
“When this hand touches you, it trembles. Because when I touch you, I’m afraid I’ll lose you at the same time. That’s why my fingers shake. To confirm that I’m still holding you. But you keep pushing me away. So what am I? What kind of person am I?”
Se-a looked at Kang Riou. Tears were streaming down his face. Real or false, the tears existed. And existence always has power.
“You’re someone who wants to be alone,” Se-a said. Where were these words coming from? From her throat? Or somewhere else?
“You want to be alone?”
“Listen to my music. Listen to the songs I wrote. When you hear them, you’ll understand that I’m alone. That I’ve never truly connected with anyone. And you were trying to fill your loneliness with mine. You were trying to wash away the guilt of losing your friend with my music.”
Kang Riou looked at Se-a. There were no more tears in his eyes. Instead, something else was there. Recognition. Realization. And the unwillingness to acknowledge what that was.
“That’s not it.”
“It is.”
“I really love you—”
“Then why didn’t you listen to my songs? Why didn’t you hear what I was singing about? What did you feel when you heard the song Park So-jin sang?”
Se-a’s questions poured out. Even she was astonished. That all these words were hers. She’d been silent all this time, and now that silence had broken, there was so much emerging.
“When you heard that song, did you hear what I was singing? Who I was longing for? Who I’d lost? Why being alone hurt so much?”
Kang Riou opened his mouth, then closed it. It looked like he’d started to lie but stopped himself.
“I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“You.”
“And?”
“And… you were someone I could never reach. No matter what. No matter how close.”
Kang Riou’s voice trembled. This time it was the tremor of genuine despair. Not anger or performance. Real despair.
“Yes,” Se-a said. Her voice trembled too.
“So I tried to create you. A you I could reach. A you I could save. A you I could love.”
“That was a lie.”
“I know. I know now.”
Silence settled over the car again. Seoul at dawn was still awake. Taxis passed by. Street cleaners swept the roads. But inside the car, time had stopped.
“So what do we do now?” Kang Riou asked.
“I don’t know,” Se-a said.
“Neither do I.”
They fell silent again. But it was different from the first silence. The first silence was full of secrets. This silence was empty. Because everything had been revealed.
Kang Riou started the car again. Without a destination. Toward Gangnam. Toward his company. Or his home. Se-a looked out the window. Dawn Seoul was flowing by. The lights were fading. Morning would come soon.
“Where are you going?” Kang Riou asked suddenly.
“The convenience store. I need to open it.”
“There’s still time.”
“Still,” Se-a said. Her voice had become small again. Despair creates silence, and silence creates small voices.
“That song. The one Park So-jin sang. I can give it back to you,” Kang Riou said.
“How?”
“I can tell my father. Have him correct the credits. Give you credit as the composer.”
Se-a considered it. Her name on that song. Na Se-a. Composition. What would that feel like? Something she’d dreamed of for so long. But now it didn’t feel important.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be another lie. Another pretense of you saving me.”
Kang Riou didn’t answer. He looked ahead. The dawn road. The lights. The gradually brightening sky.
“Then what should I do? What do you want?”
“I don’t know. Really.”
Se-a said it. It was the truth. She didn’t know what she wanted. Not her music. Not her name. Not Kang Riou’s love. All of those were things given from outside. What did she really want?
The car continued moving. Toward Gangnam. Toward his father. Kang Min-jun. CEO of JYA Entertainment. What would that man say when he saw Se-a? She’d seen him once. In the reception room. His eyes were cold. A hunter’s eyes. The eyes of someone looking at prey.
“What do you think my father will say when he sees you?” Kang Riou asked. As if reading her thoughts.
“I don’t know.”
“I think… my father will look at you and think ‘it’s over now.’ That you’re just like Park So-jin. Just consumable goods.”
Se-a knew that. From the beginning. She’d always been consumable. A convenience store worker. A session vocalist. A composer. All of those were temporary. Things that could be discarded at any moment.
“So what should we do?” Se-a asked.
“I don’t know,” Kang Riou answered. His voice was now completely calm. Empty of all emotion.
“But I know one thing.”
“What?”
“We can’t stay like this. In this state. You know that, right?”
