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My first meeting with Kim Ryul took place at an acquaintance's funeral.
It was like an unexpected event in life—the kind of encounter that felt too strange to be etched so deeply into memory.
And yet, that was the day we truly met for the first time.
What I remember most vividly were his eyes, which seemed to be laughing with sheer amusement. His lips, painted in a bright, vivid shade of women's red lipstick, looked fuller than usual. Although he kept them pressed tightly together, his eyes were genuinely laughing.
Sitting at the very back corner of the guest benches, he remained completely silent, neat long sleeves of his black collared shirt rolled up to his forearms. Throughout the entire funeral, he didn't speak to a single person, nor did he offer condolences to the deceased’s family. A few attendees cast curious, puzzled glances his way, but he merely blinked his eyes once in response. He didn't bother exerting any more effort than that.
His gaze remained fixed solely on the name plaque inscribed with "Nam Joon-woo."
The deceased was an acquaintance of mine. He was the kind of person who was friendly and on good terms with everyone, so his sudden death came as a shock to all. While I wasn't particularly close to him, I still felt a sense of sorrow for someone who had been a good man.
His wife was so utterly heartbroken that she could do nothing but weep. After all, their marriage of barely three years had been far too brief. Left widowed so young, she was truly pitiable.
Joon-woo was also seen as a successful man in his career—a person with exceptional social skills and endless prospects ahead of him. A career and a marriage that anyone would envy; he was practically the archetype of a main character in a novel. Helpful, good-natured, and cheerful. The list of his virtues was endless.
It seemed only natural to think that no amount of grief could ever be enough for such a man's final rest.
Yet, in that man's dark brown eyes—which seemed to hold a mocking laughter—a subtly different backdrop swirled in silence.
He and I were sitting on the same row of benches. Seen from the side, his profile had an arresting pull that made it impossible to look away. Strands of jet-black hair rested against the corners of his shirt collar. His staring eyes held a certain wildness, framed and embraced by the play of light and shadow around him. His very posture conveyed that he would be difficult to approach. Every movement was balanced and measured, yet it felt as though he was harboring sparks that could burst into flames at any moment.
He held the kind of fierce composure akin to a quiet sea, carved by a sculptor with reverence for the angels.
I genuinely thought it was maddening.
On that day, that man anchored himself firmly into my memory.
About halfway through the ceremony, seemingly ready to leave, he let out a sigh and stood up. Before walking away, I noticed him cast a lingering glance at Joon-woo’s wife.
Whatever connection lay between them, he kept his lips firmly pressed together. Whatever emotion that was, I felt certain on my own that it wasn't sorrow.
Unable to help myself, I went over to ask someone who had been a bit closer to Joon-woo.
"Do you know the guy who just left?"
"The one in the back row?"
"Yeah. It looked like he didn't talk to anyone."
"I have no idea either. First time seeing him."
It was a completely definitive mystery. Even if he didn't know the other guests at a funeral, shouldn't he at least be close to the family? Yet he had simply walked in silently and left just as quietly.
It was none of my business, but perhaps those dark, striking eyes had sparked my curiosity. Or maybe I was just being foolishly overly inquisitive.
As expected of a funeral, the oppressive grief in the room became too suffocating, so I stepped outside to have a cigarette. I didn't expect him to still be out there. Having assumed he had left long ago, seeing him brought a slight, quiet sense of satisfaction to my mind.
He was leaning against a building wall. He looked a bit weary—like someone who had been exhausted for a long time and finally let out a soft, faint sigh.
There was a subtle, languid air to his posture, almost looking lazy. Those eyes from earlier were gazing off toward the main road. Held in a stillness so absolute he barely seemed to be breathing, he held an unlit cigarette in his hand. The quiet atmosphere surrounding the two of us in the smoking area was enough for me to catch a subtle, calming whiff of his perfume.
When I struck a flame to light my cigarette, my eyes unexpectedly met his directly.
"Could I borrow your lighter for a second?"
