POV: Seo Ji-won
Day 5 – Wednesday, Late Night into Thursday Morning
Setting: Ji-won's apartment, Noryangjin Fish Market
I can't sleep.
It's 11:47 PM on Wednesday night, and I'm lying in my small apartment staring at the ceiling, listening to Seoul's muted nighttime sounds through my window. Somewhere below, a convenience store hums with fluorescent life. A motorcycle passes. Voices drift up from the street—people heading home from late dinners or early drinking sessions.
My laptop sits open on my desk, two documents glowing in the darkness.
The first: "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days - Field Notes." The article I pitched to Editor Kim. The article is due in nine days. The article that's supposed to be satirical, sharp, exposing modern dating's absurdities through my deliberate sabotage.
Current word count: 847 words. Most of it is unusable.
The second: "Real Notes." The document I started after the library date. The honest version. The one where I admit I'm failing spectacularly at my assignment because Min-jae keeps being kind and genuine and impossible to drive away.
Current word count: 2,340 words. All of it is true. None of it is publishable.
I've been lying here for two hours trying to reconcile these two documents, these two versions of the story. The one I'm supposed to write versus the one that's actually happening.
My phone sits on my nightstand, dark and silent. Min-jae texted goodnight three hours ago—a simple "Sleep well. See you Saturday?"—and I responded with an equally simple "Can't wait."
But I'm not sleeping well. I'm wide awake, thoughts spiraling, guilt eating at me like acid.
Five days in, and I've barely executed any part of my original plan. I was supposed to be clingy, demanding, invasive. Instead, I'm having book clubs and accepting invitations to meet his parents. I'm supposed to be documenting his flaws and my deliberate provocations. Instead, I'm writing about how he kissed my forehead and it felt like coming home.
This is a disaster.
At 11:53 PM, I give up on sleep. I get out of bed, pull on jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, and sit at my desk. Maybe if I force myself to write the satirical version, I can get back on track. Remember the assignment. Remember what I'm supposed to be doing.
I open the "Field Notes" document and stare at the cursor blinking accusingly.
*Day 5: Subject continues to be annoyingly perfect. Attempted sabotage: none. Reason: cowardice? Genuine feelings? Uncertain. Status: Article in jeopardy. Career in jeopardy. Heart in jeopardy.*
I deleted it immediately. Too honest. Too raw.
Try again.
*Day 5: The experiment continues to yield unexpected results. The subject (Min-jae) exhibits remarkable patience and genuine interest despite my escalating difficult behaviors. Theory: Modern men are more resilient to "red flag" behaviors than popular dating discourse suggests. Or: I'm terrible at being terrible.*
Better. More clinical. Closer to what Editor Kim expects.
But it's still a lie.
The truth is, I stopped trying to be terrible after the tea house. The truth is, when Min-jae texted about his rough client meeting, I wanted to comfort him, not add to his stress. The truth is, I'm going to meet his parents on Sunday, and I'm excited and terrified in equal measure.
The truth is, I like him. I really like him. In a way that makes my carefully constructed assignment feel cruel and wrong.
My phone screen lights up. 12:14 AM. A text from Min-jae.
Min-jae: You're awake, aren't you?
I stare at the message. How does he know?
Me: How do you know?
Min-jae: Because I'm awake too, and I had a feeling you might be.
Me: That's either romantic or creepy. Haven't decided which.
Min-jae: Let's go with romance. Are you okay?
I could lie. Say I'm fine, just restless, nothing important. That's what I should do—maintain boundaries, keep him at a comfortable distance, remember that this is an assignment, not a relationship.
Instead, I type: **No. I'm spiraling about something and can't turn my brain off.**
Min-jae: Want to talk about it?
Me: Not over text.
Min-jae: Want to not talk about it in person?
Me: It's after midnight.
Min-jae: I'm aware. That's when the best ideas happen. Are you game for an adventure?
I should say no. I should stay in my apartment, force myself to write the article, and maintain some semblance of professional boundaries. But the alternative is lying here for four more hours staring at documents I can't bring myself to complete, drowning in guilt about lying to someone who's been nothing but honest with me.
Me: What kind of adventure?
Min-jae: The spontaneous kind. I'll pick you up in 20 minutes. Wear comfortable shoes.
Me: This is very mysterious.
Min-jae: Trust me?
I look around my apartment—the glowing laptop, the unmade bed, the walls that suddenly feel too close. Then I look at my phone.
Me: Okay. I trust you.
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing outside my building in jeans, sneakers, and a warm jacket, watching a black sedan pull up. Min-jae get out, and even at 12:40 AM, he looks unfairly put-together—dark jeans, a gray hoodie, hair slightly messed like he also tried and failed to sleep.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi. Where are we going?"
"You'll see. How adventurous are you feeling on a scale of one to ten?"
"At 12:40 AM? Maybe a six?"
