POV: Seo Ji-won
Day 3 – Monday Evening
Setting: COEX Starfield Library, Gangnam
I spend all of Monday preparing to be terrible.
At lunch with Min-jae—a perfectly normal, low-pressure meal at a bibimbap place near his office—I'm supposed to escalate. That's the plan I typed into my notes document Sunday night while staring at the ceiling and hating myself.
*Day 3: Escalate neediness. Be unimpressed with his efforts. Demand more attention, more planning, more everything. Make him feel like nothing he does is good enough.*
Simple. Clear. Exactly what I need to do to drive him away.
But when I meet him at the restaurant at noon, he's so genuinely happy to see me that my carefully constructed terrible-girlfriend persona evaporates immediately.
"Hey," he says, standing when I approach the table. He's wearing a burgundy sweater and a smile that reaches his eyes. "I ordered the dolsot bibimbap for us both. Hope that's okay? They make it really well here."
"That's perfect," I hear myself say, sitting across from him.
*That's perfect*. Not "I wanted to choose my own food" or "you should have asked me first" or any of the difficult, high-maintenance responses I planned.
We eat lunch like normal people. We talk about our weekends—he visited his parents and their dog Bori, I caught up on work and watched old movies with Yu-jin. The conversation flows easily, no invasive questions, no forced intensity. Just two people sharing a meal and enjoying each other's company.
When lunch ends, Min-jae walks me back toward the subway, and I know I've failed. Again. Three days in, and I still haven't successfully driven him away. At this rate, I'll never get my article done.
"So," he says as we approach the station entrance. "I have a question."
"Okay?"
"Do you like books?"
The randomness makes me smile. "Yes? I'm a writer. Loving books is kind of a job requirement."
"Right. Stupid question." He runs his hand through his hair, and I'm starting to recognize this as his nervous tell. "What I meant was—would you want to do something book-related tonight? If you're free?"
"Book-related how?"
"It's a surprise. But I promise it's not weird. Well, it might be a little weird, but in a good way. Hopefully." He's rambling now, which is oddly endearing. "You can say no. If you're busy or tired or not into mysterious book-related activities."
I should say no. I should stick to my plan—be difficult, unimpressed, impossible to please. But I'm curious, and Min-jae looks so hopeful standing there in his burgundy sweater, nervous about whether I'll accept.
"Okay," I say. "I'm in."
His face lights up. "Really? Great. I'll pick you up at seven. Dress casual."
Now, at 6:45 PM, I'm standing in my apartment trying to decide what "casual" means for a mysterious book-related activity. I settle on jeans, a cream-colored sweater, and my worn white sneakers. Through my apartment window, Yeonnam-dong is settling into evening—restaurants filling up, couples walking toward the main street, the neighborhood transforming from day to night.
My phone buzzes. Yu-jin.
Yu-jin: How's Operation Lose Him going?
Me: Not great. We had a perfectly normal lunch.
Yu-jin: JI-WON. You're supposed to be sabotaging, not having NICE DATES.
Me: I know. I'm terrible at this.
Yu-jin: Or maybe you don't actually want to lose him?
I stare at that message for too long before responding.
Me: That's not an option. The article is due in 11 days.
Yu-jin: The article YOU wrote. The honest one. Maybe that's the one you should publish.
Me: Editor Kim approved the satirical piece, not a personal essay.
Yu-jin: Editor Kim doesn't have to date him. You do.
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with a text from Min-jae.
Min-jae: Downstairs whenever you're ready. No rush.
I grab my bag and head down. Min-jae is waiting outside my building, leaning against a black sedan that I assume is a taxi or rideshare until he opens the passenger door for me.
"You have a car?" I say, surprised. Most young people in Seoul don't own cars—parking is expensive and the subway goes everywhere.
"My parents'. I borrowed it for tonight. The place we're going isn't easily accessible by subway."
"Now I'm really curious."
He just smiles mysteriously and starts driving.
We head toward Gangnam, but instead of the usual restaurant or café districts, Min-jae navigates to the COEX complex. It's one of Seoul's massive underground shopping and entertainment centers—acres of stores, restaurants, and attractions beneath Gangnam's streets.
