A faint creak echoed in the spacious apartment. I was sitting up in bed, a small, square notebook resting on my knees, running over the notes I'd taken that day.
Then she walked in.
I looked up as she entered the room, her dark green negligee flowing around her, catching the low, ambient light. Her eyes, usually so sharp, were soft tonight. Her steps were quiet, deliberate, until she was standing right beside the bed.
She didn't speak. Instead, her hand, tracing the delicate lace cuff of her sleeve, slid over the covers until it found my arm. It was a simple, tender touch, and I set the notebook down, covering it with her hand.
She leaned in, her head resting gently on my shoulder, her scent—clean and faintly floral—filling my senses.
Then she spoke, her voice a low murmur against my skin. "...You should quit smoking."
I stiffened slightly. This wasn't a casual remark.
She tilted her head up just enough to look me in the eye, her expression earnest and a little bit sad. "It's going to kill you."
I felt a familiar, uncomfortable tension tighten my chest. The thought of a future without her... it was an emptiness I wasn't ready to face. But my own mortality? That was a given.
"Everybody dies," I said, the words coming out flat. I pulled her closer, wrapping my arm around her.
"I need you to live longer than me."
I felt the sudden, crushing weight of that plea. It wasn't an accusation; it was a desperate wish, a pure, selfish love that terrified me in its sincerity. I thought about the life I led, the dangers I courted, the small, self-destructive habits I clung to.
I kissed the top of her head, the words tasting like ash and iron on my tongue. "That might be hard."
She pulled back abruptly, her eyes widening in a sudden shock of indignation. She sat up fully, facing me now.
"What?" she asked, her voice incredulous. "You're way younger than me."
I looked at her, at the beautiful, stubborn woman who tried to ignore the difference in our years, who tried to live like time didn't matter. But it did. For her, it mattered in the quiet, insistent tick of a clock. For me, it mattered in the constant, looming possibility of a swift, violent end.
I didn't try to explain it. I simply stared back, a faint, resigned smile touching my lips. Yes, I thought. She is right. I am younger. But she didn't know the risks I ran every day, the kind of life I had to fight for. The difference in our age was the least of our worries. I wished, more than anything, that her simple, beautiful wish could be granted.
I held her close, tracing the line of her collarbone with my thumb. She was talking about my devotion, labeling me the only love of a dependable manager and a world-renowned artist. She made it sound like a perfectly balanced equation.
But the word that lingered on my tongue was the one I'd just uttered: "I'm jealous of Myeong."
She simply tightened her hand, which was cupping my face, a silent acknowledgment of the deep, possessive love I felt. I leaned down and kissed her, inhaling the comforting scent of her skin, the simple act of leaning in a confirmation of my dedication. The kanji for "Myeong" (明), tattooed subtly on the back of my neck, felt warm against my pillow. My light.
She shifted slightly, drawing back just enough to look me in the eye, and her question hit me with the weight of a true ultimatum.
"...If Myeong asked you to live an ordinary life with her..." she began, her gaze unwavering. "...and said she'd be with you forever, then will you live a long life?"
It was a question about choosing longevity over destiny, choosing safety over ambition. It was the core difference between us. Her focus was on our time together; mine was on her future legacy.
I didn't hesitate. My conviction was absolute.
"No."
I saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes, but I continued, sitting up slightly. She was looking at me, waiting.
"Myeong will never be just an ordinary person," I stated, my voice firm with unshakeable resolve. It wasn't just my ambition; it was a pact. I needed her light to shine on the world, and I would be the one to make sure it did.
"I promised her," I confessed, the words heavier than any vow. "That I'd make sure everyone in the world dreams of her."
A slow, wry smile spread across her face. She reached up with a playful, yet knowing gesture, pinching my cheek. Pinch.
"You're so arrogant, Yuhan," she said, her smirk telling me she was entirely charmed by my ambition, despite herself. I leaned into her touch, my own cheeks heating up.
"Ah, is this what they call the youthful spirit?" she teased, lightly tapping my forehead, attempting to dismiss my grand promises as mere youthful bravado.
But I knew it was more than that. I took her hand from my face and kissed her knuckles.
"I'm not going to let her be just an ordinary person." It was a final, internal affirmation. The life I lived might shorten my own time, but it would ensure her immortality through her art. That was the only 'forever' I truly believed in.
She yawned, a deep, satisfied stretch. The conversation had clearly settled something in her mind.