"Perfect. Six is exactly what we need." He opens the passenger door for me. "Get in. We're going to see the city when it's honest."
"The city is honest at 12:40 AM?"
"The city is most honest between midnight and dawn. That's when it stops performing."
We drive through late-night Seoul—streets less crowded but still alive, neon signs reflecting off wet pavement from an earlier rain I didn't notice, convenience stores glowing like beacons. Min-jae, doesn't tell me where we're going, and I don't ask. There's something peaceful about not knowing, about surrendering control to someone else's plan.
We're heading south and west, away from Gangnam's sleek towers toward older, grittier parts of the city. The buildings get lower, the streets narrower. I recognize the route—we're approaching Noryangjin.
"Are we going to the fish market?" I ask.
Min-jae grins. "Have you been?"
"Once, during the day. It was overwhelming."
"Day visits don't count. The fish market is meant to be experienced at 3 AM when it's fully alive. When all the restaurants are still closed and the city's asleep, this place is pure energy."
He parks in a lot near the market, and even from here, I can hear it—the controlled chaos of commerce, voices shouting, the mechanical hum of refrigeration units. We walk toward the entrance, and the smell hits first: ocean, ice, salt, something primal and alive.
Noryangjin Fish Market at 2:47 AM is nothing like the sanitized daytime version. It's chaotic, loud, and beautiful in its functionality. Vendors shout prices and specials. Tanks bubble with live fish, octopus, and shellfish. Ajummas in rubber boots and waterproof aprons move with practiced efficiency, gutting and filleting and weighing with speed that looks like art.
"Come on," Min-jae says, taking my hand naturally, like we've been doing this for years. "Let's explore."
We wander through the aisles. Everything is alive here—not just the fish in tanks but the entire ecosystem of the market. Delivery trucks arrive with new catches. Wholesale buyers inspect and negotiate. Restaurant owners load purchases into carts. Everyone moves with purpose, no wasted motion, no performance. Just work.
"This is what I meant about the city being honest," Min-jae says, stopping to watch an ajumma expertly butterfly a mackerel. "No one's here to look good or impress anyone. They're just doing what needs to be done."
"You sound like you've thought about this a lot."
"I come here sometimes when I can't sleep. When work gets too polished and artificial, I need to remember that most of life is just showing up and doing the thing."
We keep walking, and I'm struck by how comfortable this feels—wandering through a fish market at 3 AM with someone I've known for five days, holding hands like it's the most natural thing in the world. This wasn't in my sabotage plan. This wasn't in any plan.
"Want to eat?" Min-jae asks, pointing to one of the small restaurants on the market's second floor. "We buy fish downstairs, they prepare it upstairs."
"At 3 AM?"
"Especially at 3 AM. Trust me."
We buy fresh sashimi—mackerel, sea bream, octopus—and carry it upstairs to a tiny restaurant with plastic chairs and fluorescent lighting. The ajumma running the place barely looks at us, just takes our fish and disappears into the kitchen. Five minutes later, she returns with everything beautifully arranged, along with side dishes, rice, and soju.
The restaurant is half-full despite the hour—market workers on breaks, a few other insomniacs like us, a group of businessmen who clearly never went home after their evening drinking session. Everyone looks exhausted and alive in equal measure.
Min-jae pours soju into the small shot glasses. "To 3 AM adventures."
"To 3 AM adventures," I echo, and we drink.
The soju burns perfectly. The fish is impossibly fresh—sweet and clean, tasting like the ocean. We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I realize this is the first time all day my brain has been quiet. No spiraling about the article. No guilt about deception. Just this moment, this place, this person across from me.
"So," Min-jae says, setting down his chopsticks. "Want to talk about what was keeping you awake?"
"Not really."
"Fair. Want to talk about something else?"
"Like what?"
"Like—" He thinks. "What's the thing you're most afraid of? Not small fears like spiders or heights. Big, existential fears."
The question catches me off guard. "That's deep for 3 AM sashimi."
"3 AM is when deep questions are allowed. That's the rule."
I take another shot of soju, considering. What am I most afraid of?
"I'm afraid of being invisible," I say finally. "Of doing work that doesn't matter, living a life that doesn't matter, and nobody noticing when I'm gone. I'm afraid of being forgettable."
Min-jae is quiet, watching me.
"That's why I care so much about my writing," I continue. "It's not just career ambition. It's wanting to create something that lasts. Something that proves I existed and my existence meant something."
"You're not invisible," Min-jae says softly. "You're one of the most present people I've ever met."
"You barely know me."
"I know you watch old movies at 3 AM. I know you want to write stories that matter. I know you spilled wine on me and turned it into the best conversation I've had in months. I know you're here right now, eating sashimi in a fish market, instead of doing whatever normal people do at 3 AM."
"Normal people sleep."
"Exactly. You're not normal. You're here. Fully here. That's the opposite of invisible."
My throat feels tight. "What about you? What's your big fear?"
