Life Between Dreams - A Jisoo AU Fanfiction
Chapter 1&2
Kim Jisoo falls asleep wondering what a normal life would feel like — and wakes up in 1994, pregnant and wrapped in the arms of a husband she’s never met. Convinced it’s just an incredibly vivid dream, she lets herself enjoy the fantasy… until morning proves otherwise.
Chapter 1: A Dream That Breathed
2026 | Seoul
The silence in the Gangnam apartment was a polished, expensive thing. It wasn’t the absence of sound—beyond the double-paned windows, Seoul thrummed with its perpetual, electric heartbeat—but a curated quiet, built from soundproofed walls, plush carpets, and the kind of space that swallowed echoes. Kim Jisoo, age thirty-one, stood in the center of her living room and felt the day finally drain from her bones.
It had been a good day. A full day. The kind that left a pleasant, buzzing fatigue in its wake. The morning had been a Dior fitting—a whirlwind of crisp white shirts, tailored blazers, and the heady scent of new fabric under studio lights. The head designer, a perpetually energetic Frenchwoman, had kept up a running commentary in rapid-fire English while Jisoo turned slowly before the three-way mirror. “Parfaite, Jisoo-ssi. The line on you is… it is a dream. You make the clothes speak.” Jisoo had smiled, the professional, grateful curve of her lips, and murmured her thanks. She knew her body was a mannequin in these moments, a canvas. It was a role she played well.
The afternoon had been BLISSOO. Seated at a sleek glass table in the company’s conference room, the air cool and smelling of coffee and printed presentations. Charts, projections, market analyses. Her team spoke in a language of engagement rates, conversion metrics, and brand synergy. Jisoo listened, her chin propped on her hand, her focus shifting between the PowerPoint slides and the way the late winter sun cut a sharp, golden rectangle across the table. Sometimes, in these meetings, she felt like two people. Kim Jisoo, the artist, the idol. And Kim Jisoo, the CEO, the brand. They were learning to live together, these two selves, but the seams between them still sometimes showed, fine as hairline cracks in porcelain.
The last stop had been the recording studio. A potential solo release, just exploratory vocals laid over a simple, haunting piano track. The producer, an old friend, had grinned at her from behind the console. “Just feel it, Jisoo-yah. No pressure. It’s just us.” In the isolation booth, headphones sealing her in, she’d closed her eyes and let the melody wash over her. The lyrics were about longing for something you couldn’t name, a quiet ache for a different shade of light. She’d sung them softly, feeling the vibration in her throat, the strange vulnerability of singing without choreography, without a stage, without anyone but the microphone to witness her. When she finished, there was a long beat of silence over the intercom before his voice crackled, “Wow. Okay. That’s… that’s the one.”
Now, home. The apartment was beautiful in a way that felt almost impersonal. All clean lines, neutral tones, and statement art pieces chosen by an interior designer who understood ‘luxury minimalist’ better than she understood ‘home’. Jisoo toed off her heels, the relief immediate and profound, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of water, the ice clinking softly, and leaned against the cool marble countertop.
Her phone glowed on the surface beside her. A final scroll through Instagram before bed, a mindless ritual. Feed after feed of polished moments: a colleague’s vacation in Jeju, a brand announcement, a fan’s intricate digital art of BLACKPINK’s debut era. Then she saw it. A fan edit, posted by an account with a username full of hearts and ‘oo’s. Two side-by-side images. On the left, a paparazzi shot of her from a recent event, hair styled, in a dazzling sequined gown, smiling that bright, perfect smile under a barrage of camera flashes. The caption read: Kim Jisoo, Princess of Dior. On the right, a piece of soft, watercolor-style fanart. It depicted a woman who looked like her, but softer. She was wearing a simple, oversized sweater, her hair in a messy bun, holding a cup of tea. She stood in a cozy-looking kitchen, sunlight streaming onto a wooden table. The caption here: What if Kim Jisoo was just… our neighbor? The title over both images: Celebrity Life vs. Normal Person AU.
Jisoo stared at it. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, one that didn’t feel practiced. She let out a soft puff of air, almost a laugh. It was sweet. Absurd, but sweet. Her thumb hovered, then tapped screenshot. She saved it to her camera roll, a tiny digital piece of someone else’s imagination about her own life.
“Dalgom-ah,” she called softly. The white poodle trotted in from the bedroom, nails clicking on the hardwood. She scratched behind his ears. “What do you think? Would I be a good neighbor?”
The shower was a ritual of steam and scent. She used Dior Prestige La Crème—part of the ambassadorship, yes, but she’d come to genuinely love the rich texture, the subtle floral-woody fragrance that lingered on her skin. She massaged it into her face, her neck, the routine precise and calming. It was a way of washing off the day, the layers of makeup, the persona. In the fogged mirror, her reflection was blurred, just a shape. Herself, but not.
She pulled on oversized cotton pajamas, the fabric soft from countless washes. In the bedroom, she slid under the duvet. Dalgom jumped up and settled at her feet with a contented sigh. She turned off the lamp, plunging the room into a deep blue gloom, lit only by the faint, constant glow of the city seeping around the edges of the blackout curtains.
Silence. Or the apartment’s version of it. The hum of the refrigerator. The distant, muffled whine of a scooter on the street below.
Her mind, finally stilling, drifted into that pre-sleep limbo. The fanart floated back into her thoughts. A normal person. What did that even mean? For her, normalcy was a foreign country she’d left at sixteen. She knew its contours only from movies, from watching the staff live their lives, from fleeting glimpses out of car windows. What would she be doing right now, at thirty-one, if she wasn’t… this? If there was no BLACKPINK, no cameras, no schedules that mapped her life in fifteen-minute increments?
Would she be married? The thought wasn’t sad, not even wistful. It was a gentle curiosity, like wondering about a book she’d never read. Would she have children? A small, warm weight in her arms, a different kind of exhaustion at the end of the day? Would she live in a house with a little yard, would she argue with her husband about whose turn it was to take out the trash, would she know all her neighbors by name?
Would she be happy?
It was an impossible question. She was happy. She loved her life, loved the art she’d helped create, loved her sisters, loved the roar of a stadium full of light. But happiness wasn’t a monolith. It could have different shapes, different textures. The curiosity was about the shape of the other ones, the roads her feet had never touched.
Her breathing deepened. The weight of the day, of the week, of the year, settled over her like a second blanket. Dalgom twitched in his sleep. Jisoo’s last conscious thought was a hazy, abstract feeling—not an image, but a sensation. The feeling of a hand, warm and sure, resting on the small of her back.
Then, nothing.
・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・
It began with sound. Or the absence of it.
The low, consistent hum of Seoul—the bass note of her reality for over a decade—simply faded. It didn’t stop abruptly; it dissolved, like sugar in water, leaving behind a different kind of quiet. This quiet was textured. It had layers. The creak of wood. The faint, papery rustle of… something. A soft, rhythmic sigh that wasn’t her own.
Then, smell. The clean, neutral scent of her linen spray was gone, replaced by something complex and unfamiliar. Old paper, yes, like a library. Polished wood. A hint of lemon cleaner. And underneath it all, something cooking—ginger, garlic, the earthy depth of doenjang. Homey. Deeply, overwhelmingly domestic.
Touch. The mattress beneath her changed. It was softer, yet thinner. She felt the give of the bedframe beneath it. The sheets were cotton, but a different weave—slightly rougher, starched. And warmth. A profound, solid warmth pressed against her back, from shoulders to calves. A line of heat. The sigh she’d heard repeated, a soft exhalation that stirred the hair at her nape.
Body heat. Someone was there.
Jisoo’s eyes snapped open.
・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・
Yellow light.
That was her first coherent thought. The light was yellow, pale and buttery, filtering through thin curtains printed with a faded pattern of tiny blue flowers. It lit up motes of dust dancing in a slow, silent waltz.
