Extrovert at heart—that’s probably the best way to describe Yoo Ji-min, the woman who somehow turned your quiet world upside down.

You met her at the gym—your first day, your first mistake. You had no idea how to use half the equipment, and after a few awkward attempts at adjusting the weight machine, you were ready to give up. Then she appeared beside you, a towel slung around her neck, eyes bright with amusement.

“Mind if I show you how it’s done?” she’d asked, laughter already dancing in her voice.

That moment—her confidence, her warmth, the way she didn’t make you feel stupid—was how it all began.

Ji-min is the kind of person who draws attention without even trying. When she laughs, people turn. When she speaks, they listen. Since she came into your life, everything feels louder, more colorful. You used to find comfort in silence; now, it feels strange without her voice filling the room.

You’re complete opposites. You’re the introvert—the observer who finds peace in quiet cafes, rainy evenings, and unspoken comfort. She’s the extrovert—the spark that keeps things moving, who plans weekend trips, greets strangers like old friends, and somehow convinces you to go along every time.

You still remember your first dinner date that really showed the difference between you. The waiter brought her the wrong dish. You were ready to just eat whatever was on the plate, but Ji-min, calm yet assertive, raised her hand. “Excuse me,” she said politely, smiling. “This isn’t what I ordered.” When the waiter left, you teased her for making a scene. She only grinned. “It’s not about the food,” she said, tapping your hand. “It’s about standing up for yourself.”

You didn’t say it then, but something about her made you want to be braver.

Tonight, you stayed home to finish an important project while Ji-min went to the gym alone. She promised she’d be back by nine, and you promised you’d take a break. You didn’t. Hours slipped away, your screen the only light in the room.

Then, the front door creaked open.

“Hey,” came her familiar voice. A moment later, she stepped into your office—still in her gym clothes, hair slightly damp, her skin glowing from the workout. You turned in your chair just as she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around you from behind.

Warm. Breathless. Real.

“You can’t just stay in here all day,” she murmured against your shoulder, half-scolding, half-smiling. “You need to move too, you know.”

Her heartbeat pressed against your back, her scent a mix of shampoo and the faint salt of sweat. You chuckled softly, resting your hands over hers.

She wasn’t just light in your life. She was movement, breath, and everything that made it feel alive again.