He spoke, his lips curving up subtly at the corners. His voice was lower than I had imagined. Even that loose, casual smile carried a feeling that made one want to bow down and be bound by him.
As I handed him the lighter, our fingertips brushed, leaving behind a delicate softness. Like trying to catch a butterfly's wings, the moment lingered faintly in the air.
"Thank you."
Taking a drag from his cigarette as he handed the lighter back, there was a murky gloom in him that I couldn't quite fathom.
After responding with a simple nod, we both remained silent in our own thoughts, until he broke the silence first.
"Were you close with Joon-woo?"
His voice felt like the calm of an ocean breeze—not overly heavy, yet easily capable of holding a person's attention.
"Just an acquaintance."
"Hmm... I guess he was still as popular as ever."
He spoke as if murmuring to himself. Faint traces of red lipstick were left smudged on his cigarette.
"And what about you?"
When I turned the question back to him, the response I received was a soft, clear laugh. Its contrast against the gloomy atmosphere surrounding us suddenly became striking.
"We used to know each other."
That was all he answered.
"When I saw you leave earlier, I thought you had already gone."
"Ah, right. I wonder why I haven't left yet either. It's not like I have anything left to do here."
He murmured with a smile, looking aimless as if running toward nowhere. I didn't know how to respond to that. As if aware of my hesitation, he laughed softly. That brought a slight sense of relief. He continued in a lighter tone.
"I originally came out to smoke, but I couldn't remember where I left my lighter."
Giving an answer that wasn't quite an answer, he took another drag of his cigarette. Compared to how he was inside the funeral, he looked much more relaxed now, like a loosely tied ribbon.
"As for me, I haven't seen him in years. Then the other day, a strange invitation arrived at my house. An invitation to his funeral. Honestly, I don't even know who sent it. I didn't think anyone would bother to remember inviting me."
"Yet you still came."
"I had to come to say goodbye. Since someone went out of their way to invite me, I had to show up."
The cigarette smoke curled lazily into the air. The sky began to darken with rain clouds. The faint sound of thunder in the distance sounded almost like a warning.
"I think it's time for me to head back now."
He spoke with a sigh. The dying embers of our cigarettes burned brighter for a moment as the wind swept past.
He straightened himself up from the wall he was leaning on. The crushed cigarette butt lay broken on the ground. Yet those swirling dark eyes were still smiling.
"I'll be going now."
He offered a farewell and turned to take his leave.
"By the way, your name..."
After blurting out an unnecessary question in a rush, my voice trailed off, but he simply smiled warmly and gently.
"I'm Kim Ryul. And you?"
He asked in return.
"Kwon Oh-yul."
"Alright. If we ever cross paths again, I'll be sure to say hello."
Leaving a funeral with a cheerful goodbye, he left behind no reason for us to meet again. Nor was there any logical connection to bridge between us.
How far could a brief conversation over cigarette smoke really reach? Regardless, I found myself softly repeating his name over and over in my mind.
Just like that, the man named Kim Ryul whom I had just met felt almost like an illusion.
After Joon-woo's funeral, a busy period began for me. Preparing for an art exhibition meant spending all my time cooped up in the studio. Every time I applied paint to the canvas, that vivid yet faint illusory image mirrored back at me.
It felt like a subconscious obsession. I kept replaying that fraction of time in my mind over and over again. I could almost hear the sound of those dark rain clouds again. That man's clear laughter took up a distinct, unyielding space in my memory.
Even so, I couldn't bring myself to paint him. The scattered pieces I remembered were not enough to reconstruct his image. Whenever the thought of him struck me, I would flip open my sketchbook and quickly grab a pencil, only to end up feeling like a child who had just learned how to draw. It truly wasn't enough. The lines I scribbled felt too distant to capture his likeness.
Perhaps I was also afraid of ruining it. I couldn't afford even the slightest mistake. I hadn't felt this way in a long time—so much so that I had to ask myself if I even knew how to paint anymore. I found myself growing angry at my own inadequacy.
