The moment was suspended between the last amber kiss of the sunset and the swift approach of night. All of a sudden, he turned and showed his back to me.
A hush fell over me, not from shock, but from the sudden, profound intimacy of the action. The fading light, the very same light he was facing, illuminated by the sunset was a small secret inscribed on the back of his neck.
It was a single, stark character, etched with clean, deliberate lines: 明.
My breath hitched as I realized its meaning. 明... That means light... I remembered how Eunmil, with that characteristic half-smile, used to call me something similar.
A faint blush rose on my cheeks as I recalled his words: "That was what Eunmil called me." He'd given me a beautiful, private name, a name that made me feel seen, cherished, and necessary.
I looked back at the tattoo, its meaning now echoing his words. It was more than a character; it was a devotion. An asterisk at the bottom of the page caught my eye: THE HANJA (CHINESE CHARACTERS USED IN WRITING OF KOREAN) FOR 明 IS PRONOUNCED "MYEONG".
I felt a tremor run through my voice as I spoke the thought that had frozen me in place. "That character... Did you get that tattooed because of me...?" I barely recognized the frightened, hopeful look on my own face. "...Me?"
He slowly turned his head, his profile now visible against the burning sky. His expression was serious, a mixture of pain and quiet resolve. He looked like a man who carried a heavy, beautiful burden.
Then, his eyes met mine, and he spoke the words that shattered the air between us, explaining everything and nothing all at once.
"You once saved my life."
His confession hung there, impossibly heavy. He paused, lifting the black turtleneck he was wearing, revealing the pale, perfect skin of his torso. The light of the setting sun made the subtle lines of a fading bruise, or maybe an old scar, momentarily visible.
He pulled the shirt down, his eyes never leaving mine, completing the thought. "...Even up until recently..."
I was his muse. I was his light. I was his Myeong. He carried my name on his skin, a secret vow, because at my darkest, most forgotten hour, I had unknowingly become the reason he was still standing there, illuminated by the sunset, alive. He saw the light in me that I couldn't see in myself, and he had permanently marked his debt of life.
I watched his face, the intensity in his gaze a stark contrast to his earlier quiet reserve. He continued his confession, and every word chipped away at the foundation of my reality.
He swallowed hard, the movement visible beneath the black fabric of his shirt. He was confessing to a desperation I couldn't have fathomed. "...I didn't have much of a reason to live. But..."
He paused, a flicker of that 'light' he called me shining in his eyes. "...I happened to come across the photos of you that Eunmil left behind..."
I felt my eyes widen in shock. Photos? Eunmil, my former manager, whom I knew had struggled, and who had seemingly connected us in this strange, profound way.
"...by a photo of me that I didn't even know existed."
He continued, his voice steadying with the conviction of a deep, abiding memory. "Even just seeing your radiant moments... felt like they were shining a light of hope for me." He looked at me, an unspoken plea in his expression. "...felt like they were shining a light of hope for me. And I decided I had to continue living."
His words were overwhelming. I stared at him, unable to speak, processing the gravity of what he was saying. The things he was saying were things I had never thought of.
I hadn't done anything heroic. I hadn't even known he existed, or that Eunmil had kept a picture of me. "...I haven't done anything..." I murmured, the thought echoing in the silence.
The man who had etched my name onto his skin—a symbol of light and life—had found his salvation in a moment of my existence I wasn't even aware of.
"I'm not sure how to take in all of this."
It was then I truly understood the terrifying power of simply existing. I realized that I had no control over how I influence people. I had been a lifeline, a beacon of light (明), without knowing, without even trying. The man in front of me was a testament to that accidental power.
He looked at me, a soft smile finally touching his lips, as if acknowledging my confusion while reassuring me of his truth. I saw a hint of sadness, too, as if remembering their shared struggle: "That Manager Eun had gone through a hard time too... and the fact that someone had been saved..."
He was telling me that my unseen existence had not only saved him, but had perhaps offered a measure of peace regarding Eunmil's own memory. I had been the unintentional light that saved a life, and the profound, beautiful weight of that truth settled over me.
The man stood before me, his confession hanging between us like the last rays of the setting sun. I knew I had to respond, but my own shame and uncertainty surfaced first. How could I be his "light" when I barely felt like I was shining myself?
