Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 227: Isolation Game

Isolation was a taste you learned slowly—at first bitter, then so sharp it scraped your nerves raw, then, finally, just salt in every wound. That was what it was now for Ji-hye: nothing but salt and the echo of her own effort, the sound of a single volleyball bouncing in a gym meant for two dozen voices. There was no team this week. Only her, her private trainer, and the clock that ticked on the wall as if counting down the minutes left on her career.

She was benched—not just benched, but erased from every list, every roster, every group chat. She wasn’t allowed in the main training block with her club. Instead, the club’s front office arranged private sessions in the empty auxiliary gym, far from the curious eyes of teammates and the sharp tongues of coaches who’d already decided how the story would end. Her only company was a bored trainer whose job was to keep her fit, keep her moving, but not too close, not too supportive, just in case the cancer of scandal was contagious.

Ji-hye bounced the ball—one, two, three times, then sent it arcing over the net. The echo came back hard and hollow. Again. And again. Overhead lights hummed. Sneakers squeaked. Her own breath seemed to snarl in her throat, rough and uneven, a little faster each time she let herself think, I should be with them. I should be on the court.

The trainer, a young woman with tired eyes, watched from a folding chair. "You’re getting good height," she said, but her tone was careful, empty of warmth.

Ji-hye didn’t answer. She just served again, and again, fingers stinging, shoulders burning, hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. She wanted pain. She wanted exhaustion, the kind that drove out thought and memory both.

She would’ve rather had screaming, cursing, the sharp comfort of rivalry. Anything was better than this silence, this half-life. At least with rage, there was connection. Now, every sound was just a reminder she was alone, and the only thing waiting for her at the end of the session was another empty locker room and the buzz of her phone, always unanswered.

The pressure was everywhere. Even when she left the gym, there were eyes—security guards at the building doors, reporters hiding behind coffee cups in parked cars, flashes of camera phones she tried to ignore. She wore her hoodie pulled up and her mask tight, but it didn’t matter. Everyone knew who she was. Or thought they did.

If anyone understood, maybe it was her mother.

Coach Min was a legend—head coach of the national team, iron-willed, never lost control in public, not even when her daughter was at the center of the ugliest storm of her career. It was Coach Min who’d taught Ji-hye how to survive, how to bite down on pain and never let anyone see you bleed. It was Coach Min who’d made her into a weapon, and it was Coach Min who was now under attack from the same sponsors, the same federation executives who’d built her up for the Olympics and now wanted her daughter gone.

Ji-hye knew the calls were coming. She overheard her mother’s voice sometimes, on the other end of a phone, sharp and low, clipped syllables fighting back panic. "She’s my starting outside hitter," Coach Min would say. "No one replaces her."

But the pressure never stopped. Board members called for "damage control." Sponsors threatened to pull funding. The Olympic committee wanted reassurance the team would be scandal-free. Sometimes Ji-hye saw the tension in her mother’s face—new lines, tightness in her mouth, the rare flash of true fear in eyes that had never backed down.

They barely spoke now. At home, Ji-hye locked herself in her room or went for runs at dawn. Coach Min worked late, or brought paperwork to the kitchen table, phone always buzzing, arguments in whispers behind the sliding door. There were moments when Ji-hye wanted to throw herself into her mother’s arms and scream, Say something, tell me it’s going to be okay, but pride burned through her before the words could form.

And so the silence grew.

At night, Ji-hye lay awake, staring at the ceiling, scrolling through news on her phone. She read every rumor, every post, every sickening new twist on the same story. She read the comments—thousands of strangers dissecting her life, judging her choices, calling her names, deciding her fate. She watched as the support and hate came in equal measure, both as sharp and cold as winter air.

Her messages were a graveyard of blue ticks and unreturned calls.

Joon-ho tried to reach her—first a simple, You okay? Then longer messages, then voicemails. His words started steady, then turned worried, then desperate:

I’m here if you want to talk.

You don’t have to go through this alone.

Please answer. Please let me help you.

She read every message. Never replied.

Yura sent check-ins, links to cute animal videos, and photos of her swollen belly with silly captions like Your niece or nephew is already kicking—wants to see you! Harin forwarded her news articles about other athletes who’d come back from scandal, stories of victory after disgrace, reminders that shame wasn’t permanent. Mirae spammed her with selfies, stupid videos, and sometimes just raw, angry rants about the club and her ex.

