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Chapter 1
'Ugly Version'
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Late October.
The leaves were turning yellow, but not yet falling.
'Solace', mental health clinic, on the third floor of building 'The Atrium' in Seongsu-dong.
The soft hum of filtered air filled the therapy room. No music, no ticking clock — just the stillness, designed to magnify every action and emotion. The room smelled faintly of jasmine and warm wood.
Yoon Yeorin sat in her usual wooden chair, wearing a powder blue blazer over a fitted cream blouse and high waisted, navy culottes, reaching her ankles and pointed nude slingbacks with low heels on her feet.
Her legs crossed and a notebook sat in her lap. She leaned forward to put down the papers in her right hand on the narrow wooden table in front of her and once again looked up to glance at the figure in front of her.
Across from her, the woman sat in the corner of the beige velvet sofa, holding one of the cushions in her lap.
After filling the intake form, this woman hadn't spoken yet, obviously nervous and hesitant. That was common for first-timers.
Yeorin studied her — not unkindly, but clinically — as she was supposed to.
'Mid-thirties. Lawyer, if her intake form was accurate. High-functioning, precise handwriting, a hesitation in listing emergency contacts.'
"You wanna continue?" Yeorin said finally, when the woman didn't speak even after several minutes, her voice was smooth and unaffected. Her left hand spinning the matte black pen, as if casting magic.
The woman glanced up. Her eyes are still not meeting with Yeorin's. She said after taking a deep breath, as if convincing herself. "I almost cancelled this morning."
"Why didn't you?"
A breath. Then a laugh, too short. "Because I'm tired of pretending I'm not jealous of my own friends," she said. "Is that... pathetic?"
Yeorin didn't react or show any emotion on her face. This is not something surprising to her. "It's not," she answered, adjusting the gold framed glasses that rested on the bridge of her nose with her right hand. "It's human."
'It's human. Right?'
The woman's eyes shifted. Something cracked there, for sure, —not a breakdown, just a fracture. Small. Honest.
"I think I want what they have. Or at least... I think I want to 'want it'. The career. The perfect partner. The right bag for the right dinner party. But when I imagine living that life, it doesn't feel like me. It feels like a well-lit stage."
Yeorin nodded slowly in understanding, her left hand holding the pen, now motionless and asked. "So what feels like you?"
Silence again. This time it's heavier.
"I don't know," the woman whispered. "That's the problem. I only know when I'm watching them. Wanting what they have makes me feel real. But it also makes me feel... smaller."
Envy. But not the ugly, screaming kind. The soft, chronic type. The one that leaves no bruises, only a quiet erosion.
Yeorin uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, just slightly. "You should be aware of one thing if you want to choose me.
Most people come here hoping I'll tell them how to fix the desire. The anger, the craving, the jealousy. But the truth is, the goal isn't to erase it. It's to know it. Then you decide what it gets to do."
The woman blinked in confusion. "What it gets to do?"
"Yes."
Yeorin's voice didn't rise or fall—it just settled. "Whether it gets to run and ruin your life. Or sit quietly in the passenger seat while you drive."
The woman shifted on the sofa, the soft cushion still clutched against her chest.
"So you're saying I can't get rid of it."
"No," Yeorin said simply. "You can numb it. Medicate it. Shame it. Or run from it. But it'll still be there. Just quieter. Waiting."
The woman exhaled, her fingers digging into the cushion's seams. Her voice dropped.
"Sometimes I imagine myself as... this ugly version of myself. Bitter. Watching everyone be happy. And I hate that image. I hate her."
'Hate. Do I hate her?'
Yeorin's eyes stayed steady. "What does she want?"
The woman blinked. "What?"
"This 'ugly version' you imagine. What does she want that you have to keep telling her she can't have?"
The woman didn't answer right away. Her lips parted, but nothing came out of her mouth. At the end she swallowed.
"She wants... attention. To be chosen first. To walk into a room and not feel like everyone's already decided where she belongs. Or worse—doesn't belong."
Yeorin nodded, her pen still resting, motionless.
"That version of you isn't ugly," she said. "She's just tired of being edited."
For the first time since she arrived, the woman looked directly at Yeorin. Her expression was less guarded now, though her eyes had glassed over slightly—on the edge, not of breaking, but of softening.
"I've worked so hard to not look like I care," she said. "But I do. I care too much. And it's exhausting."
"You care," Yeorin repeated. "That's not a weakness. That's awareness. It means you're not frozen."
The woman gave a short breath of something between laughter and a sob. "You talk like it's simple."
"It's not," Yeorin said. "But it's yours."
A quiet knock sounded at the door—one of Yeorin's timed cues from her assistant outside. Their hour was already over.
The woman sat up straighter, obviously startled by the knock. She looked at the cushion in her lap. Gently, she placed it back where it belonged.
"I didn't expect to say all that," she said.
"Most people don't."
She rose, smoothed her skirt, and picked up her bag. At the door, she paused.
"Thank you. I... think I'll come back."
Yeorin offered the smallest nod. "That's up to you. But the door is always open."
Once the woman was gone, the room returned to stillness. The soft hush of the city beyond the window. The faint smell of jasmine. And Yeorin, leaned back in her chair, sitting in the room only accompanied by silence.
'Will I ever accept that 'ugly version' of myself?'
She raised her hand to cover her face and took a deep breath.
"Ding~"
Her phone lit up, distracting her from her thoughts. She sat up straight and finally clicked her pen.
The page remained blank.
---
Yeorin opened the door and stepped out of the therapy room, holding the Hermès GP30 beige tote bag in her right hand. Her hair tied into a low ponytail and her glasses were the only accessory on her body.
She walked towards the young man standing at the reception, wearing a light blue button-up shirt tucked into beige slacks and clean white sneakers.
He was scrolling through his tablet when he heard the sound and turned around to look at Yeorin with his warm brown eyes.
"Are you leaving, Dr. Yoon?" He asked, a slight smile on his face as he put down his tablet and turned it off. He had light olive skin with black, slightly curly and messy hair. He looked like a young and popular idol at first glance. Someone everyone liked and found easy to approach.
He was Yoon Yeorin's assistant — Kang Minjae, a third-year university student. He handled her client records and scheduled appointments online. Technically, he didn't need to be at the clinic since he could do everything remotely, but he still dropped by whenever he had time.
Yeorin nodded. "Yes, this was the only appointment today."
"Then, if you are free... do you want to have lunch together?" He inquired, eyes hopeful.
Yeorin looked at him calmly, fully aware that this boy had a crush on her. It was hard not to notice — he always looked at her with those eyes: hopeful, bright, and quietly happy.
That was partly why she had moved all his work online. He was a computer science student, sharp with tech, and had even built an app for her clients to book appointments.
She couldn't deny that she was fond of him too — but he was just too young. Five years younger, and every time she looked at him, all she felt was an instinct to protect him.
He was still looking at her with those big, doe eyes — so full of hope that her heart finally gave in.
"Okay," she sighed, "but you're driving." She tossed him the car key without waiting for a response.
Then, without another word, Yeorin turned on her heel and walked out of the clinic. The soft, steady click of her heels echoed across the polished floor.
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