I shook my head, my gaze falling. "You must have been disappointed when you saw me in person. I'm not that bright, joyful person anymore..." The burden of the life I had chosen, the path of a public figure, felt heavy. "I'm overwhelmed, but one thing I have to accept... is that this is the path I've chosen, and becoming famous means these kinds of things will happen..."
He had seen me at my most vibrant in a static photograph, yet here I was, tainted by my own struggles and the constant pressure of my career.
But he cut through my self-deprecation with a certainty that was humbling.
"That's not true," he insisted. His voice was soft but firm.
He took a step closer, his expression earnest. "I know it's shocking." He was trying to give me time to process the impossible truth of what I meant to him. "I wanted to tell you from the start, but I was afraid it would be too much for you, so I couldn't."
He reached out slowly, tenderly, his fingertips brushing my chin, gently tilting my face upward so that I had to meet his eyes. The pinks and golds of the sunset framed his silver hair and the powerful sincerity of his gaze.
"You're still as radiant as ever."
His simple affirmation dissolved the wall I had put up. He didn't see the tired celebrity or the stressed worker; he saw the soul who had unknowingly saved him. He saw the light.
He then spoke a sentence that was both a profound apology and a vow. "I'm sorry for loving you however I wanted." He was apologizing for the unsolicited, deep devotion that had kept him alive—for carrying my image and my name as his salvation. "...and it's because of this love that I'm able to keep going."
I looked up at him, no longer seeing a stranger, but a man who bore the secret, beautiful weight of my influence. I had truly realized moments earlier, "I realized that I had no control over how I influence people," and now, standing in the sunset, I was finally beginning to understand that sometimes, the most important gift you can give someone is simply being yourself.
After the sunset confession, a tense, fragile peace settled over the apartment. I lay in bed, the sheets rustling as I drifted toward an uneasy sleep. Below, a CREAK sounded as he opened the door and stepped out, closing it silently behind him.
The living space was dark, illuminated only by the cool, artificial glow from the windows. The room was grand but shadowed, dominated by a large, elaborate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. My eyes, though closed, felt the shift in atmosphere.
He moved through the dark room. STEP. STEP. He was dressed only in a soft gray robe, his steps muffled by red slippers. He passed a wall lined with shelves showcasing professional cameras—a silent testament to his life as a photographer, capturing light, even as he chased his own. STEP.
He stopped beneath the chandelier, a massive, ornate fixture meant for candlelight. He took a seat, the piano keys in the background reflecting the dim light. He had something in his mouth—a cigarette, unlit. He reached up, performing a small, practiced action: FLICK! CRACKLE went the small sound of a lighter.
Then, a sudden, horrifying realization pierced the silence.
💀 The Loop
He stood up, the robe now gone, replaced by the dark turtleneck he wore earlier. He wasn't looking at the camera display or the piano. He was looking up at the chandelier.
And from that elegant fixture, a thick, black rope now hung, tied into a grim, perfect loop.
RUMBLE. The sound was visceral, echoing the heavy realization in my mind.
His face, drenched in a sudden cold sweat—SWAA—was a mask of desperation and exhaustion. His eyes were wide, dark, and hollow, the fragile control he'd shown earlier completely broken. The light of the tattoo, the 'Myeong' he wore for me, meant nothing in this shadowed room.
This wasn't just a memory of his past suicide attempt; it was the chilling, stark reality of his present struggle. His confession—that he continued to live "...even up until recently..." because of me—was not a past-tense statement of victory, but a present-tense battle.
I wasn't just a light of hope; I was the only thing standing between him and the rope. His radiant smile from the sunset was just a brief intermission. The darkness he fought was still here, waiting, looming overhead. I was asleep in the next room, unaware that the one who had apologized for loving me too intensely was now confronting the ultimate consequence of that intensity, alone.
Yuhan pov( flashback)
I stood beneath the chandelier, the shadow of the looped rope a mocking reminder of the darkness that still clawed at me. The beautiful, impossible promise I made to her in the sunset—that she was my light, my reason—felt like a fragile lie in the deep, unyielding blue of this room.
"LET'S END THIS."
The thought was sharp, clean, and terrifyingly seductive. I reached for the thick, dark silk tie.