Se-a knew. Their relationship was broken. And there was no way to fix it. Broken things leave scars even when glued back together.
“Yes,” Se-a said.
The car continued moving. Toward morning. Se-a looked out the window. The sky was getting brighter. From black to blue. From blue to gray. From gray to pink. The colors of dawn were changing.
And Se-a realized something. Even though she was with Kang Riou, she was alone. And it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just that when two kinds of loneliness meet, they don’t become twice as warm. They just become twice as lonely.
“Did you contact Hayul?” Kang Riou asked.
“No.”
“Contact her now.”
“What should I say?”
“That you’re not going to the convenience store today. And… no. Just be alone today.”
Se-a looked at Kang Riou. His face was lit by the morning light coming through the window. He was still handsome. But now Se-a knew that didn’t matter. Handsomeness could lie.
“What will you do?” Se-a asked.
“I’m going to meet my father,” Kang Riou said.
“What?”
“I can’t wait until you figure out what you want. I need to know what I should do.”
“You?”
“Yes. Me. For the first time.”
The car stopped in front of JYA Entertainment’s tall buildings in Gangnam. The company was already awake. Employees were coming in. The morning meeting time was approaching.
Kang Riou dropped Se-a off. Near Hapjeong Station. In the opposite direction from the convenience store. It seemed intentional.
“Really, don’t do anything. Just be. Think only of yourself,” Kang Riou said.
“Okay,” Se-a answered. And she got out of the car. The dawn air came in cold. It was a good kind of cold. The kind that wakes you up.
Se-a watched Kang Riou’s car disappear. Toward Gangnam. Toward his father. And Se-a was standing above the Han River. Between Hapjeong Station and Gangnam. A place that belonged to neither.
She didn’t text Hayul. Instead, she did what Kang Riou said. She just existed. She watched the Han River. The water reflecting the morning light. It looked like it was burning.
And for the first time, Se-a realized that fire wasn’t hers.
It wasn’t Kang Riou’s fire either—his determination, his conflict, his sense of responsibility. It wasn’t that.
It wasn’t Hayul’s fire. Hayul was still her friend, someone who wanted to share her loneliness, but ultimately she was living her own life, and Se-a couldn’t interfere with that.
It wasn’t Park So-jin’s fire. Park So-jin was her old friend, her first love, and now someone’s wife.
It wasn’t anyone’s fire. It was just morning sunlight reflecting off the water. A natural phenomenon. Nothing more, nothing less.
But it was beautiful.
On the Han River at dawn, Se-a looked at her own hands for the first time. They weren’t trembling. Not like Kang Riou’s. They were just small hands. Hands that organized products at the convenience store. Hands that tapped the register counter. Hands that sometimes pressed piano keys when writing a song.
That these hands were hers. That alone was enough.
# Two Kinds of Loneliness
## Part 1: The Weight of Morning
When two kinds of loneliness meet, they don’t become twice as warm. They just become twice as lonely.
It took Se-a exactly three years to reach this understanding. Three years, one month, and fifteen days since she met Kang Riou. But who’s counting? Numbers don’t matter. What matters is what she’s feeling now—in this morning, in this bed.
The bed was Kang Riou’s bed. Or rather, it had become their bed. The left side was Se-a’s, the right side was Kang Riou’s. No, that’s wrong too. Those distinctions didn’t mean anything anymore. When two people lie in their bed with their backs turned to each other, the bed stops being a space they share and becomes two separate islands.
Se-a stared at the ceiling. It was white. Off-white, to be precise. A color Kang Riou had chosen himself. “Pure white is too cold,” he’d said. So what temperature was this room now? Se-a wanted to look for a thermometer, but getting out of bed felt too heavy. Not her body—her heart. Actually, her heart was heavy too, but that heaviness had accumulated in her body.
Kang Riou was sleeping next to her. His breathing was regular. Deep and steady. Like he was breathing tranquility itself. Se-a watched him. The pre-dawn light from outside was illuminating his face. Seoul’s night lights never turn off. It’s a characteristic of capitalism. Or of Seoul as a city. Either way, complete darkness doesn’t exist.