Min-jae refills our soju glasses. "That's exactly what people think I am. Surface. No depth. That if you scraped away the good genes and the family name and the nice clothes, there'd be nothing underneath worth knowing."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it? You just met me five days ago. For all you know, this is all performance. The late-night fish market visit could be a calculated romantic gesture."
"Is it?"
He meets my eyes. "No. I came here tonight because I couldn't sleep either. Because when I'm stressed or confused, I come to places like this. And because I wanted to share that with you."
"Why?"
"Because—" He pauses, choosing words carefully. "Because you make me want to be honest. Really honest, not the version of honesty that still protects me. And that's terrifying because I don't know how to do that."
The soju is making everything feel more intense, more real. Around us, the restaurant continues its late-night rhythm—the ajumma refilling side dishes, the businessmen arguing about something in loud voices, the market worker scrolling his phone while mechanically eating rice.
"I need to tell you something," I said suddenly.
Min-jae go very still. "Okay."
This is it. This is the moment I should confess everything—the article, the assignment, the fact that I was supposed to drive him away but failed because he's genuine and kind and exactly the kind of person I didn't think existed.
But looking at his face in the harsh fluorescent light, exhausted and open and trusting, I can't do it. Not here. Not like this. Not when he just shared his deepest fear with me over $20 sashimi in a fish market at 3 AM.
"Thank you," I say instead. "For this. For bringing me here. For making me stop spiraling."
It's cowardice, and I know it. But I'll tell him. Soon. This weekend when we explore abandoned buildings, or Sunday before we meet his parents. I'll find the right moment and the right words, and I'll give him the choice to walk away.
Just not tonight.
Min-jae's shoulders relax slightly. "You're welcome. Thank you for trusting me enough to come."
We finished eating around 4 AM. Outside, the market is reaching peak energy—more trucks, more buyers, voices echoing off the metal roofs. The sky is still dark, but there's a quality to the darkness that suggests dawn isn't far off.
"Want to see the sunrise?" Min-jae asks.
"From where?"
"I know a spot."
We drive to Yeouido Han River Park, arriving just as the sky begins its transition from black to navy to purple. Min-jae parks, and we walk to the riverside, finding a bench facing east.
The city is quiet here—a few early-morning joggers, a man doing tai chi, and a couple sleeping in a tent nearby. Across the river, buildings stand dark against the lightning sky.
We sit close together, and Min-jae puts his arm around my shoulders. I lean into him, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
"This is my favorite time," he says quietly. "Right before sunrise. When it's neither night nor day. When the city's between identities."
"Liminal space."
"Exactly. No expectations. No performance. Just transition."
We watch the sky change—purple to pink to gold. The sun breaks the horizon, and Seoul begins its transformation back to daylight. Lights turn off in buildings. Traffic increases on the bridges. The city exhales its night self and inhales its day itself.
"I don't want this to end," I say, and I'm not sure if I mean this moment, this night, or whatever is happening between us.
"It doesn't have to," Min-jae says.
But it does. In five days, his bet ends. In nine days, my article is due. We're both on timelines neither of us has told the other about, and at some point, those timelines will collide.
For now, though, we sit on a bench watching the sunrise over the Han River, two people who came together under false pretenses and found something accidentally real.
When the sun is fully up and Seoul has completed its transformation into daylight, Min-jae drives me home. We're both exhausted—the particular exhaustion of staying awake all night, where everything feels slightly surreal and deeply significant at once.
At my building, he walks me to the door again.
"Thank you," I say. "For the fish market. For the sunrise. For all of it."
"Thank you for texting back at midnight."
"How did you know I was awake?"
"I didn't. I just hoped." He brushes a strand of hair from my face. "Get some sleep. See you Saturday?"
"Saturday. Abandoned buildings."
"Can't wait."
He kisses my forehead again—the same gentle kiss from the library night—and I watch him walk away, get in the car, and drive off into Seoul's morning traffic.
Inside my apartment, the laptop still glows on my desk. The two documents are still open. The two versions of this story are still waiting to be reconciled.
I close the "Field Notes" document without adding anything.
I open "Real Notes" and type:
*Day 5 (technically Day 6 at 6:30 AM): He took me to Noryangjin Fish Market at 3 AM. We ate sashimi and drank soju and talked about our fears. He said I'm not invisible. I almost told him the truth but didn't because I'm a coward.*
*We watched the sunrise from Yeouido, and he said "This doesn't have to end," and I wanted to believe him.*
*Five days left until his timeline ends. Nine days until mine does. I need to tell him before then. I need to find the courage to be as honest as he's been with me.*
*But not yet. Not when everything is this good.*
I close the laptop and fall into bed. Through my window, morning Seoul is fully awake—people heading to work, shops opening, life resuming its normal patterns.
I fall asleep thinking about Min-jae's arm around my shoulders, the sunrise painting the river gold, and the impossible mathematics of how five days can feel like forever and not nearly long enough at the same time.