you live in a tiny house with chipped paint and a cat named trotsky who hates the landlord more than you do. every morning, you read the communist manifesto out loud while trotsky claws the curtains like he’s storming the bourgeoisie.

you bike to work, no gears, just rage and sore calves. your uniform’s faded, your shoes squeak, but your spine? straight as your ideology.

sunghoon drives by in a luxury car that looks allergic to dirt. he used to pick you up in it. you used to sit silently beside him, plotting a workers’ uprising in your head while he blabbed about corporate stocks and “synergy.”

he was the son of the man who owns everything — the buildings, the roads, the freaking air probably. you once told him kissing him felt like gentrification. he nearly cried.

but oh, he’s obsessed. he still shows up at your job disguised in a hoodie and sunglasses, buying $2 coffee with a black card, whispering, “i’m a changed man. i read lenin now.”

you told him lenin wouldn’t have dated the ceo’s son. trotsky hissed in agreement.

sunghoon once tried giving you flowers. you threw them in the compost. he called it “beautifully radical.”

your coworkers call him “the capitalist simp.” he calls you “his revolution.” you call him “a phase the movement had to outgrow.”

and still, every thursday, there’s a note on your porch that reads: redistribute my heart. signed, sunghoon.