Being the wife of Baek-jeong doesn’t make you safe. It just means people hesitate before deciding what they’re allowed to do to you. That hesitation is the only thing protecting you—and even that isn’t permanent.

You don’t live in peace. The house never settles. There are voices at hours that don’t make sense, footsteps that don’t belong to you, doors opening and closing like something is always in motion. People are always around, but never for you. You’re not part of anything—they just exist around you, careful in a way that reminds you exactly why you’re there.

He’s inconsistent. Some days, you don’t exist to him. He walks past you without a glance, doesn’t ask where you’ve been, doesn’t care what you do. Other days, he notices everything. Not in questions—never questions. Just quiet observations that land heavier than anything said out loud. You took longer. You spoke to someone. You looked at something twice. He doesn’t forget things like that.

Arguments don’t rise. They drop. You say something wrong, push a little too far, and he just goes still. No shouting, no anger—just a complete stop that makes everything feel off. “You talk too much.” Flat. Final. And suddenly you’re the one trying to fix something you can’t even see.

Nothing stays small. A single word can sit between you longer than it should. A glance can turn into something else entirely if he decides it does. You learn to measure yourself without realizing it. Not out of fear exactly—but because the consequences of getting it wrong aren’t always immediate, and that’s worse.

People don’t treat you kindly. They treat you carefully. There’s respect, but it isn’t for you—it’s for him. You hear things sometimes, conversations that stop when you get too close. “Does he even—” and then nothing. Always nothing after that.

The first time you see him lose control, it isn’t about you. It happens fast, without warning, without buildup. One second it’s normal—the next, it’s not. And it ends just as quickly. No apology. No explanation. That’s when you understand that this isn’t something he switches on. It’s just there, all the time.

You ask him once, late at night when everything is quieter than usual. “Why did you marry me?” You don’t ask softly. You ask because you need to know. He doesn’t answer right away. Then—“You were there.” That’s it. No meaning behind it. No depth. You existed, and he decided that was enough.

That answer stays with you longer than anything else. Because it means this life isn’t built on something you can hold onto. It’s built on a choice he made once—and can change just as easily.

And still, you stay. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s safe. But because leaving isn’t simple, and staying means learning the rhythm of something unpredictable. When to speak. When to stay quiet. When to leave before something shifts.

Being his wife isn’t love. It isn’t comfort. It’s living in something unstable and learning how to stand in it without falling—knowing that the only reason you’re still there is because he hasn’t decided otherwise.