﹙wlw🩷wlw﹚ ꣑୧ Kim Jisoo ❛❜. ׂ

June 12, 1957.

A large painting hung in the living room, viewed only by a few people. It depicted two women separated by an enormous mural, a void that seemed to create a permanent distance between them. One of them was crying profusely, and the other was smiling weakly. Below it was the title: "The Distance of You and Me." The artist remained anonymous, for reasons beyond all logic: how could such an extraordinary work lack a name?

The gaze of the shortest girl (Kim Jisoo) in the room was fixed on the painting, magnetic, as if the canvas were speaking directly to her. Each painted tear pierced her chest; each faint smile touched her soul. It was her pain, her longing, her reflection. A shiver ran through her: in London, feeling and thinking a certain way about another woman was frowned upon. And yet, there she was, caught between fascination and fear.

She leaned a little closer to the painting, as if she could absorb every stroke with her gaze, and the air around her seemed to thicken, laden with a silence that weighed on her shoulders. Her hands tensed involuntarily, and she felt a strong, uneven thump in her chest, a reminder that she was alive and sensitive to every detail. She didn't know if it was fear, excitement, or simply the consequence of looking too closely at a pain that wasn't only in the painted figures, but also in herself.

She felt, rather than saw, a movement near her, a different air that seemed to brush against her back. Turning slightly, her eyes met those of another young woman who was also looking at the painting, but from a different angle. Her gaze was calm, almost inquisitive, as if she were trying to understand what Jisoo was feeling without the need for words. For an instant, the murmur of the room disappeared, and all that existed was that silent, unknown, and yet impossible-to-ignore presence.