It wasn’t morning light. It was still dawn. But Kang Riou’s face still looked handsome. High cheekbones, a clean jawline, black hair falling naturally across his forehead. Se-a had watched that face for years. At first, it had felt like his face was everything in the world. Like it was the symbol of everything she wanted. But at some point, his face had started to look meaningless.
No, not meaningless. False.
Handsomeness can lie. That was the truth Se-a learned this morning at 5:30 AM.
Kang Riou’s eyes opened. Suddenly, without warning. As if someone had flipped a switch. His black eyes looked at the ceiling, then slowly turned toward Se-a. Their eyes met. But it wasn’t a true meeting. Two gazes had simply crossed paths.
“Is it morning?” Kang Riou asked. His voice was that of someone just waking up. Slightly hoarse but gentle. Se-a had loved that tone. Did she still love it? She asked herself. But no answer came.
“It’s still dawn,” Se-a answered.
Kang Riou checked his watch. His hand passed over Se-a’s chest. It wasn’t an intentional movement. It was just a necessary motion for him to get up. But Se-a felt his hand touch her skin. The warmth of his hand transmitted through her thin pajamas.
Was it warm or cold?
Se-a couldn’t tell.
“5:31,” Kang Riou murmured. “I woke up early.”
He lay back down. Staring at the ceiling. Next to Se-a. But even though they were looking at the same ceiling, they were seeing different things. No, that’s wrong too. They weren’t seeing anything. Their eyes were just open.
Silence flowed. The silence of a bedroom is the heaviest silence in the world. Because it’s chosen silence. Not because no one’s talking, but because neither wants to talk. That’s a difference. A big one.
Kang Riou got out of bed. His movements were slow. As if he too knew his body was heavy. He was wearing pajamas. Black cotton pajamas. A Christmas gift from Se-a last year. Back then, he’d held her and said “thank you.” And Se-a had believed him.
Does she still believe that now?
Kang Riou headed for the bathroom. His figure disappeared through the door. A few seconds later, water sounds came. The sound of opening the bathroom faucet. It was a sound that repeated every day. The same time, the same way. Se-a now understood that when life becomes routine, that routine can become a prison.
Se-a got out of bed. A few minutes after Kang Riou. She too followed the same daily trajectory. Get out of bed. Wait for the bathroom. And at some point, that waiting time had become her most free time. Because during that time, she was no one. Not Kang Riou’s lover. Not someone’s daughter. Not a convenience store worker. Just a lonely person.
She couldn’t say exactly when that loneliness started. But it was clear that it was growing. Like darkness swallowing light, that loneliness was digging deeper and deeper into her chest.
## Part 2: Morning Conversation
Kang Riou returned to the bedroom. He was already dressed. A dark gray shirt. Clothes that matched his company’s dress code. He was a director at a famous entertainment agency. JYA Entertainment. A company Se-a knew. Actually, everyone knew this company.
“Did you contact Hayul?” Kang Riou asked. His tone was interrogating. No, it was expressing concern. No, it was both—a tone mixing concern and interrogation.
Se-a was sitting on the edge of the bed. In a posture as if she could get up at any moment. She looked at Kang Riou. His face looked slightly dark in the room where the morning sun hadn’t yet reached. He was still handsome. But now that beauty was meaningless to Se-a.
“No,” Se-a answered.
“Contact her now.”
“Why?”
Kang Riou sat on the edge of the bed. Not next to Se-a, but on the edge. There was about 50 centimeters between them. It was a distance you could reach with an outstretched hand. But they didn’t reach out.
“Tell her you’re not going to the convenience store today. And…” Kang Riou stopped. His face was slightly more exposed to the pre-dawn light. He was thinking about something. What was he thinking? Se-a couldn’t know. Kang Riou’s heart had become unknown territory.
“And… no. Just be alone today,” Kang Riou finally said.
Se-a’s heart sank. Be alone. What did that mean? Stay alone in the apartment? Or something with a bigger meaning? Be alone. Wasn’t that saying “stay away from me”?
“What?” Se-a asked. Her voice was small. She was afraid of breaking the silence of morning.