And so, the memory of that red lipstick ended up taking center stage in every painting I created. As the exhibition drew closer, my mind felt increasingly dreamlike. I was dazed, like an addict craving a fix, but I had no way to find the cure. Every time red paint smeared across the canvases, I saw a trace of that man. Yet the feeling of being unable to grasp him was deeply dissatisfying.
I lost track of how time passed inside the studio. I was struggling between finishing the pieces and handling the preparations for the show. Naturally, dark circles hollowed under my eyes. Sometimes, when I looked in the mirror, I no longer recognized myself.
It wasn't that I was lost. It was more like an intense, overwhelming longing for something. When what you want feels impossible to reach, it drives you out of your mind.
When the paintings were finally completed, my manager looked at me with a puzzled expression.
"Did you suddenly change your painting style?"
"Does it look like I did?"
"It's not a bad thing. But this feeling is completely new."
He smiled brightly and continued:
"This is the first time I've seen your paintings have such a singular, intense focus. The exhibition is definitely going to be a success."
I could only manage a bitter smile. If I told anyone that these paintings were born out of a helpless, heartbroken obsession with a man I had only seen once, they would surely laugh out loud.
"Well, at least the critics will have something to write about, right?"
"Whatever the case, people have been intrigued ever since you announced a comeback show after two years of complete silence."
My manager was genuinely thrilled. Only after the paintings were finished did I finally allow myself to take a deep breath.
Only after escaping that heavy, suffocating sensation did I realize just how deep a pit I had fallen into. To make up for the sleepless nights, I collapsed onto my bed the moment I reached home and fell fast asleep.
Then, I had a dream. My dreams are always strange, but this time, perhaps because I was so thoroughly exhausted, it was a dream about the sea. White waves trying to engulf me surged forward, gradually advancing across the sandy shore.
The deafening sound of the ocean wind echoed again. The dark blue storm clouds swirling in the corner of my eye. The scent of salty air. A truly tempestuous shoreline.
And then, that red flower.
A red spider lily smiling at me. Before the ocean waves under the blue sunset could pull me under, I caught sight of those dark brown eyes once more.
When I woke up from the dream, I was drenched in sweat. I even wondered if I had actually been drowning in the sea. Why was my heart trembling so violently?
After massaging my temples firmly, I checked the clock by the bed; it read just past 3:00 AM.
My exhibition wouldn't start until 9:00 AM. Knowing that if I went back to sleep I would oversleep, I couldn't bring myself to close my eyes again. Heading straight to the bathroom, I turned on the shower without switching on the water heater.
Amid the cold shivers rising over my skin, I stood there dazed. I wondered why dreams couldn't just stay in dreams. It was typical of me to end up brooding after having a dream like that.
After showering, it was just past 3:30 AM. Having nothing to do, I walked out onto the balcony. As I lit a cigarette, I thought back to the scent of his perfume that day. Though it was a men's fragrance, it wasn't harsh or overpowering—faint, like a forest, reminding me subtly of cinnamon. Breathing in a hint of that fragrance amidst the cigarette smoke brought a sense of quiet calm.
I also thought about how busy the morning would be for the exhibition. I wondered how many people would show up. My manager had certainly poured his heart and soul into organizing this event.
After my last exhibition ended, I had gone on various trips, visiting all sorts of places. Sometimes I would disappear on long journeys without telling a soul. It wasn't that I stopped painting; whenever inspiration struck, I painted, but I never made anything I wanted to keep. I would just ship them off to my manager and tell him to sell them at whatever price he saw fit.
Mainly, I was looking for a reason to paint. I suppose you could say I hadn't found one. But after about two years, my manager started nagging me relentlessly to hold an exhibition. I only nodded to stop the headaches his nagging caused. I had no real ideas in mind, but I truly couldn't stand him knocking on my door twelve times a day to push me anymore.