"Are we going shopping?" I ask as he parks.
"Sort of. But not really. You'll see."
We take an escalator down into COEX's sprawling interior, past luxury shops and busy restaurants. The evening crowd flows around us—teenagers, couples, families, everyone moving with purpose through the underground city.
Then we turn a corner, and I stop walking.
"Oh," I breathe.
Before us stands the Starfield Library—two stories of towering bookshelves, thousands of books arranged in perfect geometric columns reaching toward the ceiling. It's stunning, almost cathedral-like in its grandeur, with reading areas scattered between the shelves and soft lighting that makes everything glow.
But that's not what stops my breath.
The library is empty.
"How—" I turn to Min-jae. "How is this empty? It's always packed."
He looks pleased with himself. "I called in a favor. Someone from work knows someone who knows the building management. We have the library to ourselves for an hour."
"You got them to close the Starfield Library? For us?"
"Not closed. Just... privately reserved. For one hour. Starting now." He checks his watch. "So we should probably go in and make the most of it."
I'm speechless. This is the kind of grand gesture you see in movies, not real life. Certainly not on a third date with someone you're supposed to be systematically driving away.
"Min-jae, this is—"
"Too much? I know it's probably too much. You said you liked books, and I thought maybe you'd enjoy this, but if it's weird, we can just go somewhere normal and—"
"It's perfect," I interrupt. "This is perfect."
His smile is worth whatever guilt I'm feeling about my ulterior motives.
We walk into the library, and our footsteps echo in the enormous space. Without the usual crowds, it feels magical—like we've stumbled into a secret world made entirely of stories. The shelves tower above us, books organized by color creating a visual gradient from warm tones to cool.
"I've never seen it like this," I say, spinning slowly to take it all in. "It's usually so crowded you can barely move."
"That's what I thought. Seeing it empty felt like seeing something sacred." Min-jae walks toward one of the shelves. "Should we explore?"
We wander through the stacks, pulling books at random, reading titles aloud, making up stories about what they might contain. Min-jae gravitates toward the design and architecture sections, while I'm drawn to literature and essays.
"What's your favorite book?" he asks, settling into one of the reading chairs.
I sit across from him. "That's an impossible question. It changes depending on my mood."
"Okay, favorite book right now. This moment."
I think about it. "There's this book of essays by Joan Didion—'Slouching Towards Bethlehem.' She writes about California in the 1960s, but it's really about searching for meaning in chaos. About observing the world and trying to make sense of it through writing."
"That's very specific. Why that one?"
"Because that's what I want to do. Observe things honestly and write about them in a way that matters." I pull my knees up to my chest. "What about you?"
"I don't read as much as I should. Work keeps me busy, and when I have free time, I usually—" He pauses. "Actually, that's bullshit. I don't read much because I got lazy about it. Substituted scrolling for actual reading."
His honesty surprises me. "At least you're self-aware."
"Doesn't make it better. I should read more. Especially if I want to understand people enough to advertise to them effectively." He leans forward. "Tell me about the article you're working on. The experimental journalism thing you mentioned at the gallery."
My stomach drops. "It's nothing. Just an idea I'm playing with."
"Didn't sound like nothing. You seemed excited about it."
"I was. Am. It's just... complicated."
"Complicated how?"
I can't tell him. Obviously I can't tell him. But sitting here in this empty library that he arranged just for me, I want to. I want to confess everything—the pitch, the plan, the fact that I've been trying and failing to drive him away for three days because he keeps being so genuinely kind that I can't execute my sabotage strategy.
"It's about dating," I say carefully. "Modern dating culture. The games people play."
"That sounds interesting."
"It's more cynical than interesting. It's about how we perform for each other instead of being authentic."
Min-jae is quiet for a moment. "Do you think we're performing? Right now?"
The question catches me off guard because yes, obviously I'm performing—I'm playing the role of terrible girlfriend to document for an article. But is he performing too? And if so, what role is he playing?
"I don't know," I say honestly. "Are we?"
"I'm trying not to be. But it's hard to know what's real and what's the version of myself I think you want to see."
"What version of you do you think I want to see?"