This was not her ceiling. Her ceiling was smooth, white, and recessed with discreet LED lights. This ceiling was textured with old plaster, a hairline crack meandering from the corner like a tiny river on a map. A single, bare bulb hung from a wire in the center.
She was lying on her side. Her body felt… wrong. Her center of gravity was off. There was a heavy, round weight pulling at her middle, a deep, dull ache in the small of her back. She shifted, trying to roll onto her back, and the weight shifted with her, a firm, unignorable presence against the mattress.
Jisoo looked down.
A swell of fabric. A rounded dome straining the soft cotton of her nightgown. She placed a hand on it, slowly, as if approaching a strange animal. It was firm. Warm. And as her fingers pressed gently, something… moved. A slow, rolling pressure against her palm from the inside.
She snatched her hand back as if burned.
A sound escaped her lips, a choked-off gasp that was half shock, half a system error—the blaring, internal DOES NOT COMPUTE.
Pregnant. She was very, very pregnant.
Okay. The word formed in her mind, calm and flat amidst the screaming of her nerves. Okay okay okay. I’m dreaming. This is obviously a dream. A very realistic, very detailed, very PREGNANT dream. This is what I get for thinking weird thoughts before bed. The universe heard me and said ‘bet.’
The logic, dream-logic, settled over her panic like a blanket. It made perfect sense. The fanart, the late-night musings about alternate lives—her subconscious had simply decided to run with it. And it had committed. Full period drama. She almost wanted to give it points for the production design.
The person behind her—the source of the warmth—stirred. An arm, heavy with sleep, slid across her waist, coming to rest just above the impossible curve of her belly. The touch was careful, practiced. A hand splayed possessively, gently, over her. A face nuzzled into the space between her shoulder blades. A voice, thick with sleep, mumbled into her nightgown.
“Sooya… sleep a little more…”
The voice was deep, softened by drowsiness. It wasn’t a voice she knew. The name wasn’t her name.
Jisoo became a plank of wood. She stopped breathing. She stared at the faded flowers on the curtain and counted her heartbeats, which were currently attempting a drum solo against her ribs. Nine seconds. Ten. Eleven.
The arm around her tightened just a fraction, pulling her back snugly against a solid, warm chest. The man—Suho, her dream-brain supplied, remembering the prompt—let out a contented sigh and fell still again, his breathing evening back into sleep.
Right. Suho. The husband. Of course her dream would include a husband. Go big or go home.
The initial shock began to recede, replaced by a bubbling, hysterical curiosity. Well, if this was a dream, she might as well explore it. She’d always been a “let’s see what happens” person. Jennie called it her 4D personality. Lisa called it chaos. Right now, it felt like a survival mechanism.
With painstaking slowness, she peeled the arm from her waist. The man—Suho—didn’t stir. He slept with the profound depth of the innocent. She slid out from under the covers, the morning air cool on her skin. Standing up was a revelation. Her body was unfamiliar territory. The weight in her front pulled her forward. She had to adjust her stance, settling her weight back on her heels to keep her balance. A faint, rhythmic pressure low in her belly—the baby, shifting. The dream-baby, she corrected herself firmly.
The room was small, cozy in a way her apartment never was. Wooden floors, worn smooth in paths from bed to door. A simple wooden wardrobe. A dresser with a small, oval mirror, its silvering flecked at the edges. A framed photograph sat on the dresser, but the light was too dim to make out the details. Her eyes were drawn to the window, to the yellow light and the quiet street beyond.
She caught her reflection in the dark mirror as she passed.
She still looked like herself. Kim Jisoo. Same eyes, same nose, same mouth. But… softer. Younger, maybe? Her hair was longer, falling in loose, unstyled waves past her shoulders, ink-black without a trace of dye. Her skin was bare of makeup, showing a faint dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks she hadn’t seen since trainee days. There was a healthy, sun-kissed glow to it. And her face held a different kind of quiet, a stillness that wasn’t about being camera-ready.
And then there was the profile. The dramatic, graceful curve from her breasts down to the proud swell of her stomach. She placed both hands on it. It was real. In the way dreams feel real. Solid. Alive. She swayed slightly, a wave of dizziness that was both physical and metaphysical.
“Okay, dream,” she whispered to her reflection. “Lead the way.”
She found a pair of slippers by the door and slipped them on. They were padded, warm. The bedroom door opened onto a short, narrow landing. Stairs led down directly into what looked like… a shop.
The smell hit her first, stronger now. Paper. Glue. Ink. Wood polish. It was a pleasant, nostalgic smell. She descended the stairs, her hand on the smooth wooden banister.
달빛 문방구 (Moonlight Stationery).
The shop was small, crammed full of inventory but meticulously organized. Shelves from floor to ceiling were packed with notebooks of all sizes—simple wire-bound ones, thicker journals with plain covers, stacks of loose-leaf paper tied with string. There were boxes of pencils, rows of pens in basic blue, black, and red, bottles of ink, pots of glue. A spinning rack held postcards with painted landscapes of Gunsan—the seaport, the mountains. A glass countertop displayed finer items: fountain pens, sets of watercolors, beautiful hanji paper. At the front, two large windows looked out onto the street, letting in the morning sun which illuminated the dancing dust in the shop air.
It was charming. Quaint. And, her professional eye noted immediately, the merchandising was terrible. The best items were hidden. The lighting was atrocious. There was no cohesive branding. The “packaging” was essentially non-existent. A part of her brain, the BLISSOO part, immediately began drafting a restructuring plan. She shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. Why am I brand-strategizing in a dream?
The front door was locked, a simple bolt. She slid it open, the metal clack loud in the quiet, and stepped outside.
The air was cold and crisp, carrying the damp, salty tang of the sea. Not the filtered, climate-controlled air of Seoul. Real air. She breathed it in deeply.
The street was narrow, paved with old, worn cobblestones. The buildings were low, a mix of traditional Korean hanok structures with curved tile roofs and simpler, Japanese-colonial style buildings with wooden facades. Across the street, an elderly woman was sweeping the steps of a small eatery, the rhythmic swish-swish of her broom a peaceful sound. A bicycle bell ting-a-linged in the distance. Somewhere, a radio was playing a trot song, the melody tinny and faint.
She looked down the road. At the end of the street, the land opened up, and she could see the dark green folds of mountains in the distance. And beyond them, a sliver of shimmering grey-blue. The sea.
Where am I? The thought was calm. WHEN am I?
Her eyes fell on a newspaper rack fixed to the wall beside the shop door. A single copy of the Gunsan Ilbo was tucked inside. She pulled it out.
The headline was about a local fisheries dispute. Her eyes dropped to the date.
March 15, 1994.
She stared at the numbers. 1994. The year before she was born. She was looking at a newspaper from the day she was, in her other life, a newborn baby in Ilsan, oblivious to everything.
A laugh bubbled out of her, sudden and bright in the quiet street. It was a pure, delighted sound. “Okay, dream-brain,” she said aloud, folding the paper and tucking it back. “1994. Full period drama. I love the commitment. The detail is impressive. A-plus.”
Convinced, utterly convinced of the dream’s narrative, she felt a wave of relaxation. The rules were set. She was Sooya, pregnant wife of a stationery shop owner in 1994 Gunsan. Her only task was to experience it.
She was about to go back inside when a voice, warm and laced with sleepy concern, came from behind her.
“Sooya-ya? Why are you down already? You’re barefoot.”
She turned. Suho stood in the shop doorway. He was more awake now, his glasses perched on his nose, his black hair charmingly messy. He wore a soft, well-worn flannel shirt over a plain white t-shirt, and his trousers were slightly too short, showing his socks. He wasn’t tall, but he had a solid, comfortable presence. His eyes, behind the glasses, were fixed on her feet with a faint frown.