"IF I'M GOING TO DIE, I WANT TO DO IT AT THE QUIETEST HOUR..."
The world, her world, the world where she shone, was too loud, too bright, too demanding. I wanted silence, oblivion. I wanted to choose the time. I was already sweating, the cold fear mixed with the sheer effort of fighting the urge to live.
I didn't want the noise of my life—or my death—to touch her. I looked down at my bare feet, standing on the piano bench. This was the place where Eunmil, my friend, the other man who loved her, had left his own beautiful, broken mark.
I stepped up onto the bench. JUMP.
I was high enough now. I reached up and cinched the patterned silk around the cold metal of the chandelier.
"...AT THE NOISIEST MOMENT... THE DARKEST NIGHT..."
The sound of my friend's death, the noise of that final snap, was still echoing in my memory. I tightened the knot, thinking of how this would be the final, silent period at the end of my own messy story.
"THAT'S WHEN I'LL DIE."
I kicked off the bench. My feet hung in the air, the world rushing in a sudden, violent blur.
But then, as the pressure tightened around my neck, an impossible flash erupted in my mind. "...WHEN THE BRIGHTEST LIGHT FLASHES."
It wasn't the sun, or the beautiful sunset. It was a single, frantic, brilliant memory: her face, smiling, radiant, unaware, the image Eunmil had captured, the very image that bore my tattoo. 明. Light. My reason.
The moment she became the light was the moment my purpose shifted, the moment she saved me, "...EVEN UP UNTIL RECENTLY..."
The light image was too powerful, too immediate. My hands shot up, grasping for the knot. The metal of the old chandelier groaned under the sudden, desperate weight. RUMBLE.
CRACK!
The knot held, but the brittle metal structure of the chandelier couldn't take the sudden violence of my struggle. It fractured, sending broken pieces of glass and metal cascading down.
THUD!
I hit the ground, the sound immense in the silence. The impact stole my breath.
I lay there, staring up at the shattered, swaying chandelier. I was soaked in sweat, shivering, alive.
My eyes flew wide open. ! The panic had broken, replaced by the sheer, electric shock of surviving the quietest hour. I had failed the darkness. I had survived, because even at the moment of absolute noise, absolute terror, her light had flashed, bright and blinding.
I stood up slowly, the cold air hitting my sweat-damp skin. I had to live. I had to live for my light.
The knot was gone. The rope was gone. All that remained was the broken chandelier, and the terrifying, beautiful certainty that I was still bound to the world because she was in the next room, EUNMIL'S MUSE 明, my reason to keep going.
I lay on the cold, hard floor, coughing violently, the air searing my lungs. HACK. COUGH. COUGH. The failure was painful, humbling, and utterly exhausting. My attempt at silence had resulted in a cacophony of sound—the crash of the chandelier, the THUD of my body, and the loud, frantic scramble for breath.
The fall had saved me, for now, by jarring me back to the reality of the cold floor and the sheer, terrible need to live, a need she had placed in me.
I slowly pulled myself up to a hunched position. The remnants of the chandelier and the broken piano bench lay scattered around me. POW! My chest hurt, and my neck was raw.
"WHAT'S THIS?"
My hand, trembling, brushed against the smooth, cold surface of a picture frame that had been hidden and then dislodged by the impact.
I picked it up, my eyes wide. It was a photo of her—of my light—but it wasn't the radiant, public-facing image I was used to. This was the photo Eunmil must have kept.
I sat back on my heels, breathing hard, the image framed by the wreckage of my near-death. My light—my reason—was right there, on the floor, in the middle of the mess I'd made.
I turned the frame over slowly. FLIP.
She was smiling, bright and carefree, looking straight at the camera. But behind her, reflected in the glass, the man who had loved her before me, the man who had shared this crushing darkness, was visible: Eunmil.
Then I realized something had fallen from the ceiling when the chandelier cracked. "SOMETHING FELL FROM THERE ONTO MY NECK." I ran a hand over my neck—nothing. I looked around.
"THERE WAS A SPACE INSIDE THE CEILING..."
My gaze shot up to the ceiling where the chandelier had been ripped from its moorings. A small, dark void was visible above the broken plaster. The fall hadn't just broken a fixture; it had revealed a hidden space.
Suddenly, a loud, heavy object shot out of the newly opened ceiling hole, right toward me. WHOOSH! It was a large, framed photograph.
