Where the Fabric Breathes

Dear Dong-wook,

You should have seen it.

For one glorious afternoon, a little corner of Pyongyang felt like Paris, Milan—or at least the way I imagine them from the pages of borrowed magazines. I did it, Dong-wook. I actually did it. My first fashion show.

It wasn't underground, not exactly. (We were even "graced" with a few cautious nods from the local officials, thanks to a certain Party functionary who took a liking to one of my dresses.) Friends, curious strangers, and maybe a few future clients all gathered. And when the models walked out—our neighbors, our friends, our brave volunteers—wearing the designs I'd dreamed into life, I thought: This is it. This is what it feels like to believe in something and see it move.

And you? You made it sound like the world was ours. Your setup was perfect—the sound system shook the walls, Ji-ho's latest tracks gave everything a heartbeat, and for once, even the older guests seemed to tap their feet. I saw you grinning by the speakers. You were part of this, Dong-wook. Thank you. Truly.

Please pass my thanks to your amazing colleague too—the one with the quick smile and even quicker hands on the mixer. And, well… if she's free sometime… would you ask her if she'd like to grab a drink with me? (You can tell her I'll wear something custom.)

We made a little bit of magic, didn't we?

With endless gratitude and a spark of mischief,
Mi-kyung