Before she could respond, he disappeared back inside and emerged a moment later with a pair of padded indoor slippers. He came to her, knelt on the cold cobblestones without a second thought, and gently took her foot, guiding it into the slipper. He did the same with the other, his touch firm and careful. It was an act of such unthinking, habitual tenderness that Jisoo’s breath caught in her throat.
He stood up, dusted his knees, and looked at her face. His expression softened. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. His lips were warm. “Hungry?” he asked, as if this was the most normal morning in the world. “I’ll make it. What do you want today?”
Jisoo, operating on dream-logic autopilot, smiled. “Anything?”
Suho’s eyebrows shot up. He narrowed his eyes playfully, a dimple appearing in his cheek. “Anything? Our Sooya says ‘anything’? Usually you’re pickier than a restaurant menu. ‘Suho-ya, not too salty.’ ‘Suho-ya, make the eggs runny.’ ‘Suho-ya, I think I want juk instead.’” He imitated a whiny voice, but his eyes were full of affection.
He laughed at his own impression, a warm, open sound that seemed to fill the cool morning air. Despite everything—the impossible pregnancy, the wrong year, the wrong life—Jisoo felt the corner of her mouth twitch in response. The dream had excellent casting.
“Surprise me,” she said.
His smile widened. “A challenge. I accept. Go sit. I’ll bring it up.”
He ushered her back inside, his hand a light, guiding pressure on the small of her back—the exact spot she’d felt a phantom touch just before falling asleep. She shivered.
She sat on the high stool behind the counter as he bustled through a door behind the shop that led, she presumed, to a kitchen. She explored the counter. A simple cash register, an abacus dusty with disuse, a ledger book with neat columns of numbers. She opened a drawer. Pens, paper clips, a few loose stamps. And a wallet.
Curiosity won. She opened it. There was some worn won notes—the old-style currency she’d only seen in museums. An ID card.
Lee Soo-ya. Female. Born: March 3, 1969. Address: Gunsan-si…
The photo was black and white, slightly grainy. It was her face. Younger. Serious. But undeniably her.
“Finding everything?” Suho’s voice made her jump. He was leaning in the kitchen doorway, holding two steaming bowls. He didn’t look suspicious, just amused.
“Just… checking the inventory,” Jisoo said lamely, sliding the drawer shut.
He chuckled. “Of course. CEO-nim.” He placed a bowl in front of her. It was a simple, beautiful gyeran-mari—a rolled omelette—perfectly golden, sliced into delicate rounds, served over a bed of warm rice. A small dish of kimchi and some spinach namul sat beside it. It was humble, perfect.
“It’s beautiful,” Jisoo said, and meant it.
They ate in a comfortable silence broken only by the sounds of their spoons and Suho’s occasional soft comments about a customer who might come by later. Jisoo watched him. The way he pushed his glasses up his nose with a knuckle. The way he carefully picked the greenest pieces of kimchi for her bowl. The quiet, contented focus he gave to his food. He was nothing like anyone in her world. He was utterly real.
After breakfast, Suho opened the shop. He moved with a methodical, quiet efficiency. Flipping the hand-painted sign on the door from ‘CLOSED’ to ‘OPEN’. Using a feather duster to gently sweep the tops of the notebook stacks. Rearranging the front window display to feature a new set of colored pencils. He hummed while he worked, a tune she didn’t recognize, gloriously off-key.
The customers came slowly. A harried mother buying a stack of notebooks and complaining about school fees. An elderly man who spent twenty minutes browsing the used paperback novels on a back shelf, finally selecting a worn copy of a Korean translation of Les Misérables. A pair of middle-school girls giggling over sparkly stickers. Suho handled them all with the same patient, kind attention. He knew the mother’s children’s names. He discussed the themes of Hugo’s work with the old man. He teased the girls about which boy they were making the stickers for.
Jisoo observed from her stool, the silent dreamer. She found a blank, high-quality notebook under the counter and began flipping through it. The paper was thick, creamy, with a slight tooth. It would be perfect for watercolor. The cover, however, was a drab, utilitarian brown. This needs a redesign, she thought, her mind automatically crafting a vision: a soft, moon-blue cover, the shop’s name embossed in silver, a simple line drawing of a mountain and sea. A limited edition Moonlight Stationery journal. Market it to the university students in Jeonju… She shook her head, smiling at herself. Stop it. This isn’t a brand workshop. It’s a dream.
The bell above the door jingled, and a new scent entered—savory, meaty, delicious. A small, spry elderly woman bustled in, holding a covered plate. She had a face like a kindly apple, wrinkled and bright-eyed.
“Sooya-ya!” she called, her voice a loud, cheerful rasp. “I saw Suho opening the shutters. You’re up! But why does your face look like that? Pale! Didn’t you sleep well? I told you, pregnant women need to sleep a lot! In our day, we worked in the fields until our water broke, but that doesn’t mean it was right! You modern girls need to rest!”
This, Jisoo understood, was Halmeoni Ok-soon from the dumpling shop next door. The torrent of unsolicited advice was delivered with such blunt, grandmotherly force that it bypassed Jisoo’s usual filters. In her dream-logic state, with no social calibration for 1994 small-town etiquette, she responded with equal directness.
She took the proffered plate, uncovering it to reveal six perfect, plump mandu, still steaming. “Oh, yes. Thank you, Halmeoni. But these are really good.” She took a bite right there. The flavor was incredible—garlicky, juicy, the wrapper tender. Her eyes widened. “Seriously. Do you have the recipe?”
Halmeoni Ok-soon stopped mid-stride, her next lecture dying on her lips. She blinked. Sooya was usually so quiet, smiling and nodding politely. This Sooya… was looking her right in the eye, chewing with genuine appreciation, and asking for her recipe. A slow, delighted smile spread across the old woman’s face. She puffed up like a little bird.
“The recipe? Pah! It’s in here!” She tapped her temple. “A little of this, a little of that. The secret is the kimchi. You have to use the right fermentation. I’ll show you sometime. When you’re less… round.” She patted Jisoo’s belly with a surprisingly gentle hand. “Different today, our Sooya. I like it.” With a final nod to Suho, she bustled back out.
Suho was looking at Jisoo with a curious, soft expression. “She’s right,” he said after a moment. “You are different today.”
Jisoo felt a flicker of panic, but drowned it in dream-rationale. “Just… a good dream,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
The day unfurled slowly, a lazy ribbon of time. Jisoo explored the living quarters behind the shop—a small kitchen with a two-burner gas stove, a bathroom with a deep, old-fashioned tub, a living room with a sagging but comfortable sofa and a small television with rabbit-ear antennas. It was all modest, worn, but cared for. Love was in the details: the crocheted blanket draped over the sofa, the well-seasoned cast-iron pots, the stack of library books on the side table.
She went upstairs and examined the wardrobe. The clothes were simple, practical maternity wear—loose dresses, elastic-waisted pants, soft sweaters. No brands, no labels. She chose a long, navy blue dress made of a soft cotton blend and put it on. It felt strange, the fabric draping over the unfamiliar landscape of her body. She looked in the bedroom mirror. She saw a woman who looked like her, but who belonged here. A woman who knew how to season a soup, who mended socks, who waited for her husband to come home from work. I look… domestic, she thought, with a distant wonder. I look like someone’s wife.
As evening drew in, Suho closed the shop, pulling the heavy shutters with a final, definitive clatter. The world outside dimmed to shades of blue and grey. He made dinner—doenjang jjigae, the rich, fermented soybean paste stew bubbling with tofu, zucchini, and potatoes. The smell filled the small kitchen, deep and comforting. They ate at the low table in the living room, knees almost touching underneath.