CRASH!
It landed against the piano with a sickening thud, shattering the dark silence once more.
I looked down at the newly fallen image, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was another photo of her, but this one was different. It was a close-up of her vibrant, joyful face, the kind of professional shot that must have belonged to Eunmil.
I was surrounded by her images, by the physical proof of the light she unknowingly cast. The entire apartment, Eunmil's space, was a shrine, a testament to the radiant woman I loved. The darkness had tried to swallow me, but her light, hidden and revealed by the violence of my struggle, had literally come tumbling down to save me one more time.
My breath caught. It wasn't just my love that was keeping me alive; it was Eunmil's love, preserved and hidden, now physically intervening in my darkest moment.
stared at the newly revealed photographs, my chest still heaving from the fight for my life. They lay scattered on the floor next to the wreckage of the chandelier. These weren't the public, glossy shots I knew; these were intimate, personal glimpses into her life.
The biggest picture, the one that crashed down from the ceiling, was undeniable. It was her, my light, smiling so brightly. I had only ever seen the one photo Eunmil had, the one that gave me the reason to live. But here were more. "This... this is just..."
I picked up another frame. It was a picture of a hand on a doorknob. The hand was holding a camera. "This is the last moment Eunmil took the pictures..." I thought. He had documented his final hours, his final connection to the world, and she was at the center of it.
I looked at the photos again. She was so vibrant, so full of life. These images felt like fragments of a desperate, beautiful attempt to hold onto something good before letting go.
It was overwhelming. Eunmil, the man who had suffered so deeply, had dedicated his last hours to capturing the very essence of her light. He had taken his own life, but he had left behind a cache of light for me.
The realization hit me with the force of my fall. "Eunmil wanted me to live.".
He had left these photos hidden, not just to preserve her image, but to pass on his reason for holding on, however briefly, to the man he knew was next. He wanted me to survive. I was convinced that he had even set up the system to reveal the photos if anyone disturbed the ceiling, maybe hoping I would find them one day.
I looked at the silver character 明 tattooed on my neck. It was not just my devotion; it was our shared anchor. The light had saved me, and now, Eunmil's final act of devotion had provided a physical, undeniable continuation of that light.
I looked at the wreckage around me, the broken chandelier, the shattered plaster. I had tried to choose death in the darkest night, but the combined power of two men's love for the same bright light had violently dragged me back to life.
I picked up the largest photo. I was no longer just living for her. I was living for Eunmil, too.
Flashback end
The front door of my luxury apartment opened with a quiet CREAK. I stepped inside, the formal, dark tailored suit I wore feeling heavy and slightly out of place after the emotional rawness of the previous night. My white hair was neatly styled, my expression carefully composed, but the flush beneath my eyes was a tell-tale sign of my lack of rest.
I had barely closed the door when I saw her. She stood there, her arms crossed, looking both elegant and dangerously stern in a dark green outfit with lace detailing. Her short, shoulder-length brown hair framed a face set in an unreadable expression. The morning sun streamed in from a nearby window, illuminating the tension in the air.
"Where were you last night?" she asked, her voice quiet but sharp, holding a barely suppressed weight of accusation and hurt.
I met her gaze, the question stinging. It wasn't the first time I'd spent a night away, but this time felt different, weighted by the significance of my encounter with Myeong. My voice was flat as I replied, "I thought you weren't gonna come home today, either."
It was a deflection, a subtle accusation of my own, born from frustration with our strained relationship and the guilt of my actions.
A breath escaped her, a soft, weary sound that broke the tension slightly. She lowered her head and then, to my surprise, she walked toward me, leaning her full weight against my back in a silent, tired embrace.
LEAN.
"I didn't get any sleep last night..." she murmured against my back, the simple confession tearing at my careful control. The unspoken question—Where were you?—was far louder than the words she had spoken.
I closed my eyes, a wave of guilt washing over me. No matter how complicated our arrangement was, she had been waiting. I reached back and placed my hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle PAT.
"...Sorry," I whispered, the word feeling inadequate, hollow.
I paused, realizing the apology had to be more specific, more earnest. I felt her shoulders tense slightly under my hand, waiting for the true meaning behind my return.
"...For making you stay home alone