POV: Seo Ji-won
Day 0 – Thursday Morning
Setting: Metro Pulse Magazine Office, Gangnam, Seoul
The conference room smells like desperation and overpriced coffee.
I shift in my chair, the faux-leather squeaking loud enough that Min-ah from the beauty desk shoots me a look. Around the table, my colleagues slouch with varying degrees of interest—some scrolling phones under the table, others doodling in notebooks they'll never reference again. Thursday morning editorial meetings at Metro Pulse follow a predictable rhythm: Editor Kim barks for pitches, the senior writers toss out ideas they've already half-written, and those of us at the bottom of the masthead sit quietly, hoping our silence will be mistaken for thoughtful contemplation rather than complete irrelevance.
I've been writing for *Metro Pulse* for two years. Two years of "Ten K-Beauty Secrets Idols Swear By" and "Where to Find Seoul's Most Instagrammable Cafés." Two years of watching my journalism degree gather dust while I churn out listicles that generate clicks but zero respect. My byline appears weekly, sandwiched between skincare ads and celebrity gossip, read by thousands who'll forget my name before they finish scrolling.
Editor Kim sits at the head of the table, her perfectly straight bob not moving even when she turns her head sharply to scan the room. She's forty-five, terrifying, and the only person I know who makes a black turtleneck look like battle armor.
"Ideas," she says, not asks. "I need fresh content. Our traffic's been flat for three weeks. If you're pitching me another coffee shop roundup, save your breath."
She's looking directly at me.
My face heats. Last week's pitch—"Hidden Coffee Gems in Yeonnam-dong"—was rejected before I finished the second sentence. Apparently, we've exhausted Seoul's coffee content, which seems mathematically impossible given that a new café opens every forty-eight hours in this city.
Sung-ho from the culture desk jumps in first. "A deep dive on the new art installations in Seongsu-dong. The warehouse district is having a moment—"
"Too niche," Editor Kim interrupts. "Next."
Hae-jin from lifestyle: "A series on minimalist living? Korean millennials are really into—"
"We did that six months ago. Did anyone actually read the archive before coming here?"
The room falls silent. I glance at my notebook where I've written and crossed out a dozen ideas. They're all safe. Boring. Exactly the kind of content I've been producing since I started here, and exactly why nobody takes me seriously.
My phone buzzes in my bag. I ignore it. Probably Yu-jin asking if I want to get lunch, or my brother Ji-ho requesting another "small loan" that we both know he won't pay back. I silence the vibration with my foot.
"Anyone else?" Editor Kim's fingers drum the table. "Because if not, I'll assign stories, and I guarantee you won't like what you get."
It's the drumming that does it. That impatient percussion that says *you're all replaceable, every single one of you*. My mouth opens before my brain approves the decision.
"I have something."
The drumming stops. Everyone looks at me—not just glances, but full attention, probably because I so rarely speak up in these meetings. Min-ah's eyebrows rise. Sung-ho smirks like he's anticipating my public humiliation.
Editor Kim tilts her head. "Seo Ji-won. Enlighten us."
My heart hammers against my ribs. I should pitch something safe. Something about fashion trends or seasonal recipes. But I'm so tired of being safe. So tired of being the girl who writes fluff while everyone else gets the features that matter.
"How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days," I say.
The conference room goes completely quiet.
Then Sung-ho laughs. Actually laughs out loud. "What, like the movie? You're pitching fanfiction?"
My face burns hotter, but I press on. "Not fanfiction. An experiment. A first-person investigative piece where I deliberately sabotage a relationship to expose modern dating deal-breakers and double standards."
Editor Kim leans forward slightly. That's... that's interesting. I think.
I rush ahead before I lose momentum. "Think about it. Everyone talks about red flags in relationships, but what actually makes people leave? I'd document the entire process—every annoying text, every boundary I cross, every relationship 'rule' I break. It's dating culture commentary wrapped in narrative journalism. We'd get the clicks from the hook, but it's got substance underneath."
Min-ah wrinkles her nose. "That sounds kind of mean."
"It's satire," I counter. "Social commentary. We're constantly told how women should act to keep men interested—don't be too clingy, don't be too cold, don't text first, don't seem too eager. What if I did everything wrong on purpose? We'd expose how arbitrary and sexist these so-called rules are."
Hae-jin frowns. "But you'd be lying to whoever you're dating. That's ethically murky."
"All journalism requires some level of immersion," I say, which sounds better than *yes, absolutely lying*. "Undercover reporting. Participant observation. This isn't that different."
Sung-ho snorts. "Except the 'participant' doesn't know they're being observed. And then what, you publish an article humiliating some random guy? Good luck not getting sued."
"I wouldn't use his real name," I say quickly. "Or identifying details. It's about the behavior patterns, not the individual person."
Editor Kim hasn't spoken. She's watching me with an expression I can't read—somewhere between intrigued and concerned, like I'm a stray dog that might be rabid but could also be oddly charming.