He talked about the day’s sales—not great. A distributor had increased paper prices. The school down the street was switching to a different supplier. He spoke without self-pity, just stating facts. The part of Jisoo that was a CEO itched to analyze, to strategize, to suggest a loyalty program or a social media campaign. She bit her tongue. Don’t get invested. It’s a dream.
But watching him, the soft worry line between his brows, the way he diligently finished every grain of rice in his bowl, she felt a strange, protective pang. This man, this dream-husband, was trying his best.
After washing the dishes (he washed, she dried, a silent, efficient dance), they went upstairs. The room was dark now, lit only by a small lamp on his side of the bed. He sat propped against the headboard, reading a worn paperback with a cracked spine. She changed into a soft nightgown and slid into bed beside him, hyper-aware of every detail: the rustle of the pages, the faint scent of soap on his skin, the deep, regular sound of his breathing, the occasional, miraculous shift of the baby inside her.
Her mind was a whirlwind. The realism was staggering. The sensory overload was complete. This felt less like a dream and more like… a possession. She was inhabiting a life.
He put the book down on the nightstand with a soft thud and turned off the lamp. The room plunged into darkness, broken only by the silver moonlight now streaming through the curtains. He turned to her. She could feel his gaze even in the dark.
His hand came up, fingers gently brushing her hair back from her face. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone, a touch so tender it made her heart ache. His hand lingered on her cheek, warm and solid.
“You were a little different today,” he whispered. His voice was a low rumble in the dark. Not an accusation. Not a complaint. A simple, loving observation.
Jisoo’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. This was the edge of the dream. The intimate core. It’s just a dream, she chanted internally. He’s not real. I’m not really here. None of this counts. The logic held, but her body didn’t seem to believe it. Her skin was alive under his touch. Her breath hitched.
In dreams, you don’t have to be careful. You don’t have to guard your image, protect your brand, maintain a distance. In dreams, you can just… feel.
She didn’t pull away.
A soft sound escaped him—a sigh of contentment, of homecoming. His hand slid from her cheek, down her neck, over her shoulder, coming to rest on the slope of her belly. He splayed his fingers wide, feeling the curve, the life beneath. The baby shifted, a rolling pressure against his palm. He stilled, then let out a breathless, wondrous laugh.
“Hello there,” he murmured to her stomach.
Then his touch moved again, tracing the neckline of her nightgown, his fingers slipping beneath the thin fabric to cup her breast. His thumb stroked her nipple, and it tightened instantly into a hard, sensitive peak. A sharp gasp tore from Jisoo’s lips. It had been so long since she’d been touched like this, with such uncomplicated, devoted desire. Not for a camera, not as part of a fantasy, but as a man wanting his wife.
“Suho…” she breathed, his name foreign and familiar on her tongue.
“Shhh,” he whispered, shifting closer. His lips found hers in the darkness.
The kiss was slow, deep, and devastatingly sweet. It wasn’t frantic or performative. It was a rediscovery. His mouth was warm, his lips soft but sure. He tasted of green tea and home. One hand remained cradling her breast, his thumb still making slow, maddening circles, while the other arm wrapped around her, pulling her as close as the swell of her belly would allow.
Jisoo surrendered to it. To the dream. Her arms came up around his neck, her fingers tangling in his soft, messy hair. She kissed him back, letting the strange, wonderful sensations wash over her. The scratch of his flannel shirt against her arms. The solid muscle of his back under her palms. The hot, insistent pressure of his erection against her thigh.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, and trailed his lips down her jaw, her neck, to the sensitive hollow of her throat. His hands worked the buttons of her nightgown open, one by one, until the fabric fell apart. The cool night air hit her skin, followed immediately by the heat of his mouth on her breast. He took her nipple inside, sucking gently, his tongue flicking over the peak.
A moan, low and involuntary, ripped from Jisoo’s chest. Her back arched off the bed, pushing herself deeper into his mouth. Pleasure, sharp and bright, lanced through her, pooling hot and heavy between her legs. She was already wet, her body responding with an eager, ancient logic that her mind had no hope of governing.
“Sooya…” he murmured against her skin, his voice thick with reverence. “My beautiful Sooya.”
His kisses trailed lower, over the taut, stretched skin of her belly. He worshipped it with his lips, his whispered words lost against her skin. He moved down, down, pushing the nightgown completely aside, settling between her thighs.
The first touch of his tongue there made her cry out, her hands flying to fist in the sheets. It was so intimate, so vulnerable. He held her hips gently, his grip firm but yielding, as he tasted her. He was slow, thorough, attentive. He learned her rhythm, her responses, with the same patient focus he gave to his shop. His tongue circled her clit, flat and broad, then focused into a precise, relentless point. One of his fingers, slick with her arousal, pressed gently at her entrance, then slid inside, curling just so.
The orgasm built slowly, a rising tide of heat and tension, coiling tighter and tighter in her belly. She was panting, her hips moving helplessly against his mouth. The world narrowed to the dark room, the sound of his breathing, the exquisite pressure of his tongue and finger.
“Suho… I’m going to…” she gasped, a warning, a plea.
He answered by sucking her clit firmly into his mouth, his finger pressing deep.
The release shattered her. It was a wave of pure, blinding pleasure that crashed over her, pulling a long, ragged cry from her throat. Her body convulsed, trembling uncontrollably as he gentled his touch, drawing out every last pulse and shudder until she lay boneless, gasping into the dark.
He moved up her body, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her collarbone, her lips. She could taste herself on his mouth, salty and intimate. He was still fully dressed, his flannel shirt rough against her sensitized skin. She fumbled with his buttons, her hands clumsy with aftershocks.
“Let me,” he whispered, sitting up to strip off his shirt and trousers. The moonlight caught the lines of his body—lean, strong, beautiful in its ordinary masculinity. He leaned over her again, his eyes dark pools of affection and hunger.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice rough. Always checking. Always caring.
She nodded, reaching for him. “Yes. Please.”
He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her slick, swollen flesh. He pushed in slowly, inch by exquisite inch, giving her body time to stretch and accommodate him. The fullness was overwhelming, a perfect, aching pressure. He buried his face in her neck, groaning as he seated himself fully inside her.
“God… you feel… you always feel like heaven,” he choked out.
Then he began to move. His thrusts were deep, slow, and measured, a rhythm set to the beating of their hearts. Each stroke dragged against a spot inside her that sent sparks flying behind her eyelids. One of his hands slid under her hip, tilting her to take him even deeper. The other hand found its way between their bodies, his thumb resuming its gentle, circular massage on her clit.
The second orgasm crept up on her, different from the first. Not a crashing wave, but a warm, golden sunrise spreading from her core outward. It was tied inextricably to the feeling of him inside her, to the love in his touch, to the profound, impossible reality of this shared moment. She clung to him, her nails digging into the sweat-damp skin of his back, her cries muffled against his shoulder as she came again, a soft, continuous unraveling that seemed to go on forever.
It tipped him over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, he groaned her name—Sooya—and she felt the hot pulse of his release inside her. He collapsed onto her, careful to keep his weight on his elbows, his forehead resting against hers, their breath mingling in the dark.
For a long time, they just lay like that, connected, hearts hammering in unison. Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He didn’t roll away. He gathered her into his arms, turning them onto their sides, her back to his chest, his arm draping possessively over her waist, his hand once again resting on the curve of her belly. He kissed her shoulder.
“I love you,” he whispered, his voice slurry with impending sleep. “So much.”
Jisoo said nothing. She couldn’t. The words were a stone in her throat. She lay in the circle of his arms, feeling the baby stir lazily within her, feeling the warm, sticky evidence of their lovemaking between her thighs, feeling his steady breath against her neck.
My subconscious really said the full drama, huh? she thought, drowsiness beginning to pull at her. OST and everything.
A faint, incredulous smile touched her lips. She had never felt so physically satiated, so emotionally… touched. In her world, intimacy was a concept, a rumor, something that happened to other people in movies. This felt like belonging. This felt like home.