"This oldie's gonna go to sleep," she announced, sinking back into the pillows, pulling me down with her. The complex talk of life, death, and ambition was suddenly over, replaced by the simple, comforting reality of our shared bed. I smiled, letting her draw me close.
leaned down, my lips barely brushing her forehead. The soft scent of her hair, the even rhythm of her breathing—it was a comfort I hadn't known I needed until I found her. I felt her sigh against me as I settled back, pulling her closer.
She was so beautiful, so incredibly talented. "She gets to be the only love of such a dependable manager..." I thought, a quiet smile playing on my lips. My Myeong, my rock. "...And a world-renowned artist." I considered the sheer breadth of her achievements, a swell of pride and something else, something heavier, filling my chest. She deserved everything.
My mind drifted to the chaotic, vibrant world of our work. "Filming for 'Two Women' is almost over," I mused internally. It had been a challenging shoot, a testament to her dedication, and mine, to our shared vision. "And every single time..."
My train of thought was broken by the memory of a recent incident, a stark contrast to the quiet intimacy of our bed. It was a loud, jarring flashback to the set. "HELLLOOOO!!!" A voice, shrill and utterly out of place, echoed in my mind.
I saw it clearly: Yena, stumbling onto the set, eyes wild, a bottle probably clutched somewhere nearby. Someone was trying to hold her back, but she was a force of nature, especially when she'd been drinking. The other manager, looking mortified, tried to calm her. "STOP IT, YENA..." he pleaded, but she was beyond reasoning, shouting something about him. "HERE'S DIRTY YENA!!!" she slurred.
It was always a mess when she showed up like that. "Yena has showed up to set drunk," I recalled, sighing inwardly at the memory. "It seems like something's happened between the two of them..." Not that it was my business to interfere, but her drama always spilled over, touching everyone nearby. "...But that's none of my business." I tried to tell myself, even as the memory grated.
I pushed the unpleasant images from my mind, focusing back on the woman in my arms. Myeong. My Myeong. I reached up, my hand gently coming to rest on her cheek, my thumb brushing over her skin. She looked up at me, her eyes deep and knowing. The character for 'Myeong' (明) was tattooed on my neck, a private mark that only she truly understood.
I leaned down again, this time to kiss her softly. The thought, raw and honest, escaped my lips, "I'm jealous of Myeong."
She didn't question it. She just looked at me, her own hand rising to grab my face, her fingers tracing the sharp line of my jaw, then sliding to cup my cheeks. Her touch was possessive, reassuring, a silent promise. And in that moment, under her gaze, all the chaos of the outside world faded. All that mattered was her, and the undeniable truth that she was mine, and I, hers.
settled back down, feeling her soft breath against my chest. Her gentle demand for my longevity, my arrogant refusal to allow her an ordinary life, the playful smirk she gave me—it all faded into the comfortable blue glow of our bedroom. She was asleep now, a beautiful, secure presence in the vast, volatile world we inhabited.
But in my mind, the noise of the past few days still rattled. The stress of the film, 'Two Women,' was nearly over, but the drama had been constant.
The Chaos of Yena
I saw it again: the sudden, horrifying intrusion.
We were on set, the atmosphere already tight, when the back door burst open. "HELLLOOOO!!!"
It was Yena. Even from a distance, I could smell the alcohol clinging to her. She was sloppy, laughing too loudly, clinging to some poor assistant who was trying, and failing, to be inconspicuous.
"MAN... I WANT ANOTHER DRINK! AW, WHY?" she shouted, flailing her arms, her face smeared with a kind of pathetic, drunken misery.
The manager with her was beet-red. "STOP IT, YENA..." he muttered, trying to shield her, but it was useless. She was beyond handling. She jabbed a finger toward him, her eyes wide and wet. "HERE'S DIRTY YENA!!!"
I looked away. It was a spectacle of self-destruction. I knew she was dealing with demons, maybe some sort of fallout with the man trying to handle her, but I was Myeong's manager, not a therapist for the entire industry. I watched her falling apart pathetically and dangerously, and forced myself to dismiss it.
"...But that's none of my business." I had my job. I had my woman. Her talent was a light I was dedicated to protecting.
The Perfect Facade
Myeong, however, was a professional machine. That was the stark difference between the stars in our orbit.
Yena might be a disaster off-camera, but Myeong was never anything less than flawless when the REC light blinked red.
I watched her through the monitor, transforming seamlessly.
