BUILDING on a napkin

I knew the handwriting before Moon Tae-hoon finished his sentence. The signature line said Im. The handwriting was mine. I have been staring at my own name for so long I can spot it on a stranger's page, and here it was on a witness-coercion affidavit I never touched. I photographed it on a napkin and called the file BUILDING, because I do not have a better word for what I am building yet.

He did not answer when I asked if his own office had been contacted by Lee Joon-ho. He counted the threads in the tablecloth instead. I wanted to tip the coffee into his lap. Instead I asked if he wanted more water. Hotel posture. The same posture I wore in a clinic hallway in Ansan yesterday, and now in a Jongno bakery over a motion that could unmake me. I have worn it so long it fits like skin I do not like.

Han Ji-soo's office took a detailed voicemail. What that means is I begged a machine for forty seconds and then sat there listening to my own breath in the silence after.

I bought tangerines on the walk back. I did not eat them. I made doenjang-jjigae because it is the only thing I know how to do with my hands when the rest of me is useless. I wrote a timeline at my desk until the letters blurred. I sent Yerin the encrypted file. I texted Bae Yu-jin's office. Still collecting. The word is a lie I tell myself about how calm I am.