At any rate, now that it was happening, I still felt unsatisfied. To keep from painting the entire world in shades of red, I found myself longing to see that man once again.
It was almost unbelievable that I spent the hours from 3:00 AM to 7:00 AM idling away on the balcony, waiting. But around 7:00 AM, my manager called to ask when I would arrive, so I stopped my thoughts and prepared to leave.
I lost count of how many cigarette butts were in the ashtray, but I definitely needed to buy a new pack. The embers within me were still eager to burn.
"My goodness, this exhibition really brings a whole new feeling."
I overheard a woman murmuring at the gallery, but all I could manage was an uncertain smile.
Standing like a stone statue in the corner of the hall, no stranger would have ever guessed I was the artist behind the exhibition. My manager told me to go speak with some important guests, but I suppose my lack of sleep was catching up with me; I grew thoroughly tired of exchanging brief, superficial pleasantries.
Normally, I wasn't this socially inept, but I found myself praying for time to pass quickly. Sensing that my manager was looking for me again, I tried to slip away from where I was standing once more.
There were 25 paintings in total at this show—some oil, mostly acrylic, a mix of old and new works. Anyone with an eye for art could easily tell the new pieces apart from the old. The recently added paintings differed drastically from my previous style. As I walked through the gallery, I arrived at the piece I had painted last. This painting, which looked as though red paint had been violently splashed across it, felt like an explosion to me.
I stood right there and stared at it for several minutes. This piece brought back the memory of my dream. Standing there, it felt as though white waves were washing up against my feet.
"What is the title of this painting?"
The voice that pulled me out of my deep thoughts sent a chill straight down my spine. It felt as if it took me a long time just to turn around and look. For a moment, I wondered if I had slipped back into a dream or was experiencing sleep paralysis.
"I didn't expect you to look so surprised."
The man spoke lightly, laughing so softly that his hair swayed slightly. With the corners of his eyes crinkling, he looked even more radiant. The breath of his perfume I inhaled pulled me right back into reality.
"I told you, didn't I? That I'd say hello the next time we met."
This time, the corners of Ryul's lips curved even higher. To be completely honest, I deeply adored the way he smiled.
"You did... but I didn't expect to meet you here."
I replied, my voice dry and raspy.
"Is that so? I came here knowing for sure that I'd run into you."
Ryul answered, his eyes much clearer and brighter than they had been that day.
"Knowing for sure?... What do you mean?"
"Of course I'd know—you're my favorite artist."
Kim Ryul spoke casually, while I stood there frozen like a short-circuited wire.
"I even attended your last exhibition. It's truly a pleasure to see your work again."
Those words hit my brain like a shockwave. It was something I had never even imagined. When we met before, he hadn't acted like a fan of mine at all.
"Really? I had no idea."
"Do I look like someone who doesn't appreciate art?"
Ryul asked playfully. I quickly shook my head.
"Of course not. Kim Ryul, your very presence is an art form in itself."
"Ah... now that's a bit too much praise."
"I'm serious. Ever since I first saw you, I couldn't stop thinking about how beautiful you are."
I had no intention of hiding those words. This man's appearance felt like something that demanded to be acknowledged out loud to be proper. While others might have taken it strangely, Ryul simply laughed softly and clearly.
"Thank you. It's been a long time since I've heard someone say that to me."
Silence settled between us for a few seconds. He gazed at the painting, while my attention drifted to the embroidery on his shirt.
"Answer my question first."
He spoke as if reminding me. I hesitated for a moment. It wasn't that I forgot the title of my own painting; I was wondering how Kim Ryul would react to it.
" *Escape.* "
When I answered, his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, as if satisfied.
"Spider lilies are quite fascinating, aren't they?"
He murmured softly.
We both turned our gazes back to the painting. Against a pitch-black background, a red spider lily stood out vividly amidst heavy yet swift brushstrokes. Crimson splatters trailed off to the side. My intention was to make viewers feel as though this flower was bursting forth into bloom with intense energy right out of the canvas.
