Chapter Text
Cho Sang-hoon had a perfect life on every account. Yes, really, he promised. He said that to himself, said that to the whole world.
He was climbing swiftly through military ranks, which brought him his father's pride, and his mother's too, although it was laced with worry. He had friends, fellow soldiers, but none who now ranked above him.
One day, preferably soon, he'd find a woman with whom they would have a child, or maybe two, and they would raise them together, with all the love he could muster.
An easy life, one traced for him from the beginning, one that he had no desire to deviate from.
Right
He made more than enough money to support himself, didn't have any nightmares from his deployments. He had friends who liked him. He had a family who adored him. He was their pride and joy. What they always wanted. He had a nephew who thought he was just so cool, who would play with him, shooting at each other with fake guns, which didn't even make him flinch.
He smiled the exact average amount of smile a person smiled, hugged his sister, his mother and sometimes his friends when they were a little too drunk. This was a perfectly normal amount of hugs. He was an exactly average kind of man, except on the few things he was better at than others. He practiced musok, as his parents had done before him, though his faith was not nearly as strong as some of his colleagues, who prayed for safety with each deployment.
So why, why on earth did he feel so hollow ? He'd seen the inside of his body more times than one usually would care for. Two bullet wounds, and one more memorable slash of a knife. He could testify that all his organs were in the right place, like any other man. But he lacked something. Something that kept him up at night, though he didn't know what it was.
He kept seeing the same woman in his dreams. Perhaps all he was missing was love, perhaps that was a sign. This was what his parents had said when he'd mentionned it, brushing it off with ease. Perhaps it was time for him to find a wife, to settle down.
He kept trying of course, but most of the women he met found him shallow, like he was a person only in surface, and digging any deeper made you come up with your hands empty. All that gave him was a few nights, a restaurant or two, sex, and then nothing.
But there was truly nothing more to him than what he was showing them. No deeper truth he was hiding. Just the void.
He kept seeing the same woman in his dreams. She never touched him, or rather he never touched her. Sometimes she held out a hand to him, like she wanted him to follow, but he never did. She had the same tired eyes as him, the same wide lips. Her hair was kept short, by preference rather than necessity. Her smile held something he hadn't seen in himself in years. She could have been his sister. She could have been him, in another, better life.
But Cho Sang-hoon was a military man, and such a thing, such desires, such desperation, would have gotten him swiftly thrown out. His body was a well sharpened tool, one he trained and used every day. This was what he'd always been taught to do with himself. To stay sharp, to stay useful. This was nothing but a shadow, a dream he could chase forever, a distraction. He couldn't admit that in his dream, he saw the woman he could have been, and she was so beautiful. She looked fulfilled, genuinely happy.
Every time he woke up from one of these dreams, his heart ached to see her again, to touch her, to reach for her, but he always found himself unable to move, weak, trapped in his dreams. He didn't sleep well anymore. Wanted to throw up every time he woke up.
It nearly got him killed once or twice, his reflexes becoming too slow for warfare, too shaky to shoot as he wanted. He couldn't help but miss his targets.
It was too late to become a woman now, anyways. He was building a life, brick by brick, and he couldn't just let it topple over. All his efforts so far couldn't have been meaningless. Could they ?
His life definitely did feel meaningless. Like there was something just out of his reach. Like he kept reaching out for something and his hands came up empty.
One night, one of the women he'd spent a few nights with forgot her spare clothes, left a dress at his place. He wanted to be nice to her, to see if there could be something more. Please let there be something more, let me get to witness womanhood, even if I have no right to it myself. He picked the dress up to toss it in the wash, so he could give it back to her clean.
He didn't know what came over him when he put it on. Why had he done that ? He was a man, and men, well, they didn't wear dresses did they ? He certainly was not that kind of man.
He couldn't help but look at himself in the mirror. Couldn't help the tears from coming up to his eyes. It felt both so right and so wrong. The dress was a little too small, and it hugged his wide shoulders in a way that made them stand out. It felt wrong. The fabric was soft against his skin, but it wasn't shapeless, the pleats going down to his knees, swishing whenever he moved. It felt so right, like he'd been waiting to hear this sound all his life.
He took off the dress like it was on fire, throwing it in his washing machine immediately, and going to take the coldest shower he could handle. He couldn't handle all this. The mixed feelings, the desire that bit through his skin. He could never be the woman he saw in his dreams, with her soft shoulders and her marked waist. With her beautiful, round face.
Still, when he dreamed of her again, he was able to reach out to her, to feel her soft skin against his. He woke up in tears, but he felt like he'd slept better anyways.
Work passed in a blur. Days after days running through his fingers like his life was no longer real. All he had were those short moments of freedom on the internet. He got to talk with women who'd found out who they were later in life. None of them ever seemed to regret it. Not even after all they'd lost.
In his dreams, She and him kept touching. It was like she was trying to pull him through a door. Like she wanted him to see another side of the world, one he'd never let himself see before. Like she wanted to drag him through fields of flowers, and other corny shit.
Dreams of her felt more real than real life. Pretending to be a woman online felt more real than real life. Wearing the dresses she bought online felt more real than real life. She felt more real than he. He didn't want to throw up when he thought about it anymore.