POV: Kang Min-jae
Day 4 – Tuesday Afternoon
Setting: PRISM Creative Office, Client Meeting Room
James Woo doesn't look impressed.
He sits across from me in PRISM's main conference room, hands folded on the table, expression neutral as he studies my campaign boards. He's fifty-three, Korean-American, wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. Everything about him radiates quiet authority—the kind earned through decades of building Luminé Jewelry from a small boutique brand into an international luxury name.
This meeting wasn't supposed to happen until Friday. But his assistant called this morning requesting an early preview, and when James Woo requests something, you say yes.
"Walk me through it again," he says.
I stand and gesture to the boards. "The concept is 'Modern Romance'—jewelry for real relationships, not fairy tales. We're targeting couples who want to celebrate authentic moments, not performative milestones."
I point to the first board: photographs of real couples in everyday situations—cooking together, laughing on a subway, sharing coffee. The jewelry is subtle, present but not the focus.
"The tagline: 'Love, Unfiltered.' No staging, no artifice. Just real people choosing each other in ordinary moments."
James nods slowly. "And the Valentine's campaign specifically?"
"We skip the traditional restaurant scene, the roses, the expected gestures. Instead, we show couples doing mundane things—grocery shopping, walking a dog, sitting in traffic. The message: romance isn't the grand gesture. It's choosing to be present in all the ungrand moments."
I'm proud of this pitch. Six weeks of work, refined and perfected. It's exactly the kind of campaign that could win awards and, more importantly, redefine how people think about jewelry advertising.
But James is quiet, still studying the boards.
"It's good," he finally says. "Technically excellent. The photography is beautiful, the message is clear, the brand positioning is smart."
I wait for the "but." There's always a but.
"But do you believe it?"
"Excuse me?"
James leans back in his chair. "Do you understand real romance, Min-jae? Not the advertising version—the actual thing. The choosing someone in mundane moments. The being present. Have you experienced that yourself?"
The question feels like an ambush. "I've been in relationships—"
"That's not what I asked." James's gaze is penetrating. "I've been watching your career. You're talented, no question. But there's something missing. A depth. An authenticity. Your work is technically perfect but emotionally surface-level."
The words sting because they're exactly what I fear people think about me. Surface. Performance. No substance.
"How do I develop that depth?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
"You live. You take risks. You let yourself feel things instead of observing from a distance." James stands, buttoning his suit jacket. "I want to believe in this campaign, Min-jae. But first, I need you to believe in it. Not intellectually—emotionally. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then take the next week. Find your inspiration. Experience what you're trying to sell. I'll reconvene with you next Friday—that's your original pitch date. Come back then with the same concept, but this time make me feel it, not just see it."
After James leaves, I stand alone in the conference room staring at my boards. They look hollow now, like beautiful lies. Everything I accused other campaigns of being—aspirational but empty.
Director Choi appears in the doorway. "Heard that didn't go well."
"He thinks I don't understand real romance."
"Do you?"
I turn to look at him. "That's the second time this week someone's questioned that."
"Maybe because it's a valid question." Director Choi walks to the boards, studying them. "These are good, Min-jae. But good isn't enough for a client like Woo. He wants transcendent. And you can't fake transcendence."
"So what do I do?"
"What he said. Live. Feel. Stop performing and start experiencing." Director Choi heads for the door, then pauses. "How's that relationship going? The one from the bet?"
I forgot he knew about that. "It's... going."
"Going well?"
I think about last night. The library, Ji-won's face when she saw it empty, the conversation on the ladder about old movies and authentic communication. The way she looked at me when I kissed her forehead, like I'd done something both unexpected and exactly right.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "It's going well."
"Then maybe that's your inspiration. Stop treating it like a bet and start treating it like real life. See what happens."
After he leaves, I sink into one of the conference room chairs, feeling the weight of the morning settle on my shoulders. Six days left on the bet. Ten days until the final pitch. And James Woo essentially telling me I'm emotionally hollow.
My phone buzzes. Tae-hyun.
Tae-hyun: Heard the client meeting was rough. You okay?
Me: Define okay.
Tae-hyun: That bad?
Me: He said I don't understand real romance. That my work is technically perfect but emotionally surface-level.
Tae-hyun: Ouch.
Me: Yeah.
Tae-hyun: But also... is he wrong?
I stare at that message. Is he wrong? I've spent my entire life perfecting surfaces—the right appearance, the right words, the right presentation. I know how to make people like me immediately. I'm excellent at first impressions.
But depth? Authenticity? Letting people see beneath the performance?
That terrifies me.
Me: I don't know how to be anything else.
Tae-hyun: Maybe start with Ji-won. Be honest with her.
Me: About the bet?
Tae-hyun: About everything. Your fears, your insecurities, why you're actually dating her. Not the bet reason—the real reason.
