Authors pov
The memory was sharp, overlaid on the present. Someday, you'll be an actor... and I'll be a director. It wasn't just a hopeful mantra anymore; it was the foundation of my entire waking life. I think about that future a lot these days. I watched the silhouette of the woman—the actress, the muse, the memory—against the vast, indifferent sky.
It was a beautiful thought, a seductive fantasy that had taken root years ago: HOW NICE IT WOULD BE IF YOU COULD BE THE STAR... OF THE FIRST FILM I DIRECT. It was the dream of every young, ambitious filmmaker: to collaborate with the one person who truly understood your vision.
I couldn't look away, even as I felt the tightness in my jaw. We were standing on the precipice of our professional dreams, but the personal history between us threatened to swallow the entire project.
"Once we achieve our dreams..." I mumbled, the words sounding hollow. I saw the flash of something hopeful—something too familiar—in their eyes, and I instinctively recoiled, hardening my resolve. The line had to be drawn now, steel-sharp and definitive. I had to SHUT the door on the past, on the yearning. The pressure of the moment was crushing; I felt an internal SLUMP of regret for the easy intimacy we were sacrificing.
I inhaled the crisp air, the sudden coldness giving my voice the strength it needed. "...THEN LET'S GET TO WORK."
The briefest flicker of hurt crossed their face—it was gone before a casual observer could register it—replaced by that familiar, resilient, confident smile. I had delivered the necessary blow, a professional severing of our personal tether.
I stepped forward, extending my hand for a formal shake. My voice was strictly business, devoid of the warmth that used to color every word between us. "Let's work hard on the movie. While we keep work separate from our personal lives."
The hand that met mine was warm, yet the grip was purely professional. "RIGHT?" they responded, their smile maintaining the illusion of ease. "The cold words I said to you." It was a subtle acknowledgment, a sign that they understood the terms of our new, fragile contract. "Looking forward to working with you."
It wasn't a contract of partnership, I thought, pulling my hand away. It was a treaty. And the terms were clear: work was everything; the rest was a dangerous distraction.

The brief, desperate embrace—the strange scent of a man who had changed for me, the fleeting familiarity of Hyeonjae's arms—was over. I had pushed him away. I DON'T FEEL COMFORTABLE DOING THIS WITH SOMEONE I'M WORKING WITH... The words were a shield against my own weakness, against the deep, familiar pull of the man standing before me.
His face was etched with raw desperation. "What can I do? WHAT CAN I DO TO MAKE YOU FORGIVE ME?"
His pleas were always the same, grand and absolute, and always delivered when he was cornered.
"HOW...?" I asked, my voice flat.
"I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT ME TO FROM NOW ON." he promised. "I'LL TREAT YOU RIGHT THIS TIME, PLEASE, JUST THIS ONCE."
I couldn't help the slight, cynical curve of my lips. It wasn't about the grand gestures, and it wasn't about now.
"WHAT COULD YOU HAVE DONE TO TREAT ME RIGHT?" I challenged, meeting his gaze. "WHAT COULD YOU HAVE DONE TO TREAT ME RIGHT?"
He stood speechless, unable to name the countless, fundamental things he had failed to do.
I stepped closer, the roles reversed now; he was the supplicant, and I was the judge. I saw the turmoil in his eyes, the genuine confusion.
"WHAT... SHOULD WE HAVE DONE?" he whispered, searching for an answer I wasn't going to give him.
I sighed, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. This was the core of his problem, the reason we could never truly bridge the gap between us.
I fixed him with a steady look, forcing him to absorb every word. "You seem consistent... but you contradict yourself."
His expression darkened with confusion.
"...You're kind..." I allowed, acknowledging the genuine goodness beneath his ambition and fear. "...BUT YOU'RE INDECISIVE."
That was it. That was the conflict that defined him, and the one that had ruined us. He was kind enough to promise devotion, but too indecisive to choose me over his own fear of failure. He was consistent in his pursuit of his dream, but contradicted himself every time he allowed his personal feelings to bleed into the professional contract we had just signed.
