The sound of the faucet running in the bathroom was the only thing that filled the silence. I sat on the edge of the sofa, my hands still clasped around my knees. I felt a strange sense of guilt, the kind I used to feel when the camera stopped rolling and my parents' smiles vanished instantly. Had I stayed off-script? Had I said something that made the "audience" unhappy?
When Mr. Sun finally emerged, he looked like a ghost. His usually sharp suit was slightly disheveled, and his face was drained of all color. He didn't sit back down next to me. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, watching me with eyes that were wide, vibrating with a mixture of terror and a deep, agonizing pity.
"Byeolbit," he whispered, his voice cracking. "The... the stories you just told me. About the games. About the recording."
"Yes?" I looked up at him, tilting my head. I tried to summon the smile eomeoni taught me—the one that made people want to give us money or likes. "Was it too much? I have more memories, Mr. Sun. I can tell you about the tutors they brought in later, or the parties we had for the 'friends' online."
He let out a shaky breath that sounded more like a sob. "No. No more right now." He took a hesitant step toward me, then stopped, as if afraid that touching me might break whatever fragile glass was holding me together. "Those weren't... happy memories, Byeolbit. What they did to you... it's a crime."
I felt a small, cold spark of irritation. Why was he being so difficult? "Appa said people who don't understand our world would be jealous," I said, my voice rising slightly. "He said the 'soil'—the regular people—don't understand how the 'stars' live. They loved me. They recorded me because I was a star. They shared me because love isn't selfish. That's what they said."
I waited for him to agree. I waited for him to tell me I was a good girl for remembering so well. But Mr. Sun just sank to the floor, right where he stood, burying his face in his hands.
"They didn't love you," he choked out, his words muffled. "They used you. They sold your childhood piece by piece to strangers on a screen. They groomed you to think that... that that was love."
I stared at the back of his head. For the first time in my life, a tiny crack appeared in my memory. I remembered the feeling of the long, sharp nails digging into my skin. I had always called it "the feeling of being held." But as I looked at Mr. Sun's genuine distress, the word "pain" flickered in my mind, unbidden and terrifying.
"Mr. Sun?" I whispered.
He looked up, his eyes red. "I'm going to help you, Byeolbit. I don't care about the house, or the business deals, or whatever your bumonim left behind. I'm going to show you what a real home looks like."
I didn't know what to say. A real home? I already had one. It had cameras in every corner, expensive sofas, and parents who played games. But as I looked into his eyes—eyes that weren't looking at a screen, but were looking truly at me—I felt a strange, fluttering sensation in my chest. It wasn't the practiced joy of a broadcast. It was something else.
It was terrifying.