Me: What if there is no real reason? What if I'm just doing this to prove a point?
Tae-hyun: Then Woo is right, and you're hollow. But I don't think that's true. I think you're just scared.
I set down my phone and walk back to my desk. The office is busy with late afternoon energy—designers at their monitors, copywriters in impromptu brainstorming sessions, the coffee bar crowded with people needing their 3 PM caffeine fix.
So-yeon waves me over to her desk. "Heard about Woo. That sucks."
"Yeah."
"But he's giving you another chance. That's actually good news."
"Is it? Or is he just being polite before ultimately giving the campaign to someone else?"
So-yeon spins her chair to face me fully. "Min-jae. Real talk. You're spiraling. I can see it happening. What do you need right now?"
"To understand what authentic romance actually feels like."
"Okay. So what does it feel like with Ji-won?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"The woman from the bet. You're still seeing her, right? What does that feel like?"
I lean against her desk, thinking. "Confusing. Exciting. Scary. She was really intense on our second date—asking about marriage and kids. But then our third date was perfect. We went to the Starfield Library, and she told me about why she loves old movies, and it felt... real. More real than anything I've experienced in a long time."
"That sounds like authentic romance to me."
"Or it sounds like I'm romanticizing someone I barely know because I want this campaign to work."
So-yeon gives me a look. "Do you actually like her, or are you just using her as campaign research?"
"I don't know." The honesty feels like confession. "I started dating her for the bet. But now I can't tell what's real and what's me trying to prove something."
"Then maybe you need to figure that out before you hurt her. Or yourself."
I return to my desk but can't focus. The afternoon drags—emails I answer automatically, design revisions I approve without really looking. My mind keeps circling back to James Woo's question: *Have you experienced real romance?*
Four days ago, I would have said no. Or rather, I would have given a diplomatic non-answer about how I've dated but haven't found the right person yet.
But now? After the coffee shop conversation about wanting to be taken seriously, after the tea house weirdness that I'm starting to think was Ji-won testing whether I'd stay, after the library where she admitted she watches old movies because real communication is messy and unclear—
Now I think I might be experiencing something real. And that's more terrifying than any client meeting.
At 5 PM, I text Ji-won.
Me: How's your day?
Ji-won: Busy. Wrote three articles about skincare trends. Exciting stuff.
Me: Sounds thrilling.
Ji-won: It's a living. How was yours?
I start typing "fine" and delete it. Start typing "busy" and delete that too. Director Choi said to stop performing, start experiencing. Tae-hyun said to be honest.
Me: Had a rough client meeting. Basically got told I'm emotionally superficial and my work lacks authenticity.
Ji-won: That's harsh. And wrong.
Me: Is it though?
There's a long pause before she responds.
Ji-won: Everyone performs, Min-jae. Especially in professional settings. That doesn't make you superficial.
Me: But maybe he's right. Maybe I've been so focused on looking like I have depth that I never developed actual depth.
Ji-won: I don't think that's true. The person who arranged a private library visit and chose a book about abandoned spaces isn't superficial.
Me: That could have just been a calculated romantic gesture.
Ji-won: Was it?
I stare at my phone. Was it? When I called in the favor to reserve the library, was I thinking about the bet? About making a good impression? Or was I genuinely wanting to do something special for Ji-won because she'd mentioned loving books and I wanted to see her face light up?
Me: No. It wasn't calculated. I just wanted to make you happy.
Ji-won: Then that's authentic. Even if you're scared to believe it.
Me: How do you know I'm scared?
Ji-won: Because I'm scared too. Of different things, but still scared.
Me: What are you scared of?
The three dots appear and disappear several times. I watch my phone, waiting, wondering if she'll actually answer or deflect.
Ji-won: I'm scared of wanting something and having it not be real. Of believing in something and finding out it was performance the whole time.
Her words hit too close to home. That's exactly what I'm doing—performing a relationship for a bet while trying to figure out if any of it is real.
I should tell her. Right now. Text her the truth about the bet, explain the context, give her the choice to walk away before I hurt her more.
I type it out: *I need to tell you something about why I asked you out.*
I stare at the message for a full minute, thumb hovering over send.
Then I delete it.
Not yet. Not via text. I'll tell her Friday when we discuss our books. Face to face, honest, giving her space to react however she needs to.
It's coward's logic again, and I know it. But I can't do it over text. I can't risk her disappearing before I have a chance to explain.
Me: It's real. Whatever this is, it's real.
Me: At least it is for me.
Ji-won: Okay.
Me: Okay?
Ji-won: Okay as in I believe you. And I'm choosing to trust that.
Me: Even though you're scared?
Ji-won: Especially because I'm scared.
