Some stories do not announce themselves.
They arrive quietly—and stay forever.
Kim Jin-Ah was twenty-two, an intern at Kang Cosmetics, the largest cosmetics company in South Korea. Every morning, she followed the same routine: wake up before the alarm, tie her hair neatly, dress simply, and leave the house without expecting anything from the day.
That morning began like any other—soft sunlight slipping through the curtains, the city already awake outside her window.
And yet, her heart felt restless.
Because of the letter.
She had found it the previous night, folded carefully inside her bag, as if someone had placed it there with intention.
Hey, Kim Jin-Ah.
I love the way you are. You are mesmerizing in ways you don't realize.
I notice you every day. You never notice me.
I don't have the courage to say this to your face, so I'm writing instead.
I hope this letter doesn't make you sad.
You should be happy—for another girl.
She read it again before leaving home.
And again in the bus.
And once more in the lift mirror, just to convince herself it was real.
It was only a letter.
But for Jin-Ah, it felt like proof of existence.
She had always existed quietly.
In school, she spoke only when necessary. She listened more than she talked. She liked people, but crowds made her shrink. Once, she had gathered all her courage and confessed her feelings to a boy she admired.
He hadn't laughed.
He hadn't been cruel.
He had simply said, "You're not my type."
The calmness of his voice had hurt more than anger ever could.
Since then, Jin-Ah had learned how to be invisible without disappearing.
That was why the letter mattered.
Someone had seen her. Properly. Carefully.
For one night, she had fallen asleep feeling chosen.
That morning, she looked at her reflection longer than usual. There was something lighter in her eyes. Hope, maybe. Or foolishness.
At the office, she rushed toward the lift just before the doors closed.
And then she saw him.
Mr. Park.
Tall, composed, unreadable. The kind of man people trusted without knowing why. Every woman in the team admired him quietly.
Jin-Ah did too.
"Good morning," she said.
He nodded. "Good morning."
Nothing more. No smile this time. Just a brief glance that lingered for half a second longer than necessary.
Her heart reacted before her mind could stop it.
What if…
The thought embarrassed her instantly.
She looked away.
No. Someone like him wouldn't write a letter like that.
He wouldn't need to.
The lift doors opened.
Throughout the day, the letter weighed on her like a secret. She laughed when others joked, worked when she was told, but her eyes searched faces unconsciously—as if the answer might be written somewhere obvious.
Near the washroom, she heard a familiar voice.
"Did you get my letter, Jin-Ah?"
She slowed.
A girl laughed on the other end of the call. "What letter? I didn't receive anything."
Hyun's voice followed, slightly confused. "I put it in your bag."
Another Jin-Ah.
Different department.
The realization settled slowly, painfully.
The letter was never meant for her.
Nothing shattered. Nothing dramatic happened.
But something inside her quietly folded in on itself.
She left the office early.
The streets were crowded, but she felt oddly alone—like someone who had borrowed happiness for a night and been asked to return it without explanation.
While crossing the road, she noticed an old woman struggling with heavy bags. Jin-Ah stepped forward without thinking, holding her arm, guiding her safely across.
When they reached the other side, the woman didn't let go.
She looked directly into Jin-Ah's eyes.
"You are very beautiful," she said.
The words felt… precise.
Not polite. Not casual.
Jin-Ah smiled. "Thank you."
The woman leaned closer. "If you make a wish tonight—one that comes from the deepest part of your heart—it will be answered."
Jin-Ah nodded politely.
When she turned back—
The woman was gone.
No footsteps. No crowd moving away.
Just empty space.
That night, Jin-Ah lay on her bed, staring at the full moon. The city hummed outside, indifferent to her thoughts. Tears slid silently into her hair.
She wondered when being herself had become insufficient.
Her watch beeped.
11:11.
She whispered into the quiet room, not expecting anything in return.
"If I could hear men's thoughts… even once… I would never misunderstand again."
The air felt heavier.
As if the silence had leaned in to listen.
Kim Jin-Ah closed her eyes.
Unaware that by morning,
silence would no longer belong to her.