"What a shame. This piece isn't for sale, is it? Otherwise, I would have bought it."
"Have you bought any of my paintings before?"
"Of course. From your exhibition two years ago—the piece titled *'Espresso.'* "
Ryul spoke with a touch of pride in his voice.
"Ah. So you were the buyer of that painting? I had no idea. My manager handles all of those matters."
"I see. I really loved that painting."
Since I left all buying and selling matters entirely to my manager, I rarely knew who the buyers were. Hearing this made me feel a bit foolish.
To think I had been pining over the idea of never meeting him again, when he was not only a fan of my work but had actually bought one of my pieces.
"And how do you feel about this exhibition?"
When I asked, he tilted his head slightly. The thin silver chain around his neck glinted in the light.
"I haven't looked at everything yet. But this time, most of the pieces feel as though they are struggling. Your paintings have always been still lifes—like holding moving things trapped within a specific frame of time. But this time, it feels as though the still things are fighting to break free."
Ryul's commentary felt like he had caught me red-handed. Yet he merely gave a lighthearted laugh.
"I actually prefer this collection more. I was definitely planning on buying one, but since the one I like isn't for sale..."
His voice was like a soft breeze. I couldn't hold back the question lingering in my mind any longer.
"This might sound overly inquisitive, but there's something I've been wanting to ask since last time."
"Go ahead. I don't mind at all."
"What was your relationship with Nam Joon-woo? That day, you left without speaking to anyone."
He smiled, as if he had been expecting my question. I felt a slight flush of embarrassment.
"So you were watching me."
He said playfully. I felt a sudden rush of warmth in my chest, as if a blood vessel had burst.
"Nam Joon-woo was my ex-fiancé. About three years ago."
That was an answer I hadn't expected. Even though I had known Joon-woo for a long time, I had honestly never heard the name Kim Ryul from him.
"Three years ago, he broke up with me. His reason was that he was going to marry that woman. What was her name... Min Soo-ri?"
I nodded, and he continued.
"I was head over heels for him. We dated for nearly five years. Then, right before our anniversary, my boyfriend left me out of nowhere, saying he was marrying someone else—a rather ugly ending. If I keep going, it'll sound like I'm speaking ill of the dead."
He ended with a soft laugh, but I still wanted to know more.
"It stays between us."
He smiled knowingly, then continued speaking while gazing at the painting.
"Nam Joon-woo was a good man to everyone except me. I don't say that just because he broke my heart. Even when we were together, he was unbearable. He had a quick temper, a terrible rage, and a cruel streak. I never understood how he managed to hide all those traits from others, but every time he came to the apartment we shared, he was violent.
There were nights we couldn't sleep because of how much we fought. When he got angry, he raised his hands against me. Because of him, I ended up in the hospital more than once or twice. But after it happened, he would get down on his knees and beg—begging as if his life depended on it. And because I couldn't cut ties emotionally, I would take him back. But that cycle just kept repeating itself."
As Ryul spoke, a glint appeared in his eyes—the same mocking amusement I had seen on the day of the funeral.
"Then one day, after a fight, he walked out. A week later, he came back to pack up all his belongings, saying he was getting married. That day, I just sat on the floor and watched him leave.
I'm not someone who expects love to last forever. But even if we were to part ways, I never imagined I'd go through something like that. It's almost laughable. He even had the nerve to send a wedding invitation. Which I burnt, of course.
So when his funeral invitation arrived three years later, I almost thought his dead spirit had sent it himself. After all, he had never told his family about me. Even our engagement was just between the two of us—a promise made over a cheap ring."
I had no response to offer, but as usual, he seemed to understand completely.
"The strange thing is, after we broke up, I didn't feel heartbroken. Perhaps we were already over long before we actually split."
He spoke like someone who had found freedom. While it was heartbreaking to hear, it was difficult to reconcile that Nam Joon-woo was that kind of person. But people are just people, aren't they? We all carry our own lies.