"The put-together one. The successful creative director with the nice clothes and the good genes who can arrange private library visits." He looks down at his hands. "Not the version who sends seventeen texts before 8 AM because he's anxious and overthinks everything."
I smile despite myself. "I liked the seventeen texts."
"You did?"
"They were sweet. Excessive, but sweet. And honestly—" I take a breath. "I'd rather have the anxious overthinking version than the performance. The performance is impressive. But the real version is interesting."
Min-jae meets my eyes, and something passes between us—recognition, maybe. Or mutual understanding that we're both presenting carefully curated versions of ourselves while the real versions hide underneath.
"Can I tell you something?" he says.
"Okay."
"Saturday at the tea house—you were really intense. All the questions about marriage and kids and my phone. It was a lot."
My face heats. "I know. I was—"
"But I've been thinking about why. And I wonder if maybe you were testing me. Seeing if I'd stick around when things got weird."
He's too perceptive. I need to redirect. "Why would I test you?"
"Because you've been hurt before. Because it's safer to push people away first than wait for them to leave." He leans forward. "Am I completely off base?"
"No," I admit quietly. "You're not off base."
It's not the whole truth—I was deliberately trying to drive him away, not testing him—but it's true enough. And maybe part of me was testing him, seeing if he'd be like Jae-sung, my ex, who disappeared the moment I needed anything from him.
"For what it's worth," Min-jae says, "I'm not going anywhere. Unless you genuinely want me to. But if you're just being difficult to see if I'll stay—I'll stay."
The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight. This was supposed to be simple. Find a guy, sabotage the relationship, write the article, advance my career. Instead, I'm sitting in an empty library with someone who's making it impossible to follow through with my plan because he keeps being exactly the kind of person I didn't think actually existed.
"Why?" I ask. "Why would you stay when I'm being difficult?"
"Because Saturday at the tea house isn't who you are. Friday at the coffee shop—that's who you are. And I like that person. So if Saturday was you freaking out or testing me or just having an off day, I can handle that. People are allowed to have off days."
I feel tears prickling at my eyes and blink them back. "You barely know me."
"Then let me get to know you. The real you, not the version trying to be impressive or difficult or whatever you think you're supposed to be."
We sit in silence, surrounded by thousands of books and stories, and I realize I'm at a crossroads. I can keep executing my sabotage plan, drive him away, write the article I pitched. Or I can let this be what it's becoming—something real, something that scares me precisely because it matters.
My phone buzzes in my bag. Probably Yu-jin checking in, or Editor Kim with another deadline reminder. I ignore it.
"I like old movies," I say suddenly. "Black and white ones, especially romantic comedies from the 1940s and 50s. When I can't sleep, I watch them on my laptop. Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, that whole era."
Min-jae smiles. "I know. You mentioned that at coffee."
"Right. But what I didn't mention is why. It's because the dialogue is so sharp and fast, and the characters say exactly what they mean but in this coded, witty way. Real life isn't like that. Real life is messy and unclear and everyone's trying to figure out what everyone else wants without actually asking."
"So you watch movies where people are better at communication than real people are."
"Exactly."
"That's not weird. That's actually kind of brilliant." He stands and offers his hand. "Come on. Let's look at the top shelves."
I take his hand, and he leads me to one of the rolling ladders attached to the bookshelves. We climb up together—probably against library rules, definitely dangerous—until we're high enough to see over the shelves to the rest of COEX beyond the library windows.
"Look," Min-jae says, pointing.
Below us, the COEX evening crowds flow past—hundreds of people shopping, eating, living their lives. From up here, they look like a river of humanity, everyone moving with purpose toward destinations we can't see.
"That's what I love about Seoul," he says. "Everyone's in their own story. All these intersecting narratives."
"And sometimes they collide," I say. "Like at a gallery opening. Over spilled wine."
"Best collision of my life."
I look at him, and he's looking at me, and we're way too high up on a library ladder, and this is absolutely the moment I'm supposed to say something difficult or demanding or push him away somehow.
Instead, I say, "Thank you for this. For the library. For understanding Saturday. For staying."
"Thank you for being here."
We're inches apart, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, close enough that if either of us leaned forward just slightly—
My phone buzzes again, insistent this time. Multiple buzzes in rapid succession.