At 7 PM, I leave the office and walk through Seongsu-dong. The neighborhood is alive with evening energy—restaurants filling up, cafés shifting to dinner service, people transitioning from work to life. I pass the Café Onion where Ji-won and I had our first date four days ago, and it feels like a lifetime has passed since then.
Four days. I've known her for four days, and somehow she's become the person I text when my day is rough, the person whose opinion I care about, the person I think about when I should be focusing on work.
This isn't what the bet was supposed to be. It was supposed to be ten days of maintaining a relationship to prove a point. Surface-level dating with an endpoint. Instead, it's becoming something I don't know how to define or control.
My phone rings. My mother.
"Hi, Eomma."
"Min-jae-ya. Your father wants to know if you're coming for dinner Sunday."
"I can come."
"Good. And bring Ji-won."
I stop walking. "What?"
"The writer. Mi-sun told me you're still seeing her. If it's been almost a week, that's serious. Bring her to meet us."
"Eomma, it's too early—"
"Is it? You see her every day, from what Mi-sun says."
I'm going to murder Tae-hyun's wife for her constant updates to my mother.
"We're not seeing each other every day—"
"Monday, Tuesday, and that library thing yesterday makes three days in a row. That's every day this week. Bring her Sunday."
My mother hangs up before I can argue further.
I stand on the Seongsu-dong sidewalk, phone in hand, evening crowds flowing around me. Six days into a ten-day bet, and my mother wants to meet Ji-won. The woman I'm dating under false pretenses. The woman I haven't told about the bet because I'm a coward who's convinced himself that timing matters when really, I'm just scared of losing something before I've had a chance to understand what it is.
A message from Ji-won appears.
Ji-won: Started the photography book. It's beautiful and sad. All these forgotten places Seoul left behind.
Me: That's what I thought when I saw it. Like the city moved on and these spaces got stuck in time.
Ji-won: There's a photo of an abandoned theater in Jongno. The seats are still there, covered in dust. I keep thinking about all the stories that played out in that space, all the people who sat in those seats. Now it's just empty.
Me: We could go find it if you want. Take our own photos.
Ji-won: Really?
Me: Yeah. This weekend?
Ji-won: Saturday?
Me: Perfect.
I pause, then add: **Would you want to meet my parents on Sunday?**
The three dots appear immediately, then stop. Then appear again.
Ji-won: Meet your parents? That's kind of serious, isn't it?
Me: My mother is insistent. Apparently, Tae-hyun's wife has been providing daily updates on my love life.
Ji-won: That sounds mortifying.
Me: It is. But you don't have to if you're not comfortable. I can tell her it's too soon.
Ji-won: No, I'll come. If you want me to.
Me: I want you to.
After we say goodnight, I make my way home. My apartment feels emptier than usual—all my careful curation suddenly looking sterile instead of sophisticated. I stand at my window looking at the Han River, the city lights reflecting off the dark water.
Six days left on the bet.
Ten days until the final pitch with James Woo.
And somehow, both of those deadlines feel less important than Saturday—exploring abandoned Seoul with Ji-won, taking photos of forgotten spaces, maybe finding a way to tell her the truth without losing her.
I pull up my conversation with Tae-hyun.
Me: Your wife needs to stop giving my mother updates.
Tae-hyun: She says she's just trying to help. Also, how serious is this getting? Meeting the parents on day 6 is fast.
Me: I don't know how serious it is. That's the problem.
Tae-hyun: What's the problem exactly? That it might be real?
Me: That I started it for fake reasons and now it feels real and I don't know how to bridge that gap without ruining everything.
Tae-hyun: By being honest. Just tell her.
Me: Saturday. I'll tell her Saturday.
Tae-hyun: Promise?
Me: Promise.
I set down my phone and open my laptop. The Luminé campaign file sits in my documents, all my mood boards and concepts saved digitally. I look at the photographs of couples in ordinary moments, and for the first time, they don't look hollow.
I understand now what James Woo was asking for. Not perfect imagery of romance—messy, complicated, scary romance. The kind where you don't know if you're doing it right. The kind that makes you text someone when your day is rough, that makes you want to show them abandoned buildings and forgotten spaces, that makes you say yes to things that terrify you because the alternative is not having them in your life.
I open a new document and start typing:
*Real romance isn't the grand gesture. It's the morning texts before you remember to be cool. It's staying when someone acts weird on the second date because you know they're scared. It's arranging a private library visit not because it's impressive but because you want to see them smile. It's choosing honesty even when lying is easier.*
*It's being scared and showing up anyway.*
I save it as "Luminé Campaign - Revised Notes" and close my laptop.
Four days until I have to tell Ji-won the truth.
Ten days until I pitch James Woo a campaign about authentic love while hoping I haven't destroyed the most authentic thing I've experienced in years.
The irony isn't lost on me.