We stood there, suspended between the rooftop and the sky, between the past and the perilous future of our film. The terms of our relationship had been irrevocably set, not by my cold refusal of his embrace, but by his own perpetual hesitation.
The emotional stakes are very high now!

The memory of the day the dream was forged was stark and bright, colored by the high hopes of youth. "Someday, you'll be an actor... and I'll be a director."
Director Woo (Hyeonjae) had looked at me then, his eyes burning with ambition, and whispered the intoxicating possibility: "HOW NICE IT WOULD BE IF YOU COULD BE THE STAR... OF THE FIRST FILM I DIRECT."
I remembered the rush, the sheer exhilaration of having a shared destiny.
But as our individual paths became clearer, my own self-doubt began to whisper over his promises. I saw others—talented, beautiful—and the fear solidified. When I looked at the vast landscape of the industry, I saw my own isolation.
"...BUT ALONE... I DIDN'T THINK I COULD BECOME A RESPECTABLE ACTOR."
This fear was the root of everything. My ambition was not enough; I needed his belief, his constant, unqualified support.
Then came the contract, the attempt to cage our feelings with professional boundaries. "You say you want to keep your work and personal life separate... AND YOU SAY A FILM IS NOTHING MORE THAN A FILM..." I watched him, still clinging to the cold terms of the agreement.
He had tried, in his own, confusing way, to reassure me. "You said you believed in me... AND TOLD ME I'D BE ABLE TO DO A GOOD JOB... AND CAST ME."
But that act of casting me, the very fulfillment of our oldest dream, had only magnified my panic. He was doing this for his future, not just mine. "TO HAVE YOUR MOVIE DO WELL SO YOU COULD BECOME A DIRECTOR..."
He sensed the shift in my mood, the deep anxiety radiating from me. "So maybe that's why you felt rushed." He was wrong. The rush wasn't about the timeline; it was about the sickening feeling of being his prop.
He dropped his gaze, trying to offer a half-hearted apology for his coldness. "I just wanted you to feel at ease... THAT'S NOT THE ONLY REASON."
I shook my head, my composure finally breaking away to reveal the raw, wounded core of my decision. "I'M NOT TRYING TO BLAME YOU. I JUST COULDN'T STAND MYSELF."
The words I confessed next, alone in the quiet confinement of my room, were the true reason I had pushed him away, the reason the dream had turned sour.
I HATED HOW ALL I DID BY YOUR SIDE WAS BUILD UP MY OWN INFERIORITY COMPLEX.
The proximity to his brilliant, consistent, driven self—the self that had inspired me—had inadvertently crushed me. His dream had become my burden, a measure against which I constantly, painfully failed. I had traded my self-respect for his belief. And I couldn't do it anymore.
This concludes the expansion of the provided images, revealing the full extent of the characters' conflict.
I had delivered the final, crushing truth: "I JUST COULDN'T STAND MYSELF." And the reason was simple, yet devastating: I HATED HOW ALL I DID BY YOUR SIDE WAS BUILD UP MY OWN INFERIORITY COMPLEX.
I stood on the rooftop, my back to Hyeonjae (Director Woo), and forced the last, most difficult sentence out. "EVEN IF YOU HAD BECOME A DIRECTOR AND WE KEPT OUR PROMISE TO EACH OTHER... WE WOULD HAVE ULTIMATELY BROKEN UP."
The promise—"SOMEDAY, YOU'LL BE AN ACTOR... AND I'LL BE A DIRECTOR. I THINK ABOUT THAT FUTURE A LOT THESE DAYS. HOW NICE IT WOULD BE IF YOU COULD BE THE STAR... OF THE FIRST FILM I DIRECT"—was beautiful, but flawed from its inception.
I turned back to him, forcing a final, cold resolve. "SO LET'S JUST... WORK HARD ON THE MOVIE, DIRECTOR WOO. WHILE WE KEEP WORK SEPARATE FROM OUR PERSONAL LIVES." The words I had first used to establish the boundary were now the tombstone of our relationship.
