She Measured Me Without Touching Me

Dear Da-hye,

I hesitated before writing this. I don’t know what you’ll think, and maybe I’m imagining things—but I can’t stop thinking about what happened.

You noticed it too, didn’t you? Eui-young from Accounting. She’s always been polite, reserved. But lately, she walks like she knows something no one else does. Not arrogant—just clear. Grounded. Like she's wearing something invisible that changes the way the air moves around her.

Everyone’s noticed. People look at her longer. They hesitate before interrupting. Even Mr. Jang nearly apologized to her last week, and he doesn’t apologize to anyone.

I never asked her about it. But one day after rehearsal, I found a folded note tucked into my clipboard. Just a time. A place. No explanation.

I went.

The hallway under the stage. You know the one—past the prop cages, where the light always feels borrowed. The door was ajar.

I stepped in.

I won’t describe her—not because I want to protect her, but because I don’t have the right words. She didn’t introduce herself. She didn’t need to. She looked at me like she’d already taken my measurements without touching me.

She showed me fabrics. Not costumes—possibilities. Shapes I could try on. Versions of myself.

I chose something simple. A cut I’d never wear in daylight. When I looked in the mirror, I wasn’t transformed. I was revealed.

Since then, nothing’s changed, really. Same corridors. Same tags. Same fluorescent hum.

And yet.

I walk differently.

I speak less—but people hear me more.

If something ever shows up on your bench—a note, a thread, a shadow that doesn’t belong—follow it.

Not because you’re lost.
But because you’re already closer than you think.

— Seon-mi