"But when the cameras started rolling and it was her cue to act..."
The Myeong I knew—the woman who laughed at my youth, who worried about my vices, who fell asleep in my arms—vanished. In her place, there was only the character, Beomhui.
The camera captured her in a close-up, her expression bright, honest, and utterly simple. She wore a modest blouse, her freckles visible, her dark hair shining under the lights. She looked like the purest soul in the world, embodying the perfect image of a grounded, ordinary woman.
"NO, I don't have to be anything extravagant anymore." Her voice, clear and steady, cut through the quiet set. "I like my plain, ordinary self."
It was a brilliant lie.
"...She immediately transformed into the perfect Beomhui. Like she was someone who only existed on film."
It was mesmerizing, but also slightly unsettling. She could shed her skin so completely.
And then the thought hit me, an arrogant, confident smirk that matched the one she had given me just hours ago.
No, Myeong. That life wasn't for us.
I saw the contrast again in my mind: Myeong, the artist, in a different shot—dark eyeshadow, a seductive lollipop, a wicked smile, the complete opposite of Beomhui.
"And I..." I thought, holding my sleeping Myeong tighter. "That's too bad. I'll probably be extravagant forever."
Because that's what she deserved. She was a world-renowned artist. She was the woman who got to have the devotion of a dependable manager. She was everything but ordinary, and I was committed to making the whole world see it.
Myeong pov
The film shoot was nearly finished. It had been a long, intense period, and even though I was immersed in the work, I was also becoming aware of the approaching end. My life had become a simple, cyclical rhythm: work \rightarrow home \rightarrow work \rightarrow home, much like the image of the diligent ant.
There was a moment when I was called out by the Director. "Myeong," he said. I immediately replied, "Yes, Director?" To be honest, when we first started shooting, and it involved two women, I had a small amount of regret... but now, I had gotten used to calling him "Director Hyunjae" more than his actual name.
He looked somewhat different, and I wasn't familiar with the situation unfolding. He seemed calm, like he had made up his mind.
"Can I give you a ride home tonight?"
It seemed like the time had come to say goodbye for the last time. After a brief moment, I nodded and said, "Sure. Take me home."
We walked to his vehicle, and I noticed it immediately. "You got a new car?" The white SUV with the prominent 'RANGE ROVER' lettering was sparkling, highlighted by the animated stars.
I settled into the passenger seat, buckling up. "So this is why you wanted to give me a ride. To show off."
He smiled, a bit smugly. "Was it that obvious? Hah... I'm joking." He shifted his hand on the steering wheel, his fingers resting near the "Start/Stop" button. "The shoot's almost over, and I thought we might not get a chance to talk again, if not now."
The thought of not talking again was heavy. Earlier, before he'd offered the ride, I had been thinking about myself. I said to myself, "AND I... THAT'S TOO BAD. I'll probably be extravagant forever." It was a fleeting, self-deprecating thought contrasting with the new car and the expensive-looking interior.
As he drove, I realized I had been wrong about the farewell. This was a chance, perhaps, for a real conversation—not just a ride home.
,The new car was quiet, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the soft jazz from the speakers. I broke the silence, glancing at him as we drove.
"…Thanks, Myeong."
"For what?" I asked, genuinely confused, my eyes meeting his in the rearview mirror for a moment.
"For acting in my first film," he clarified.
I gave a small, non-committal hum. There were so many feelings swirling in the air—the professional closure, the personal intimacy of this ride, the melancholy he mentioned.
He took a deep breath, focusing on the road ahead. "Being able to capture the parts of you that I've been wanting to put on film... it was an honor."
I felt a faint blush creep up my cheeks. He continued, his voice softer now. "You were great, just as expected. And you're only going to get bigger."
He looked at me again, his gaze intense. "People only see the happy, bubbly side of you, but..." His voice trailed off, but his eyes were earnest. He saw something deeper.
"...I sense melancholy from you."
My heart skipped a beat. A secret I rarely showed was suddenly named and acknowledged. He finally realized it…
I looked down, gathering my thoughts. "..."
Then, a vibrant, non-sequitur image flashed through my mind: him and I, sitting casually together outside, bathed in golden light. In that memory, he said, "I want to capture all of you in my camera."
The memory made me smile, and I looked up at him, shaking off the heavier mood. "You just now realized that? Haha."
He chuckled softly, a hint of genuine relief in his eyes.