Inside, I was tearing myself apart. I walked away, hearing him call out the name he was supposed to stop using: "MYEONG…!" I could feel his gaze on my back, the defeated slump in his shoulders that I had caused when I said, "ONCE WE ACHIEVE OUR DREAMS... THEN LET'S GET TO WORK."
I ducked into the sterile quiet of a bathroom. I leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on my face. SWAA, SPLASH.
"I TRIED TO ACT UNAFFECTED..." I told myself, the water stinging my eyes. The truth was, the professional mask was excruciatingly heavy. I WANTED TO HEAR ALL OF HIS EXCUSES AND PROMISES... BUT IN ALL HONESTY, I WANTED TO TALK TO HYEONJAE MORE. I wanted the old intimacy back, but knew I couldn't survive it.
I looked down at the drain, where the water swirled and then was gone. The faucet dripped, DRIP, DRIP, mirroring the slow decay of my resolve. The water pooled, a small, murky reflection of my heart. "BUT..."
The professional distance wasn't to punish him. It was a lifeline for me. To work with the man I loved, to collaborate on our shared dream, but only in the safe, neutral territory of film—that was the only way I could endure his presence without completely erasing myself.
I took one last look in the mirror, pulling my face into a neutral, strong expression. I was an actor. It was time to play the part of a cold, professional muse.

I. The Contract
The idea, once so exhilarating, now felt like a chain forged in regret. "SOMEDAY, YOU'LL BE AN ACTOR... AND I'LL BE A DIRECTOR." I remember him saying, his gaze fixed on the distance. "I THINK ABOUT THAT FUTURE A LOT THESE DAYS. HOW NICE IT WOULD BE IF YOU COULD BE THE STAR... OF THE FIRST FILM I DIRECT."
But that future had arrived, twisted into a painful present. I forced the words out, my voice crisp and formal, after pushing down the memory of our old warmth. "ONCE WE ACHIEVE OUR DREAMS... THEN LET'S GET TO WORK." I saw the SLUMP in his shoulders, the momentary SHUT of his eyes.
I extended my hand, smiling professionally. "Let's work hard on the movie. WHILE WE KEEP WORK SEPARATE FROM OUR PERSONAL LIVES."
He met my gaze, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "RIGHT? THE COLD WORDS I SAID TO YOU. LOOKING FORWARD TO WORKING WITH YOU." The cold words were an acknowledgment of the necessary distance.
II. The Relapse
I started to walk away when I heard his strangled whisper. "MYEONG...!" I stopped, the name—the personal name I had asked him to drop—breaking the silence. My heart wrenched. WHAT HAVE I DONE TO YOU?
He was a wreck, hunched over, defeated. "I'M SO SORRY. PLEASE, JUST GIVE ME ONE MORE CHANCE. ONE MORE CHANCE IS ALL I ASK..."
Before I could stop myself, he was holding me. "I'VE BEEN IN HIS ARMS COUNTLESS TIMES, BUT NOW IT FEELS UNFAMILIAR. I DIDN'T KNOW HYEONJAE COULD SMELL LIKE THIS." Then the small, painful detail registered. HE REALLY DID QUIT SMOKING. I gave his back a soft TAP, a gesture of acknowledgment, of devastating, lingering love.
But the moment of weakness had to end. I pushed him back gently, raising my hand. "DIRECTOR WOO. ...WHAT ARE YOU DOING, DIRECTOR WOO? I DON'T FEEL COMFORTABLE DOING THIS WITH SOMEONE I'M WORKING WITH..." I saw the hurt in his eyes, the reflection of THE WARM WORDS I WANTED TO HEAR FROM YOU that were still unspoken.
III. The Confession
His pleas continued, desperate and loud. "WHAT CAN I DO? WHAT CAN I DO TO MAKE YOU FORGIVE ME? I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT ME TO FROM NOW ON. I'LL TREAT YOU RIGHT THIS TIME, PLEASE, JUST THIS ONCE."
My voice was quiet, filled with the weight of years. "WHAT COULD YOU HAVE DONE TO TREAT ME RIGHT?"