"You should probably check that," Min-jae says, pulling back slightly.
I climb down the ladder and dig out my phone. Five messages from Editor Kim.
Editor Kim: Need an update on the article. How's the experiment going?
Editor Kim: You should have substantial material by Day 3. Are you documenting everything?
Editor Kim: Remember, this needs to be punchy and satirical. Not a romance piece.
Editor Kim: Sending preliminary headline options for your approval.
Editor Kim: "How I Became the Girlfriend From Hell (And Loved It)"—thoughts?
I stare at the screen, feeling sick. The girlfriend from hell. That's what Editor Kim expects me to be. That's what I pitched, what I promised to deliver.
But standing in this beautiful library that Min-jae arranged just for me, having just had the most honest conversation of my life, I can't imagine writing that article.
"Everything okay?" Min-jae calls from across the library.
"Yeah," I lie, shoving my phone back in my bag. "Just work stuff."
He checks his watch. "We have twenty more minutes. Want to pick books for each other? Like assignments?"
"Assignments?"
"Yeah. You pick a book you think I should read, I'll pick one for you. Then we read them and discuss. Very book club."
"Are we starting a two-person book club?"
"Why not? You said you wanted to read more real things. I said I should read more, period. Mutual improvement."
It's such a wholesome, earnest suggestion that I almost laugh. We're three dates in, and he's suggesting we start a book club.
"Okay," I say. "But I get to pick something challenging. No easy reads."
"Same for you. I'm choosing something weird."
We split up, wandering the shelves. I find him a collection of essays by David Foster Wallace—brilliant, difficult, the kind of writing that makes you work for it. He finds me a photography book about abandoned spaces in Seoul, places the city forgot.
"Abandoned spaces?" I say, examining it.
"You said you want to write about real things, things that matter. Sometimes the most interesting stories are in the places people overlook."
We check out our books at the unstaffed counter—scanning them ourselves using the self-service system—and head back out into COEX's busy corridors. The transition from the quiet library to the loud, crowded mall feels jarring, like emerging from a dream into reality.
"So," Min-jae says as we walk back to the car. "When should we discuss our assignments?"
"You're really committing to this book club thing."
"I'm an overachiever. If we're doing something, I'm doing it properly."
"Friday?" I suggest. "That gives us time to read."
"Friday works. My place? I'll cook dinner."
"You cook?"
"I mentioned that, didn't I? I'm an excellent cook. Terrible baker, great cook."
"That's very specific."
"Baking is chemistry. Cooking is jazz. I'm better at jazz."
In the car, driving back through Gangnam's bright streets, I'm quiet. Min-jae doesn't push conversation, just drives, and I appreciate the silence.
When we reach my building in Yeonnam-dong, he parks and walks me to my door like we're in one of my old movies.
"Thank you," I say at my building entrance. "For the library. For the book. For everything."
"Thank you for saying yes to mysterious book-related activities."
We stand there awkwardly, and I know this is the moment where either he kisses me or he doesn't, and I don't know which I want more—for him to make a move, or for this to stay in the safe, undefined space where I can still pretend I'm executing an article rather than falling for someone.
Min-jae leans in, and my breath catches—
He kisses my forehead. Soft, brief, achingly gentle.
"Goodnight, Ji-won," he says, already backing away. "Text me when you finish the book?"
"Yeah. Goodnight."
I watch him walk back to the car, watch him drive away, then let myself into my building. In my apartment, I set the photography book on my desk and pull out my laptop.
The document sits open: "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days - Field Notes."
I should write about tonight. Document the library, add cynical commentary about grand gestures and performative romance. Shape it into the satirical piece Editor Kim expects.
Instead, I open a new document and type:
What happens when you try to lose someone and they refuse to be lost?
Day 3: He took me to a library. An entire library, empty, just for us. He gave me a book about abandoned spaces and said sometimes the most interesting stories are in the places people overlook.
I'm supposed to be the girlfriend from hell. But he's making it impossible to be anything except honest.
I save it as a separate file—"Real Notes"—and close my laptop.
Seven days left. Seven days to figure out what I'm actually doing.
Seven days to decide which matters more: the article that could change my career, or the person who's changing everything else.