It was just a dream. But it was the most real dream she’d ever had.
She let her eyes close. She let herself be held. She fell asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat against her back.
・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・
2026 | Seoul
Beep. Beep. Beepbeepbeepbeep—
Jisoo’s eyes flew open. Darkness. Then the familiar, dim pre-dawn glow of her bedroom. The insistent, electronic shriek of her phone alarm.
A warm, wet tongue swiped across her cheek. Dalgom.
She sat up, gasping. The movement felt strange. Light. Unbalanced. She looked down, throwing the duvet aside.
Flat stomach. The smooth plane of her own abdomen under her silk pajama top. No weight. No curve.
Her hands flew to her belly, pressing. Nothing. No movement. Just her own firm muscle and skin.
She was alone in the bed.
The room was silent except for the alarm and Dalgom’s panting. Her room. Her bed. The city’s faint hum beyond the windows.
“What…” she breathed.
She stumbled out of bed, her legs shaky, and rushed to the bathroom, flipping on the blinding LED lights. She stared at her reflection.
Kim Jisoo. Perfectly styled sleep-messy hair. Flawless skin, courtesy of last night’s Dior Prestige routine. Her own face, her own body, slender and familiar.
But her skin felt… different. Not physically. Emotionally. It felt alive, humming, sensitive in a way it hadn’t for years. She could still feel the phantom weight of an arm across her waist, the warm press of a body against her back. She raised a hand and touched her cheek where his thumb had traced her cheekbone. The skin there felt electrified.
She looked at her reflection, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. A deep, hot flush was spreading across her chest and up her neck, a blush that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.
“I must really be crazy,” she said aloud, her voice hoarse.
The shower was a mechanical routine. The water hit her skin, and for a second, she imagined it was the sweat cooling on her skin from another world. She shook her head violently, as if to dislodge the thought. Stop it.
But she couldn’t stop her hands. As she dried off, she kept touching her stomach, her breasts, her thighs. Her body remembered. It remembered the slow, deep thrusts, the curl of a tongue, the careful, worshipping hands. Arousal, faint and persistent, thrummed low in her belly, a leftover echo from a dream that felt more like a memory.
She dressed on autopilot: simple black trousers, a cream-colored knit sweater, minimal jewelry. She applied her makeup with a steady hand, constructing the public face of Kim Jisoo. But underneath the foundation, her skin still felt flushed. Her eyes in the mirror held a bewildered, haunted depth.
Her manager, Seri, was waiting in the black sedan idling at the curb. Jisoo slid into the back seat, the familiar scent of lemon disinfectant and leather filling her nose.
“Good morning,” Seri said, not looking up from her tablet. “Schedule today: 9 AM, Meeting about potential drama projects. 11:30, a potential brand collaboration proposal meeting with Salomon. 2 PM, Vogue Korea magazine photoshoot for Upcoming Dior Beauty campaign. 6 PM, vocal coaching for the solo track—”
“Unnie,” Jisoo interrupted, her voice softer than she intended.
Seri looked up, surprised. Jisoo rarely interrupted.
“Do you happen to know,” Jisoo asked, staring out the window at the streaming Seoul traffic, “a shop called Moonlight Stationery? In Gunsan?”
Seri’s brow furrowed. She blinked. “What? Moonlight… stationery? In Gunsan? No. Why? Do you need office supplies? I can have someone—”
“No,” Jisoo said quickly, a faint, strained smile on her lips. She waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing. Never mind. It was just… a dream I had.”
She turned back to the window, watching the cityscape blur past. Her reflection in the glass superimposed itself over the moving world—her polished, perfect image, but in the transparency, she could still see the mountains, the narrow street, the yellow morning light of another time.
Something had started. A door had cracked open in the fabric of her reality. She didn’t understand it. She couldn’t explain it.
But her body remembered. The warmth, the weight, the love that didn’t belong to her, yet had been poured into her all the same.
She touched her stomach once more, a secret gesture hidden in the folds of her sweater.
And for the first time in a long time, Kim Jisoo felt completely, terrifyingly awake.
»»——————————- ♡ ——————————-««
Chapter 2: The Weight of Ordinary Life
2026 | Seoul
The morning after the dream-that-felt-too-real dream, Kim Jisoo made toast.
It felt like an act of profound normalcy, a ritual to tether herself to the reality of her stainless steel kitchen, her marble countertops, her life. The bread was artisanal sourdough from a bakery in Hannam-dong that charged ₩12,000 for a loaf. She placed two slices in the chrome toaster and pressed the lever down with more force than necessary. The clunk was satisfyingly real.
While the bread heated, she measured coffee beans—Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, single-origin—into the grinder. The machine’s whirr filled the silent apartment. Dalgom padded into the kitchen, his nails clicking on the polished concrete floor, and sat politely by his food bowl, looking up at her with expectant eyes.
“Good morning,” Jisoo said, her voice still rough with sleep. “You have a busy day today? Lots of naps scheduled? Some strategic pillow rearrangement?”
Dalgom thumped his tail once.
“Right. Important work.” She poured kibble into his bowl, the dry rattle another anchor in the real world. “I have two meetings and a shoot. You’ll hold down the fort?”
He began eating with single-minded focus, which she took as agreement.
The toast popped up. Perfectly golden. She spread unsalted butter—French, of course—and a thin layer of homemade plum jam a fan had sent to the BLISSOO office. The first bite was crisp, sweet, tangy. She chewed slowly, leaning against the counter, and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window. Seoul stretched before her, a geometric tapestry of glass and steel under a pale morning sky. The city was waking up. Tiny cars crept along the Han River bridges. In the distance, the jagged silhouette of Namsan Tower pierced the haze.
This is my life, she told herself firmly. This is real.
But her skin still remembered the weight of a flannel shirt against it. Her lower back held the faint, phantom ache of a different body’s posture. And when she closed her eyes for a second, she didn’t see the cityscape—she saw a narrow street with cobblestones, and mountains in the distance, and the sea.
“Stop it,” she muttered to herself, opening her eyes.
She took her coffee—black, no sugar—and the remaining toast to the small dining table by the window. Her journal lay there, a beautiful leather-bound thing from a stationery shop in Milan. She’d bought it thinking it would be filled with profound thoughts about art and legacy. Mostly it contained grocery lists, random lyrics, and doodles of Dalgom.
She opened it to a fresh page. The blank cream paper stared back at her.
Pen in hand, she hesitated. Then she wrote, her script neat and controlled:
March 17, 2026. Strange dream last night. Very vivid.
She paused, took a sip of coffee.
I was in the 1990s. In a small town. Gunsan, I think. I was pregnant. (????)
She drew a little arrow and sketched a quick stick figure with a huge, round belly. She added two dots for eyes and a straight line for a mouth. The figure looked bewildered.
I was married. His name was Suho. He owned a stationery shop. Moonlight Stationery. He put slippers on my feet when I went outside barefoot.
Her pen hovered. The memory of his hands on her feet—warm, careful, kneeling on cold stone—was so tactile it made her shiver. She wrote faster, the letters becoming less precise.
It felt completely real. The smells. The light. The way the bed creaked. The taste of the food. The sound of his voice.
She stopped. Her face grew warm. She could feel the flush creeping up her neck.
And then…
She didn’t write it. Instead, she drew a series of frantic, scribbling lines, blacking out the bottom third of the page. Then, over the scribbles, in bold, emphatic strokes:
MY SUBCONSCIOUS IS A MENACE.
She underlined it three times.
She closed the journal with a soft thump. Picked up her coffee cup. Drained it.
The cup was empty. The toast was gone. The city outside was still there. Dalgom was licking his bowl clean.
Normal. Everything was normal.
She opened the journal again. Flipped to the same page. In the margin, very small, as if trying to hide the words from herself, she wrote:
He was gentle.