Kang Riou looked at Se-a. His eyes met hers. This time, really met. And Se-a could see what was in those eyes. Determination. Kang Riou had decided something.
“I’m going to meet my father.”
“What?”
“I can’t wait until you figure out what you want. I need to know what I should do.”
His voice was calm. But within that calmness was resolve. As if he was now speaking a decision he’d thought about for a long time.
“You?” Se-a asked. It wasn’t a question. It was a protest.
“Yes. Me. For the first time.”
Kang Riou got out of bed. His movements were quick. As if he didn’t want another chance to reconsider. He went to the closet. He pulled out a jacket. A black cashmere jacket. Clothes he wore to company meetings.
Se-a was left in the bed. Alone. In the bedroom at 5:40 AM.
## Part 3: Movement
The car cut through Seoul at dawn. Kang Riou drove. Se-a sat in the passenger seat. They didn’t speak. The radio wasn’t on. There was only the sound of wheels on asphalt. And that sound continued.
Toward Gangnam. More and more high-rises appeared. Gangnam, where Kang Riou’s company was located. JYA Entertainment. A gray, massive building. Hundreds of people worked in that building, and thousands of people consumed the products that came out of it.
Kang Riou’s father was the chairman of that building. Kang Jun-ho. A master of Korean entertainment agencies. Se-a had seen him once. At a birthday party with Kang Riou. He looked different from Kang Riou. More angular, colder, stronger. As if Kang Riou was a softer version of his father.
The car stopped in front of Gangnam’s high-rises. JYA Entertainment. The building was already awake. Past 6 AM, employees were coming in. The flow of office workers was like the flow of ants. Organized, unconscious, endless.
“Wait,” Kang Riou said. “Let’s go to Hapjeong Station.”
Se-a looked at Kang Riou. Hapjeong Station was in the opposite direction from Gangnam. It was the way to the convenience store.
The car moved again.
## Part 4: Separation
Near Hapjeong Station. 6:15 AM.
Kang Riou stopped the car. It was about 300 meters from the convenience store. An intentionally distant distance.
“Really, don’t do anything. Just be. Think only of yourself,” Kang Riou said. His voice was gentle. But within that gentleness was firmness.
Se-a didn’t say anything. She only answered “okay.”
She got out of the car.
The dawn air came in cold. It wasn’t winter cold. It was spring cold. Morning cold. The kind of cold that tells you to start the day. It was a good cold. The kind that wakes you up. Like someone pushing her back saying “wake up. Really wake up.”
Se-a watched Kang Riou’s car. A black Mercedes. It was disappearing. Toward Gangnam. Toward his father. And what came after? Determination. Or another kind of loneliness.
Se-a walked toward the Han River. Between Hapjeong Station and Gangnam. A place that belonged to neither. Near a bench in the riverside park. It was a time when no one was there yet.
## Part 5: Alone
Se-a didn’t text Hayul.
Instead, she did what Kang Riou said. She just existed. She watched the Han River. Water reflecting the morning light. It looked like it was burning. Orange and red light danced on the water. As if someone’s emotion was projected onto the water.
And for the first time, Se-a realized that fire wasn’t hers.
It wasn’t Kang Riou’s fire either. The fire of his decision, his conflict, his sense of responsibility. It wasn’t that.
It wasn’t Hayul’s fire. Hayul was still Se-a’s friend, someone who wanted to share her loneliness, but ultimately she was living her own life, and Se-a couldn’t interfere with that.
It wasn’t Park So-jin’s fire. Park So-jin was Se-a’s old friend, her first love, and now someone’s wife.
It wasn’t anyone’s fire. It was just morning sunlight reflecting off the water. A natural phenomenon. Nothing more, nothing less.
But it was beautiful.
Se-a was sitting on a bench. 6:30 AM. Above the Han River. Fifteen minutes had passed since Kang Riou’s car disappeared.
What being alone allows.
What being alone prevents.
Se-a looked at her own hands. They weren’t trembling. Not like Kang Riou’s hands that always moved. Just small hands.
Hands that organized products at the convenience store.
Hands that tapped the cash register.
Hands that sometimes pressed piano keys when writing a song.
That these hands were hers. That alone was enough.