"Just don't go around telling people that," I said, a playful warning in my tone.
He shrugged, a small smirk on his face. "That much is okay, right? Even if it wasn't, I don't think I can stop you."
As we continued down the street, I found myself looking out the window, past the glow of the new car's interior and out at the starry night sky. The conversation had been strange, complimentary, and deeply revealing. Despite the unsettling intimacy of his observation, one thought remained firm in my mind, a quiet affirmation of what we had done together, what he was building.
"...I still like your movies."
The car moved smoothly through the city night. The sound of the engine, a low "VROOM," faded as we reached the quieter streets. I watched the taillights of the car in front of us disappear as we drove.
The Director broke the comfortable silence with a thought that felt less like a statement and more like a deeply held wish.
"I think about that future a lot these days," he said, his eyes focused on the path illuminated by the streetlights. "How nice it would be if you could be the star... of the first film I direct."
A lump formed in my throat. I looked out the window at the bright crescent moon hanging over a single lamppost. I realized that, in a way, that dream had already come true.
"I guess that dream came true," I whispered, the words barely audible.
He pulled up to the curb, the new car's engine idling. The quiet moment felt monumental, a final, beautiful scene in a movie we had just finished shooting.
"We might not be anything anymore, but..." He paused, turning to face me completely. The expression on his face was intensely earnest, a mix of pride and regret.
"...you're still my muse."
The weight of those words settled over me, heavier than any compliment he had given about my acting. My heart felt warm, yet aching. He saw the melancholy, yet he also saw the inspiration. He saw all of me.
He knew that years ago, we had spoken of a shared future, a bold, youthful dream: "Someday, you'll be an actor, and I'll be a director." The fact that we achieved one part of that dream, even as the personal relationship fractured ("We might not be anything anymore"), was a testament to his ambition and his sincere connection to my essence.
I smiled, a genuine, bittersweet expression of thanks. "Just don't go around telling people that," I said, repeating the earlier, playful warning, trying to lighten the heavy moment.
He laughed. "Even if it wasn't, I don't think I can stop you."
He reached over and turned off the engine, the sudden silence of the car amplifying the sounds of the night outside. The ride was over, but the conversation had changed everything. It wasn't a final goodbye; it was an acknowledgment of an indelible bond, etched forever onto his first film reel.
,The car had stopped right in front of my building—a modern, sleek structure with wide windows and minimalist balconies. The realization hit me as I looked up at the apartment: even though I'm in this fancy car, returning home to my fancy apartment, I feel like I've become a boring adult.
It's true what they say: Dreams always come true not when you're desperate, but when they don't matter anymore. The young woman who dreamt of this life was long gone. I've become a much more impressive person than the person I was when I was dreaming… yet the thrill was muted.
I reached for the door handle. "Thank you. See you next time, Director." The professional farewell felt right for the moment, clean and decisive.
Just as my fingers wrapped around the handle, a sudden, playful thought struck me. I turned back to him, a mischievous smile spreading across my face.
"Oh, by the way... I'm dating someone."
His glasses flashed under the streetlights as his face registered surprise. "What...?" he stammered. He recovered quickly. "Hm...? Is it Haedo...?"
I laughed, a genuinely happy sound. "No, not him. So take good care of Yena, not me." I was referring to the other lead actress, maybe nudging him toward focusing his efforts elsewhere now that I was off the market.
Before he could process the full implication of my announcement, someone appeared outside my door. The Director's eyes widened, a look of shocked surprise replacing his composure.
"Myeong."
"Oh... well that's..." he began, startled.
The door swung open, the sound of my Manager's feet hitting the pavement with a STEP. He was tall, wearing a crisp suit, and his back was towards us.
"Oh, you were here, Manager Eun?" I said, feigning innocence as I smoothly stepped out of the car. The Director looked utterly bewildered, caught red-handed giving his actress a ride home.
Manager Eun, who was clearly waiting for me, took my arm gently. He and the Director exchanged a silent, intense look over the roof of the SUV. The Director looked furious, perhaps realizing the full extent of the complex professional and personal lines he had just crossed.
As the car door shut with a solid SHUT, I thought about the ending of this chapter. The project is finally ending soon. I wonder what kind of film I'll be working on next.
It felt good to walk away, a star stepping off the set and into my own life, leaving the Director, my former lover, staring after me. The journey to becoming an adult may have been boring, but my life certainly wasn't.
TO BE CONTINUED