Then she snapped the journal shut so hard Dalgom looked up, startled.
“Don’t give me that look,” she told him. “You don’t know anything.”
He blinked slowly, which felt deeply judgmental.
・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・
The BLISSOO office occupied the top floor of a modest building in Nonhyeon-dong. It was sleek but not ostentatious—white walls, exposed concrete accents, furniture in muted tones of grey and navy. Large windows offered a view of the bustling street below, a constant reminder of the industry they were navigating. Jisoo’s own office was at the back, separated by a glass wall. She kept the blinds open. She wanted to be visible, approachable. She was still learning what that meant.
Her small team—fifteen people, mostly in their late twenties and thirties, a mix of marketing, branding, and operations specialists—were already at their desks when she arrived at 8:45 AM. A low hum of conversation and keyboard clicks filled the space. The smell of coffee was permanent.
“Good morning, Jisoo-ssi,” her head of operations, Min-ji, said, falling into step beside her as Jisoo walked toward her office. Min-ji was in her early forties, fiercely competent, and had the calm demeanor of someone who had survived multiple entertainment industry cycles. She was Jisoo’s anchor.
“Morning. What’s first?”
“10 AM. The drama production meeting. The packets are on your desk. Three scripts.”
Jisoo nodded. “And the Salomon proposal?”
“Revised and in your inbox. They conceded on the creative control clause. I think they really want you.”
A small thrill, familiar and professional, went through her. “Good.”
Inside her office, she set her bag down and shrugged off her coat. The scripts sat in three neat piles. She settled into her chair, put on her reading glasses—a simple, tortoiseshell pair she’d bought specifically for this role—and opened the first one.
Love in the Moonlight (working title). A historical romance. A plucky palace maid catches the eye of a brooding crown prince. By episode three, he was saving her from a vicious rival. By episode five, she was teaching him about the “common people” through the power of her pure heart. Jisoo read the synopsis, then skimmed a few scenes. The dialogue was stiff. The female lead’s primary characteristics were “spunky” and “kind.” Her only conflict was whether to choose love or duty.
Jisoo put it down. Picked up the second.
My Lawyer, My Love. A modern rom-com. A chaotic, food-loving public defender falls for the cold, efficient corporate lawyer who is opposing her in a case. It was better. The banter had potential. But by the end of the treatment, the female lead had given up her job at the non-profit to join the male lead’s fancy firm, because “love means compromise.”
Jisoo sighed. She rubbed her temples.
The third script was thinner. Island of Shadows. A mystery-thriller. A reclusive forensic photographer on a remote island is forced to confront her traumatic past when a body washes ashore. The lead character, Soo-jin, was sharp, damaged, brilliant, and silent for long stretches. The story was about the pictures she took, the secrets they revealed, and her own slow journey back to the world. There was a potential love interest—a local fisherman with his own quiet sorrow—but he didn’t save her. They saved each other, sometimes by just sitting together in silence, watching the sea.
Jisoo read the first fifteen pages without looking up. When she finally did, the office outside her glass wall had come fully to life. She realized she’d been holding her breath.
The 10 AM meeting convened in the small conference room. Her creative director, Tae-hyun, and Min-ji joined her.
“So,” Tae-hyun began, tapping his tablet. “Love in the Moonlight. The production company is big. The PD wants you badly. It’s a guaranteed ratings hit. The public loves a palace romance.”
Jisoo leaned back in her chair. “The female lead has no interiority. She’s a plot device with a cute face.”
Tae-hyun blinked. “Well… it’s a romance. The focus is the love story.”
“The love story is boring if one of the people is a cardboard cutout,” Jisoo said, her voice mild. “Next.”
“My Lawyer, My Love. The writer is young, hot. The dialogue is very now. It’s fun.”
“It is fun,” Jisoo agreed. “Until she gives up her career that she’s passionate about because he has a nicer office. Why does she have to be the one to compromise? Why can’t he leave his soulless corporate job and go work at the legal aid center with her?”
Min-ji hid a smile behind her hand.
Tae-hyun looked pained. “That’s… not the fantasy.”
“I’m not interested in that fantasy,” Jisoo said. She pushed Island of Shadows across the table. “This one.”
Tae-hyun picked it up, scanned the title page. His eyebrows shot up. “This is… dark. Small production. First-time writer. The director is known for very arty, very low-budget indie films. There’s no guaranteed audience.”
“I like it,” Jisoo said simply. "Soo-jin. She’s not just reacting to things happening to her. She’s doing things. She’s solving something. Her silence is active. It means something. I want to play someone who has a rich inner life, even if the camera isn’t spelling it out with a voiceover. But the ending was a little too unrealistic. Keep your eyes open. Find me something similar to this.”
There was a beat of silence. Min-ji nodded slowly. Tae-hyun looked at the script again, a new respect in his eyes.
“Okay,” he said finally. “We'll keep our eyes open. But Jisoo-ssi, these kinds of indie project isn't guaranteed success. It's not safe for—”
“I don’t want safe,” Jisoo said, and for a dizzying moment, she wasn’t sure if she was talking about the script or something else entirely.
・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・
The brand collaboration meeting was smoother. Salomon, the outdoor apparel company, wanted her not just as a face, but as a collaborator on a limited-edition line of hiking wear. “For the urban explorer,” their sleek Korean marketing head explained. “For the person who finds nature in the city.”
Jisoo reviewed the mood boards—photos of misty mountains, dew on spiderwebs, the textured bark of trees in Bukhansan. The proposed designs were functional but stylish. She pointed to a jacket. “This color. The olive green. It’s too… military. Make it softer. Like the color of moss after rain.” She tapped a pair of pants. “The cut here is too tight for actual movement. If we’re selling freedom of movement, the clothes need to allow it.”
The marketing head nodded, making notes. “Of course. We want your genuine input.”
“Good,” Jisoo said. “Because I won’t wear something I wouldn’t actually hike in.”
As the meeting wrapped up, her phone buzzed on the table. A text from her older sister, Jiyoon.
Unnie:Mom made kimchi jjigae… when are you coming? I’ll send you a picture.
A second later, a photo arrived. A steaming, rust-red clay pot of kimchi jjigae, bubbles breaking on the surface, packed with tofu, pork, and translucent noodles. On the side, a dozen small banchan dishes covered the table—spinach, bean sprouts, seasoned cucumbers, fried fish. Their parents’ kitchen table, the wood worn shiny with years. Her father’s hand was visible at the edge of the frame, holding a spoon.
A sudden, visceral ache hollowed out Jisoo’s chest. It wasn’t just hunger. It was a longing for that specific chaos, that loud, overlapping talk, the way her mother would scold her father for taking too much kimchi, the way the television would be on in the background to some afternoon drama.
And then, unbidden, another kitchen table superimposed itself over the image in her mind. Smaller. Wobbly. In a tiny kitchen that smelled of doenjang and wood polish. A single bowl of stew, steam rising in a shaft of morning light. A man across from her, pushing his glasses up his nose, telling her a silly story about a customer as he carefully picked out the best pieces of tofu for her bowl.
The memory was so vivid she could taste the fermented soybean paste on her tongue.
“Jisoo-ssi?” The Salomon representative was looking at her, concerned.
Jisoo blinked, forcing the other kitchen away. She smiled, the professional one. “Sorry. Family text. The stew looks delicious.” She held up her phone as proof.
“Ah, mom’s cooking. Nothing compares,” the woman said with a sympathetic smile.
“Nothing,” Jisoo agreed, her voice a little tight.
・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・
The Dior photoshoot was in a studio in Gangnam, all white cyclorama walls and towering softboxes. Jisoo was transformed—hair sleeked back into a severe ponytail, makeup bold and graphic, emphasizing her eyes and cheekbones. She wore a structured black blazer over nothing but a lace bodysuit, the lines sharp and powerful.
