* * *
From that day on, my routine began with going to the studio.
I handled not only my work there but even simple meals. It was almost embarrassing how, not long ago, I had hesitated to even step into the greenhouse, yet now I was practically its resident ghost, immersed in painting inside the studio.
And all of that was thanks to Cha Gil-Do. Each time I finished a painting, it was because of what he said to me.
In addition to the four seasons outside the resort, I painted two more works: a lush cherry blossom grove like a scene from a fairy tale, and the small forest inside the greenhouse. Both were landscapes I had seen here with my own eyes.
The words Cha Gil-Do spoke upon seeing the finished works lingered in my head.
‘Makes me glad I designed the greenhouse in the cottage garden style. To feel harmony in disharmony, it’s as if the paintings have fragrance.’
‘It’s lucky this is only a painting. Otherwise, I’d worry about going blind from staring too long.’
‘You call this a sketch and incomplete? If the theme is the aesthetics of the unfinished, then it has meaning and value enough.’
He spoke as smoothly as if he had rehearsed. I found it astounding that he could say such things without his expression even shifting. Meanwhile, I was at a loss for words, unable to respond.
That was when I first learned that receiving too much praise makes a person break down, seeing only their own flaws more clearly.
In the end, I ran away in embarrassment, only to be caught again. I thought I heard Cha Gil-Do’s laughter behind me as he swiftly caught me by the waist, but I had no chance to confirm.
To me, who was so burdened, Cha Gil-Do said that before a great painting, even critics who are normally silent would be impatient, so I should grow accustomed to noise before a quiet canvas.
I could not grasp exactly what that meant, but it was clearly praise unlike anything I had ever received.
Staring at the paintings finished with varnish, I vividly recalled his voice, his breath, his scent as he embraced me from behind. Stirring up noise inside me more than anyone, while cloaked in stillness.
And then, something like him came to mind.
‘…The sea.’
Cha Gil-Do was like the sea, fathomless, unknowable. Like ripples shimmering in the light, yet with depths I could not read.
I closed my eyes to imagine the sea, but strangely, only his face appeared. His blue eyes rippling like the ocean, his hair swaying in the breeze under moonlight, his breath hot as he gazed down at me.
His slightly dry lips parted to bite at my ankle bone, and then his tongue, soft and pliant, soothed the spot he had left bruised. When I kissed him, his lips were no longer rough. They melted against mine, so soft I thought I would lose my mind….
“……!!!”
Startled by the fact that I had entertained such lewd thoughts about Cha Gil-Do—the male lead—I covered my face with both hands.
“…Is this really okay?”
I felt less and less able to face the heroine.
Lowering my hands, I picked up my brush and faced a blank canvas. I wanted to steady myself and pour whatever was inside me onto it. But the painting did not flow as before. I produced something vaguely like the sea, but the mood was wrong. Trying again, the result was the same.
Perhaps because Cha Gil-Do was not in the painting? I tried sketching his back into it. But no matter how I looked, neither the man’s back nor the sea around him seemed like him.
After discarding several more canvases, I finally set down the brush. I could not paint the sea that resembled him.
Had a slump come already? After only a few works?
Unwilling to believe it, I quickly sketched something else. Thankfully, I was not blocked entirely. That meant the subject was the problem.
Why could I not paint the sea as I wished? Thinking about it, I tried to remember the last time I had actually been to the ocean.
“…Hmm.”
Nothing came to mind.
‘Has it been so long I forgot?’
Tilting my head, I dug deeper into childhood memories. The conclusion—
‘I’ve never been.’
I had never truly seen the sea with my own eyes. When I was around seven, the facility had taken us on an outing, but that was to a valley, not the sea. The ocean had always seemed familiar, but that was only from photos and videos. Realizing I had never actually gone surprised me.
If Cha Gil-Do and Kang Ji-a’s story progressed, my time in the studio would not last.
I grew anxious. To think I might not be able to paint the sea simply because I had never seen it, when I did not even know how much longer I would remain here. Still, if I could just see it with my own eyes, perhaps then I could capture it.
I could change the subject, but it had to be the sea.
“I’d like to see it once before I die (for my painting skill)…”
Just then, startled by the sound of someone nearby, I turned my head.
Cha Gil-Do.
He stood before four abandoned canvases of the sea, his gaze fixed longest on the one with a man in it. It was meant to be him, but ended up the indistinct back of an anonymous man.
Why did he have to look at that one, of all things? Embarrassing—but I did not stop him. If he criticized it as a failed attempt, I intended to say I wanted to see the sea in person.
But strangely, he said nothing.
After a long silence, he spoke.
“…What is this.”
Had it turned out so badly he could not even recognize it as the sea?
He looked puzzled, unable to identify the subject. And I could never confess I had tried to paint him and failed. Even I did not see him in that back.
When I failed to answer quickly, Cha Gil-Do pressed again.
“I’m asking you, Baek Eun-Seong. Why did you paint this.”
He looked at me now, no longer at the painting, waiting for my answer. I had thought he only ever said good things about my work, so his coldness left me more bewildered than hurt.
“Because that’s the last one (I’ll give you).”
“…Hah.”
He inhaled deeply and exhaled shortly, as if daring me to continue. Under his gaze, I felt bound, unable to move, as if I were being scolded.
Had I done something wrong again? Then Cha Gil-Do asked,
“…Baek Eun-Seong, you haven’t been taking your medicine, have you?”
After a psychiatric consultation, I had been prescribed medication. Here, they believed I had dissociative identity disorder. I disliked it. The pills left me lethargic, mindless, like an empty can.
So I had not taken them.
When I avoided his eyes and evaded an answer, he seized my hand and pulled me straight out of the greenhouse.
“Uh, ah. Wha—?!”
In slippers, I could not keep up, stumbled, and nearly fell, when he stopped abruptly. But stopping so suddenly made me crash into him. It did not hurt, but if I fell back, I would surely land on my tailbone. Praying it would not crack, I braced myself, eyes shut tight.
Suddenly, my body lifted.
Opening my eyes, I found myself in his arms. Before I could tumble, he had caught and hoisted me up.
His strength always amazed me—lifting an adult man so easily. Holding me, he strode into the house. Thankfully it was late, with no attendants around to witness yet another humiliation.
Without pause, he headed to a room, set me on the bed, and rummaged through a drawer until he produced the medicine.
Knowing he meant to force it on me, I panicked. The only times I had swallowed it were when caught off guard. This time, I had to make it clear I was fine. I did not want it anymore. Especially since there was nothing wrong—it would only be misuse.
“I don’t need medicine like that.”
“Are you a doctor? Who told you to decide on your own.”
“I told you, I’m not crazy.”
Even after hearing me, he poured water into a cup, brought it along with the pills, and looked down at me.
“You’re right. You’re not crazy. You’re sick.”
His firm words struck me dumb. Until now, I had thought we understood each other, but now he seemed not to grasp my meaning at all.
He said,
“Your choices are two. One: take the medicine and move up the consultation from four days later. Two: be locked in this room and force-fed the medicine.”
He held out the pills.
“Choose.”
For the first time, I saw Cha Gil-Do as someone I could not reach with words. I let out a helpless sigh and swallowed the pills he offered.
“The consultation is tomorrow morning. I’ll be there too.”
“……”
“Sleep early. Don’t complain about being too tired tomorrow.”
He turned to leave the room. Watching his back, I thought of the back I had failed to paint, and asked, almost pleading,
“…I want to go.”
“……”
“I want to go see the sea.”
“…You can’t go anywhere.”
After a pause, he said only that, then left.