Thinking about it that way, Kim Ryul felt like an open book. You could flip through his pages one by one; he made no effort to close the cover.
Though he left early on the first day of the exhibition, on the evening of the final day, he was standing by my car in the parking lot, waiting for me. He asked if he could catch a ride toward his place. I nodded easily, but where we actually ended up was the beach.
By the time we arrived, dusk was turning into early night. Checking my watch, it was 5:53 PM—the hour when the clouds in the blue sunset glowed brightly. The ocean breeze was heavy and cold, yet Ryul ran along the sandy shore like a child. We teased and played around, walking through the deep sand until we were completely exhausted. It felt as if my dream had truly come to life.
That day, my feet sank beneath the white waves, and that red spider lily smiled at me. His dark eyes sparkled, moist and bright, competing with the stars above the sea.
Growing close to Ryul proved to be easier than I had imagined. He spoke openly and candidly. When he found something he liked, his eyes would crinkle as he laughed.
Sometimes he would explain the songs he composed—that was how I later learned he was a songwriter and producer. Ryul was much simpler than I had thought, living life in the most straightforward way possible. He didn't carry many worries.
On Saturdays, he liked to drink whiskey at his favorite bar. Though he mentioned he actually preferred wine, he still enjoyed a glass of whiskey. Joining him there added a quiet sanctuary where I could pause on tiring, dreary evenings on the way home.
Once, on our way back after drinking, I saw him cry. His eyes always looked as if they were on the verge of tears, but when he actually broke down, I felt deeply unsettled.
Tears suited him least of all. Yet he wept quietly, sobbing softly. That night, after crying, he sat quietly in my car, taking slow drags from my cigarette one by one.
He never explained why he cried, but I felt as though I already knew. That night, he slept at my apartment, curled up peacefully on the sofa as if completely at ease.
After that, he visited my place frequently. I certainly didn't mind it.
Whenever Kim Ryul visited, he always brought a bottle of wine. Thanks to him, I learned quite a bit about wine—so much so that I even bought the wines he recommended to keep at home, so he wouldn't need to bring one every time he came over.
He also had a peculiar fondness for rich red lipsticks. When I gifted him a tube of lipstick once, he left a single kiss mark on a small canvas in my studio. The lipstick smelled faintly of strawberry wine.
Like drifting tides, we naturally flowed into each other's presence. Without needing poetic explanations, my palms were already stained in red.
"I still want that painting," he said longingly one day. I simply nodded, but he remained calm and unbothered, moving on to talk about something else.
Then one day, a bouquet of red spider lilies arrived at my gallery. He didn't say a word about sending it, but I placed the bouquet right in the center of the gallery floor.
That evening, he came to my apartment. Watching him slowly pour a glass of wine was like watching a cat intently focused on something. The red wine flowed through both of us. He stepped closer to me gently, and I didn't forget to wrap my arms around him. That night, a trace of red lipstick remained printed on the collar of my shirt.
When preparing for my next exhibition, he would spend time idling in my studio with a guitar. He sat quietly, watching me work without asking a single question. Whenever he saw traces of red paint, I loved how the corners of his lips would curve upward even more.
"Are you going to display that painting this time too?" Ryul asked softly.
"I already had it delivered to your house."
This time, his dark brown eyes widened in surprise. Setting his guitar aside, he walked over to me. The tight embrace of his pale, slender hands felt like gentle sea waves sweeping over me.
I kissed his palm. The scent of his perfume, which I loved so much, lingered in the air.
"The spider lily I love has already bloomed right in my hands. You can keep the painting, Ryul."
When I said that, he laughed so hard his hair swayed—brightly, joyfully, and with genuine delight. His thin, lipstick-painted lips stood proud and radiant.
Across a canvas catching fresh paint, brushstrokes rushed freely. And upon my body, the red shades he had painted remained deeply stained.
That man had become my red spider lily.
**– The End –**