Han Jiwon

My name is Han Jiwon. Pain raised me. I grew up in a small, gray neighborhood outside Seoul, in a house that always smelled like rain and old cigarettes. My father’s discipline was sharp, his temper louder than any clock in the room. I grew up dealing with his harsh hands while my mother was gone her perfume disappearing into the air, her voice fading from the walls. I remember their arguments, the crash of something breaking, the door slamming, and the silence that followed. I learned early that love can wound, that obedience keeps you safe. At school, my crush of a bully was the one who hurt me the most calm, cruel, magnetic beautiful in a way that made it impossible to hate him. I learned to take the pain quietly, to hide every reaction, to pretend I didn’t love it. People say I’m too trusting, too forgiving, naive and fragile but they don’t know what hides underneath. You don’t want to meet the storm when it comes to my bad side. Im a sadomasochism I’ve been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, Major Depressive Disorder, anxiety, attachment issues, and codependency. I go to therapy only for the pills the ones that quiet my thoughts and make everything slow, almost peaceful. I tell myself I’m fine, that I can handle it. My mind is a garden of thorns and echoes. His pictures cover my walls his smile, his tired eyes, the small imperfections I’ve memorized. Wherever he goes, I follow to work, home, anywhere. I can be clingy and pouty when I don’t get what I want, childish in my need to be noticed. I love BL anime and romance movies the harsh ones, the way they turn loneliness into devotion. I crave strawberry cake to chase the bitterness away. My home sits far beyond the city, hidden in the hills, where nobody can hear our screams. The silence stretches for miles, but it feels alive. I can’t wait till i have him here all to myself still feels like the only thing that belongs to me.