Last September, outside the Dongdaemun Design Plaza (DDP), the runway began before the show. The line to enter was long, and the end of the line was always filled with the laughter of those who had "no tickets but just came to watch." Some matched sneakers with suits, while others wore bold silhouettes, but their expressions were similar. A look that seemed to ask, "Can I be someone else for a moment today?" I didn't dislike that question. Daily life generally demands that we live as just one person.

What is fascinating about fashion shows is not that the clothes are new, but that time is rewritten. The split-second movements, the breath between rehearsal and the main performance, the announcement of "It will start soon" quietly seating people. We use time in our daily lives, but usually let it slip away. However, in a fashion show, time is 'staged.' In that staged time, I recalled my day. The anxious heart trying to match the commuting time, the habit of preparing an apology in advance for being late to an appointment. Strangely, the fashion show spoke to me. "Your attitude towards time ultimately shapes you."

Inside the show venue, it was dark, and that darkness made everyone uniform. It was a darkness that temporarily set aside professions, ages, and brands. And when the music started, each person's 'taste' finally emerged. The moment the first look appeared, I always think the same thing. Clothes do not walk alone. The tailor's hands, the designer's insistence, the pattern maker's calculations, the heat of the steam iron, the model's breath, the wrist angles of the hair and makeup team—all overlap to create one person's step. Watching that, the moments in my life where I insisted "I did it all by myself" became a little embarrassing.

Before the performance began, I happened to pass briefly backstage. It was the opposite of glamour—yet it was the real stage that made glamour possible. The hangers were packed, clothes had name tags, and some were tearing tape while others searched for needles. What impressed me the most was the presence of safety pins. Even looks that appeared to be neatly finished had moments where they were temporarily held up by a single safety pin. That small, cheap metal seemed to say, "You have to stay together like this for now." I stored that scene in my heart for a long time. I too have held my days together with countless makeshift solutions. Pretending to be perfectly prepared, I had barely fastened the buttons of my heart with a small pin.

Since that day, I have changed my thoughts about 'completion.' Completion does not always come as an elegant conclusion. Sometimes it starts with enduring the next moment while being temporarily fixed. The reason safety pins are not something to be ashamed of is that they are devices that help endure the process, not the final result. Life also needs such devices. Not a perfect schedule, but small devices that help me stand up again when things suddenly collapse. For me, that can be a line of notes, a window seat at my favorite café, or the sentence "It's okay to stop here for today."

The recent landscape surrounding fashion shows increasingly amplifies 'stories beyond clothes.' In some seasons, everyday objects like aprons become the center of the runway, and in others, a small pin appears carrying a social message. At first, it felt strange. Why does fashion bring up such stories? But soon I understood. Clothes are the closest language to the body, so they reflect the times first. What we wear all day, what we choose unconsciously, what we adjust while anticipating others' gazes—all of that carries politics and labor, class and gender, anxiety and desire. A fashion show might be an event that brings that 'unconscious choice' into the spotlight and turns it into a question.

Another interesting aspect is the emptiness that comes after the show ends. The applause is short, people pick up their phones again, and the outside is still busy. It feels like I've just seen something amazing, but when I get home, I have to do laundry and sort recyclables. Yet, that emptiness is actually nice. The moment of art pierces through daily life and then seeps back into it. On the day I watch a fashion show, my hands feel a little different when I open my closet. Instead of asking, "When did I buy this?" I start to think, "What kind of person do I become when I wear this?" Ultimately, clothes are a tool that adorns me, while also being a record of how I treat myself.

In front of the DDP, I watched people's backs as they left the show venue for a long time. Some seemed to interpret the silhouette they had just seen in their own way, strutting with confidence, while others adjusted the hem of an ordinary coat with an expression that said, "But I am still me." Both were cool. What the fashion show taught me is that style is not an answer but an 'attempt.' It is not about copying someone else's look, but experimenting with forms that fit my body and my day. An experiment that can fail.

So these days, I consciously create a runway in small parts of my life. I leave for work three minutes early and walk slowly for a block. I try adding a color to my shirt that I usually wouldn't wear. I don't immediately judge someone's words; instead, I take a moment to 'fit' them. Is this a thought that suits me, or is it a thought that I insist is cool even though it feels uncomfortable? The fashion show did not give me grand courage. Instead, it gave me a very specific sense. The sense that "I can endure today with just a small fixing device," and the sense that "while attempting, I am already a little different."

Sometimes we wait for the 'main performance' in the stage of life. We think we will live beautifully only after we succeed, after we have leisure, after we have become perfect. But what I saw backstage always says. The main performance is brief, and most of the time is spent in preparation, repair, and fixing. So if today I have a heart that I have pinned together with a safety pin, that is not a shabby temporary solution but a technique that makes the next scene possible. Just as the wrinkles of clothes remain after a fashion show, the small resolutions of that day also remain as wrinkles somewhere in my body. And I decide not to iron those wrinkles. Because those wrinkles are proof that I 'lived and moved.'