She knew this dance. The photographer, a renowned Italian named Marco, called out directions in a mix of English and enthusiastic Italian.
“Yes! Jisoo, give me strength! Like you are queen of the world! Perfetto! Now, softer. Look through me. Like you have a secret. Sì! Bellissima!”
She shifted her weight, tilted her chin, let her gaze go distant then sharp. The camera shutter was a rapid, mechanical heartbeat. Click-click-click-click. She was good at this. She knew how her body looked from every angle, knew how to create a narrative with a single glance. It was a performance, and she was a master performer.
During a lighting change, she checked her phone. The BLACKPINK group chat was alive.
Jennie: [A 47-second voice note. The sound of Parisian traffic, then wind, then her voice, slightly muffled.] “I’m in Paris. It’s raining. I’m eating a croissant that cost €9. It’s good, but not €9 good. I miss Korean food. Life update over.” [The sound of a bite, then a thoughtful hum.]
Rosé: jisoo unnie did you try the pasta recipe I sent? the one with the lemon and chili? it’s so easy i promise
Jisoo: yes
(She had not. The recipe involved zest and a specific kind of pecorino she was sure she couldn’t find in Seoul.)
Lisa: [A 3-second video of a fluffy white cat attempting to jump onto a table, misjudging, and sliding off in a slow, graceful collapse. The camera shook with silent laughter.]
Jisoo smiled, a real one this time. She typed a string of crying-laughing emojis.
Jisoo: that’s me trying to adult
Jennie: you ARE an adult. a CEO adult. it’s terrifying.
Jisoo: don’t remind me
Rosé: unnie are you eating well?
Jisoo looked at the text. Are you eating well? The universal Korean check-in. She thought of the toast, the delivery tteokbokki she’d order later. She thought of the mandu from Halmeoni Ok-soon, steaming and perfect.
Jisoo: yes. you?
Rosé: yes! made kimchi fried rice at 3am
“Jisoo! We’re ready!” Marco called.
She put her phone away, the smile lingering on her lips as she walked back to the mark. The lights were blinding. She took her position, let the persona settle back over her like a second skin.
Click-click-click.
・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・
The vocal lesson was in a small, soundproofed studio in Apgujeong. Her coach, Park So-min, was a legend—a tiny woman in her sixties with the presence of a general and the ears of a bat.
“Warm up from the middle,” she instructed, her hands moving as if conducting an invisible orchestra. “Don’t push from the throat. Support, support.”
Jisoo stood at the microphone, eyes closed, running through scales. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah. Her voice felt good. Clear. The solo track they were working on was a ballad, melancholic and soaring. It was about memory, about something beautiful and lost that you couldn’t quite grasp.
They ran through the first verse and chorus. Jisoo’s voice wrapped around the melody, soft on the verses, opening up on the chorus with a controlled power that made the hair on her own arms stand up.
“Good,” So-min said from behind the console. “Now, the second verse. More intimacy. Like you’re whispering a secret to someone sleeping next to you.”
Jisoo nodded. She took a breath, opened her mouth to sing.
“The shape of your hand on the pillow next to mine…”
And suddenly, she wasn’t in the studio. She was in a dark room, yellow light just extinguished, the scent of old paper and clean skin in the air. A warm hand was splayed over her stomach. A voice, thick with sleep and love, murmured into her hair.
“Sooya…”
Her voice cracked. A flat, ugly note where a soft, floating one should have been.
The music stopped. The silence in the studio was absolute.
Jisoo’s eyes flew open. Her face was burning.
So-min was looking at her through the glass, one eyebrow arched. She didn’t say anything. She just pressed a button on the console. “Again. From ‘pillow.’”
Jisoo swallowed. Her throat felt tight. She nodded.
This time, she nailed it. The note was perfect, the emotion pitched exactly right—aching, tender, distant. She finished the run-through flawlessly.
When she came out of the booth, Soo-ah was sipping tea. “Better,” she said. “What was that before? A ghost walked over your grave?”
“Something like that,” Jisoo mumbled, busying herself with her water bottle.
“Hm.” So-min’s eyes were knowing. “The best art comes from a real place. Even if that place is… inconvenient.” She stood up, patting Jisoo’s arm. “Good work today. Don’t be a stranger to the feeling. Use it.”
Jisoo just nodded, her ears still hot.
・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・
Home, again. The automatic lights flickered on as she entered, revealing the pristine, empty expanse of her apartment. Dalgom came skidding around the corner, tails whipping, overjoyed at her return. The explosion of life, of noise, of need was a relief. She knelt, letting him lick her face, his warm body wriggling against her.
“Okay, okay, I missed you too,” she laughed, the sound echoing in the space.
She ordered tteokbokki and fried mandu from the place down the street that knew her order by heart. While she waited, she changed into soft sweatpants and an old BLACKPINK hoodie from their debut days. The fabric was worn thin, comforting.
She ate on the large sectional sofa, a drama playing on the huge television. It was a popular one, a fantasy romance. The male lead, a celestial being, was confessing his eternal love to the human female lead on a cliff under a magical moon. The dialogue was poetic, sweeping. The music swelled.
Jisoo chewed a rice cake, watching. It was pretty. It was empty.
Her mind drifted. To the shop. To the ledger with its neat columns. To Suho’s worried frown over the price of paper. A real problem. A small, tangible problem. She found herself mentally calculating—if they offered a discount for bulk school orders, if they created a simple loyalty stamp card, if they rearranged the window to highlight the beautiful hanji paper near the light…
She shook her head. Not your problem. Not your shop. Not your life.
But the thought persisted, a persistent, nagging tune.
After eating, she opened her laptop. The glow of the screen was the only light in the dark living room. Dalgom and Love were asleep on the rug, a pile of fluffy limbs.
She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keys. Then she typed, the letters clicking softly.
달빛문방구 군산
Search.
Results: Modern office supply chains with similar name. Nothing exact.
이수야, 군산, 1969년
Search.
A few results for people named Lee Soo-ya. A graduate student in Seoul. A nurse in Busan. None born in 1969 in Gunsan.
임수호
Hundreds of thousands of results. A common name. A baseball player. A politician. A poet.
She closed the laptop with a loud snap.
She sat back, a strange mixture of disappointment and relief washing over her. Of course there was nothing. It was a dream. A spectacularly detailed, emotionally devastating, physically convincing dream, but a dream.
“See?” she said aloud to the empty room. “Just a dream.”
But her body didn’t believe it. The memory of physical sensation was too precise. The soreness in muscles she hadn’t used. The ghost of a touch on her skin. The way her own body had responded, eagerly, to a stranger in the dark.
A stranger she had thought was a figment of her imagination.
A fresh wave of heat flooded her face. She put her head in her hands. Oh my god. She had… with a dream character. Because she thought it was safe. Because in dreams, you don’t have consequences.
But what if it wasn’t a dream?
The question, once allowed, was terrifying.
She opened the laptop again. Typed a new search.
Can dreams feel physically real?
She read three articles from psychology and neuroscience websites. They talked about lucid dreaming, about the brain’s ability to simulate sensation, about how emotional memories could be remembered and slowly fade over time. It was all very rational, very scientific.
It didn’t explain the taste of the doenjang jjigae. It didn’t explain the specific grain of the wood on the banister. It didn’t explain the feeling of a hand, calloused and gentle, guiding her foot into a slipper. Didn't explain the Ultra HD memory with every minor detail, not fading, but printed permanently on her memory.
She closed the laptop with a definitive click that was louder than necessary in the quiet room.
“It was a dream,” she told Dalgom, who had lifted his head at the sound. “A very, very, very detailed dream. My brain is just… creative. And maybe a little lonely. And has weird pregnancy fantasies. That’s all.”