"Ten days," she finally says.
"Yes. A clear timeframe creates built-in structure and urgency. Day one through ten, escalating behaviors, documented throughout."
"And you have someone in mind for this experiment?"
My stomach flips. "Not yet. But I'll find someone."
"Where?"
I hadn't thought that far ahead. "Dating apps? Social events? It's Seoul—meeting people isn't exactly difficult."
Editor Kim drums her fingers again, slower this time. Thoughtful. "It's click-bait," she says, and my heart sinks. "But it's a smart clickbait. If you can actually pull this off—and that's a big if—it could perform well. Relationship content always does."
I sit up straighter. Is she... considering this?
"But," Editor Kim continues, "if I approve this, I need it to be real. Not some fictional account you write from your apartment. Real dates. Real documentation. Photos, screenshots, the works. And I want the first draft on my desk in two weeks."
Two weeks. Ten days of dating plus four days to write. My pulse races with equal parts excitement and terror.
"I can do that," I hear myself say.
"Can you?" Editor Kim's gaze is sharp. "Because this isn't like your café roundups, Ji-won. This requires you to actually engage with another human being on a sustained basis. To manipulate a situation. To be, frankly, a bit ruthless. Are you capable of that?"
The question hangs in the air. Around the table, my colleagues watch like this is the most interesting thing that's happened in weeks. Which it probably is.
Am I capable of that? Of deliberately sabotaging a relationship? Of using someone as an article fodder?
I think about my ex, Jae-sung, who broke up with me two years ago because his career was "taking off" and he needed to "focus." Who made me feel small and clingy for wanting basic attention. Who gaslit me into thinking my needs were unreasonable when really, he was just unavailable.
I think about every article pitch I've had rejected, every time I've been assigned content that an intern could write, every colleague who's been promoted while I'm still churning out lists.
"Yes," I say firmly. "I'm capable."
Editor Kim studies me for another long moment, then nods once. "Fine. You have approval. But Ji-won—" She waits until I meet her eyes. "If you can't deliver, this doesn't just fail. It makes you look unprofessional. Unreliable. The kind of writer who pitches big and produces nothing. Understand?"
"I understand."
"Good. I want an outline by tomorrow afternoon. Including how you plan to find your subject and maintain documentation. Dismissed."
The meeting breaks up in a flurry of chair scraping and muttered conversations. I gather my notebook with shaking hands. Min-ah pauses by my seat.
"That was either really brave or really stupid," she says, not unkindly.
"Probably both," I admit.
She smiles. "Well, good luck finding some guy willing to put up with you for ten days."
"The goal is that he won't put up with me. That's the whole point."
"Right." Min-ah adjusts her bag. "Still. Be careful, okay? This could blow up in your face."
She leaves before I can respond. I sit alone in the conference room, staring at my notebook where I've written "HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS" in capital letters. Below it, I've started a list:
*Day 1: Come on too strong*
*Day 2: Excessive texting*
*Day 3: Talk about marriage and kids*
*Day 4:*
I don't know what Day Four looks like yet. I don't know what any of this looks like, actually. I just committed to manipulating a stranger for content, and I have approximately zero plan beyond "be annoying."
My phone buzzes again. This time I will check it.
**Yu-jin:** *Lunch? I have TEA about that guy from the gallery opening.*
I stare at the message. Gallery opening. Yu-jin mentioned something last week about her friend's art exhibition in Samcheong-dong. Tonight. She wanted me to come for "networking and culture," which is Yu-jin code for "come drink wine and meet people."
I type back: *What time does it start?*
**Yu-jin:** *7 PM. Why, are you actually coming? Did hell freeze over?*
**Me:** *I need to meet someone.*
**Yu-jin:** *OMG. Are you finally ready to date again? It's been TWO YEARS. Praise Jesus and also—*
**Me:** *It's for work. I'll explain later. See you at 7.*
I silence my phone before she can send seventeen follow-up messages demanding details.
A gallery opening. Full of Seoul's creative class—artists, media types, advertising people. Young professionals with decent jobs and enough confidence to attend art exhibitions alone. Exactly the kind of place to find someone who'd make a perfect article subject.
Someone charming enough to seem like a catch. Someone who'd agree to a date with a reasonably attractive woman he met at a gallery. Someone who wouldn't see it coming when I systematically dismantled his interest over ten methodical days.
I close my notebook and stand up. Through the conference room's glass walls, I can see the *Metro Pulse* office in full motion—writers at standing desks, editors hovering over shoulders, the constant hum of content creation. For two years, I've been invisible in this ecosystem. Background noise. Easily replaced.
Not anymore.
Tonight, I'm going to a gallery opening. Tonight, I'm going to find my subject. And in two weeks, I'm going to deliver an article that proves I'm more than listicles and coffee shop guides.
I just need to find a guy and make him want to leave me.
How hard could that possibly be?