He was lost. "WHAT... SHOULD WE HAVE DONE?"
I delivered the diagnosis that had ended us. "You seem consistent... BUT YOU CONTRADICT YOURSELF. ...YOU'RE KIND... BUT YOU'RE INDECISIVE." He was torn between his ambition and his fear, and his indecision had consumed our relationship.
I offered the true reason for the separation, the deepest wound. "I'M NOT TRYING TO BLAME YOU. I JUST COULDN'T STAND MYSELF." The silence swallowed the confession that followed: I HATED HOW ALL I DID BY YOUR SIDE WAS BUILD UP MY OWN INFERIORITY COMPLEX.
IV. The Aftermath
I had to put the final nail in the coffin of our personal life to save my professional one. "EVEN IF YOU HAD BECOME A DIRECTOR AND WE KEPT OUR PROMISE TO EACH OTHER... WE WOULD HAVE ULTIMATELY BROKEN UP."
I turned my back on him for the final time. "SO LET'S JUST... WORK HARD ON THE MOVIE."
Later, in the privacy of the restroom, the tears came. SWAA. SPLASH. DRIP, DRIP. I frantically washed my face. "I TRIED TO ACT UNAFFECTED..." The raw truth was a punch to the gut. "I WANTED TO HEAR ALL OF HIS EXCUSES AND PROMISES... BUT IN ALL HONESTY, I WANTED TO TALK TO HYEONJAE MORE."
I dried my eyes, staring at my wet reflection, which was still shedding tears. I WAS AFRAID THAT I'D UNDERSTAND HIM IF I DID. I WAS AFRAID... ...MIGHT LEAD TO US STARTING OVER AGAIN. I couldn't risk it. I wiped the last tear away with a steady hand. The actress was back.
The tears kept dripping, DRIP, DRIP. It was the painful cost of ...BECOMING... the person I needed to be: a successful actor, separate from the director, able to dream a dream for myself alone.
I stood alone on the rooftop, the wind chilling the sweat on my neck. Her words echoed in the sudden silence: "You're kind... but you contradict yourself."
I saw her walking away, her silhouette stark against the bright, indifferent sky.
SHE SAID I WAS INDECISIVE.
I replayed the memory, the accusation stinging sharper than any rejection. I squeezed my eyes shut. BUT I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT THE RIGHT THING TO DO WAS.
I hadn't been indifferent; I had been paralyzed. I couldn't choose between the dream that consumed me and the person who sustained me. I wanted both, and in my fear of losing either, I had lost her.
SHE WAS RIGHT. I WAS INDECISIVE. I admitted it, the truth settling like a heavy stone in my stomach.
A new voice cut through my self-pity, harsh and mocking. "THAT'S NOT THE ONLY REASON." It was the voice of my own cynical, self-preserving mind. I turned to look at the source of the inner dialogue, but there was only the empty sky.
"YOU DIDN'T WANT TO HAVE ANY WEAKNESS, DID YOU?" the voice continued. "YOU DIDN'T WANT TO BE SEEN AS SOMEONE WHO WAS STRUGGLING, DID YOU?"
The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. I wasn't just afraid of failing the movie; I was terrified of being seen as vulnerable, of depending on anyone—even her.
"YOU WANTED TO BE SEEN AS A STRONG MAN WHO DID EVERYTHING ON HIS OWN."
My mind flashed back to the hug, the brief moment of connection I had ruined. When she pushed me away, I had used the professional excuse: "I DON'T FEEL COMFORTABLE DOING THIS WITH SOMEONE I'M WORKING WITH..."
But the real, terrifying reason was the one my internal critic named: I was terrified of allowing anyone, especially her, to know how badly I still needed her—not just for the movie, but for my sanity. My mask of professional coldness was merely a shield for my massive ego and crippling fear of exposure.
I buried my face in my hands, a desperate, silent groan escaping my throat. SHE WAS RIGHT. I WAS INDECISIVE.
I had sacrificed the woman I loved to a cold, false notion of strength. And now, I had only the cold, hard work ahead of me, exactly as she had commanded.