Dalgom rested his head back on his paws, his expression one of profound canine skepticism.
She tried to call it an early night. She went through her skincare routine with robotic precision. She read a few pages of a novel but the words swam meaninglessly. She lay in the center of her king-sized bed, in the silent, temperature-controlled darkness, and stared at the ceiling.
The memories played behind her eyes, unbidden and in high definition.
The forehead kiss. The way his lips had felt, warm and dry against her skin. A simple, domestic gesture that had felt more intimate than any staged photoshoot kiss.
The slippers. Him kneeling on the cold floor for her.
The hand on her stomach. The awe in his voice. “Hello there.”
And then… the lamp clicking off. The darkness that wasn’t empty, but full of him. The warmth of his body covering hers, the scratch of flannel, the solid weight of him. The way he’d whispered “Sooya” against her neck like it was a prayer, a secret, a promise. The feeling of being known, wanted, loved in a way that was quiet and total and had nothing to do with being Kim Jisoo.
Her face burned in the dark. A full-body cringe of retrospective mortification twisted through her. She had participated. Eagerly. She had arched her back and tangled her hands in his hair and moaned into the dark of a stranger’s bedroom.
“It was a dream,” she whispered fiercely to the empty air. “Dreams don’t count. There’s no such thing as dream infidelity. It’s not… it’s not real.”
But her protest sounded weak, even to her. The line between felt real and was real had blurred into nothingness.
She rolled onto her side, punching the pillow. Dalgom, from his dog bed in the corner, let out a soft whuff.
“Don’t judge me,” she muttered. “You dream about chasing squirrels.”
Sleep, when it finally came, was a slow, reluctant surrender. Her mind was a whirlpool of half-formed thoughts—ledger columns, script pages, the smell of old paper, the sound of a rooster, the pressure of a hand on the small of her back.
Her last conscious thought was a desperate, silent plea: It was just a dream. A one-time, hyper-realistic, incredibly embarrassing dream.
・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・
1994 | Gunsan
The transition was different this time.
It didn’t start with a fade-in of sound or smell. It started with a knowing.
One moment, she was adrift in the dark soup of near-sleep, the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets cool against her skin.
The next, she was aware. The air was cooler, damper. It smelled faintly of mildew and wood polish and the lingering scent of ginger. The mattress beneath her was softer, lumpier. And there was a profound, solid warmth pressed against her entire back, from her shoulders to her knees.
A heavy arm was draped over her waist, a hand splayed possessively over the pronounced swell of her belly.
Jisoo’s eyes flew open.
Yellow morning light. Faded blue flowers on thin cotton curtains. A hairline crack in the plaster ceiling.
Her heart didn’t just hammer; it seemed to attempt a violent escape from her ribcage. A cold, sharp clarity sliced through the last remnants of sleep fog.
This is not a dream.
The thought was not a question. It was a statement of terrifying fact. The evidence was too multisensory, too consistent, too continuous. She remembered this room. She remembered the feel of these sheets. She remembered the exact pattern of the crack on the ceiling.
And she remembered, with a lurch of her stomach that had nothing to do with pregnancy, what had happened in this bed the last time she was here.
She had slept with him. She had let him touch her, kiss her, make love to her, thinking it was a safe fantasy. A private theater of her own mind.
But it wasn’t private. He was real. This body was real. The consequences, whatever they were, were real.
A wave of pure, unadulterated panic, hot and nauseating, rose up her throat. She had violated a life. She had stepped into someone else’s marriage, someone else’s pregnancy, and she had…
From behind her, Suho stirred. He made a soft, sleepy sound—a contented hum—and nuzzled the back of her neck. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer against his chest. His hand on her belly splayed wider, a gentle, claiming weight.
“Sooya-ya…” he murmured, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep. “Five more minutes. The shop can wait.”
Every muscle in Jisoo’s body went rigid. She was a statue, a log, a piece of furniture. She stared straight ahead at the floral curtains, barely breathing.
His words from the other night—*their* night—echoed in her memory. “I love you. So much.” He had whispered it into her skin like a truth as fundamental as breathing.
And she had said nothing. Because to her, he was a phantom.
To him, she was his wife. The woman carrying his child. The woman he had fallen asleep inside just hours ago.
The nausea intensified. She had to get out. Now.
With a force of will that felt Herculean, she peeled his arm from her waist. It was heavy with sleep, but he let it go easily, mumbling something incoherent. She slid out from under the covers, the morning air chilling her sweat-dampened skin. Her movements were jerky, uncoordinated.
“Hmm? What’s wrong?” Suho’s voice was clearer now, laced with concern. She heard the rustle of sheets as he propped himself up on an elbow.
She couldn’t look at him. If she saw his face—sleep-soft, affectionate, trusting—she might shatter.
“Bathroom,” she choked out, the word strangled and too high-pitched. “I just… need the bathroom.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She fled, her bare feet slapping against the cool wooden floorboards, her borrowed nightgown tangling around her legs. She shut the bathroom door behind her and turned the old-fashioned lock with a shaky hand. The click was a feeble, pathetic barricade.
She gripped the edges of the small, porcelain sink, her knuckles white. She stared into the mirror above it.
Sooya’s face stared back. Her face, but not. The same eyes, wide now with panic. The same mouth, parted in a silent gasp. But the hair was longer, black and unstyled. The skin was bare, showing those faint, sun-kissed freckles. And there, unmistakable, was the proof: the curve of her belly stretching the thin cotton of the nightgown. A life growing inside a body that was both hers and not hers.
She saw the flush on her cheeks, the redness at the corners of her eyes. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly loved and was now thoroughly terrified.
“This isn’t a dream,” she whispered to the reflection. The sound was swallowed by the small, tiled room.
The reality of it crashed down on her, wave after crushing wave.
She was here. In 1994. In Gunsan. In the body of Lee Soo-ya, wife of Lim Suho, proprietor of Moonlight Stationery. She was pregnant with his child. And last night, she had shared a bed with him. She had shared everything with him.
Kim Jisoo, idol, actress, CEO, a woman whose image was controlled down to the pixel, who hadn’t been on a real date in years, had somehow, impossibly, had married, pregnant, 1994 sex.
A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat, sharp and painful. It came out as a sob.
What have you done?
The question had no answer. There was no protocol for this, no manager to call, no PR strategy to enact. She was alone in a way she had never been alone before.
A soft knock on the door made her jump.
“Sooya?” Suho’s voice was gentle, worried. “Are you okay? Do you feel sick?”
The concern in his voice was a knife to her heart. He thought his wife was unwell. He had no idea that the woman behind this door was a stranger, an imposter drowning in guilt and cosmic confusion.
She had to pull herself together. She had to act. For now, survival meant playing the part.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing air into her lungs. She splashed cold water on her face, the shock helping to clear the panic from her eyes. She patted her face dry with a rough towel hanging by the sink.
“I’m okay,” she called out, aiming for normalcy and landing somewhere near strained cheerfulness. “Just… morning sickness. I think.”
It was the first excuse that came to mind. Pregnant women got morning sickness. It was plausible.
There was a pause on the other side of the door. “Do you need anything? Ginger tea? I can run to the market…”
“No! No, it’s passing. I’ll be out in a minute.” She winced at the brittleness in her own voice.
Another pause. “Alright. I’ll start breakfast.”
She heard his footsteps recede down the short landing and then the creak of the stairs.
Jisoo slumped against the door, her forehead pressing against the cool wood. The immediate crisis was averted, but the ocean of impossible reality remained.
She was stuck here. In this life. In this body. With this man who loved a woman who was, in some fundamental way, currently her.
And she had no idea how to get home.
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More chapters are available on Fanprose:
Every night, Kim Jisoo falls asleep in 2026 — surrounded by fame, luxury, and aching silence. She wakes in 1994 — in another woman’s body,