Even Min-kyung, all the way in New York, sent voice notes: "I know you don’t want to talk. But I’m still here, okay? I’m not letting you go, no matter how far you run."

Ji-hye listened to every message, then deleted them.

Her pride kept her silent. Her fear made her stubborn.

Sometimes she wondered what would be left when all of this was over—if she would have anyone left at all.

She tried not to remember her ex. But the memories broke through, sharp and stinging, just like her serves.

It started out so sweet—he’d found her after a high school game, told her she played like a star. He said he loved how tough she was, how nobody could shake her, how she stood out. For a while, she believed him. For a while, he was good at making her feel special—at first. Then came the questions:

Why did you talk to that guy after the match?

Who’s texting you this late?

Why did you take that selfie?

Why do you have to practice so much?

She remembered the first time he lost his temper in public, the way he grabbed her arm outside a café, squeezing so hard it left marks she covered with long sleeves. He apologized, begged, promised he’d never do it again. Then he did. Over and over. Each time, she made excuses for him, told herself it was the pressure, that she could handle it, that nobody else needed to know.

But the worst was the humiliation—his jealousy spilled online, little digs at her reputation, jokes about her "attitude" and "playing around." She learned to ignore it, to bury the sting, to fight back with silence and cold eyes.

When she finally left him, he didn’t cry. He threatened. "You think you’re better than me now? Don’t forget, I know everything. I can ruin you. No one will take your side."

That was the beginning of her private war—learning to hide everything, learning to protect herself with distance, learning that pride was armor and pain was fuel.

Now, with every set she played alone in the empty gym, the old shame burned alongside the new. It was never just about volleyball. It was about all the ways people could strip you bare, all the ways they could make you feel small.

She smashed ball after ball, sweat pouring down her back, muscles screaming. Her trainer called out times, gave corrections, counted reps, but it was all noise. Ji-hye heard only the voice in her head:

Keep going. Don’t let them see you break.

When the session ended, she packed up in silence. Her phone buzzed—a message from Yura, a missed call from Joon-ho, a group chat full of supportive gifs from Mirae and Harin. She didn’t open any of it. She stuffed her phone in her bag, pulled her hoodie over her face, and slipped out through the side door before anyone could see her cry.

That night, she sat at the kitchen table long after her mother had gone to bed. She stared at her hands, raw from practice, the calluses cracked and bleeding.

Coach Min came in quietly, pouring herself a cup of tea. She didn’t say anything at first, just looked at her daughter over the rim of her mug.

"You’re up late," she said.

Ji-hye shrugged, tracing patterns on the table.

Coach Min sat across from her, the lines in her face deep in the harsh kitchen light.

"Are you angry at me?" her mother asked softly.

Ji-hye looked up, eyes burning. "No. I’m angry at all of them."

Coach Min reached out, covering Ji-hye’s hand with her own. It was a small gesture—gentle, trembling, years of stubborn love packed into the pressure of their fingers.

"I can fight for you," Coach Min whispered. "But I can’t fight you."

Ji-hye swallowed, throat thick. "I know."

For a moment, there was a chance, a tiny opening. But pride closed it up, tight as a fist. Ji-hye pulled her hand away, stood, and muttered, "I’m going for a run."

Coach Min nodded, her gaze steady. "I’ll wait up."

Ji-hye ran until her lungs burned, until the city was nothing but blurred lights and pavement. When she stopped, she looked up at the sky, searching for stars, finding only darkness.

Back home, she lay in bed, phone clutched to her chest. She scrolled through old photos—championship wins, sweaty smiles, the LUNE girls grinning with her, even her ex, grinning at her side before the rot set in. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what it felt like to trust someone, to not be afraid.

The next morning, she woke before dawn and returned to the gym. The trainer nodded, silent, wheeling out a cart of balls. Ji-hye tied her shoes, stretched, and served. Over and over, until her arms shook and her fingers bled.

Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.

She kept going, alone, stubborn, prideful, her pain her only company. The empty gym rang with every strike, every drop of sweat, every gasp of effort.

Ji-hye didn’t know how long this would last. She only knew that as long as she could stand, she’d keep serving, keep fighting, keep proving to herself—and to the world—that she was still here.

The world could bench her, silence her, shame her.But they would not break her.

Not yet.