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365 days Under His Skin
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~Days skipped~
The office was too bright, too loud, and way too full of people who expected me to know what I was doing. Goodness, that late, Taekyung had already finished the whole episode's script, and the project was finally signed off.
But here I'm still trying to adjust to life as a grown-ass man with a half-functioning brain and a writer, for God's sake—clutching my head, staring blankly at the screen for the next project that I'm going to work on with actor Choi Siwoo but also with the director, none other than Mr. Stoic Jung Yohan, the one who cares about Taekyung along with and after Junho.
A perfect combo. Kill me now.
As I was staring at the screen, I felt a shadow of Siwoo, who appeared out of nowhere and leaned against my desk, flashing a grin that made fans faint. "Taekyung-ssi~, the team's having a script meeting tonight. You're coming."
It wasn't an offer or a question. I opened my mouth to refuse. I had nothing. Not a genre, not a plot, not even a witty line of dialogue. I was spiraling, drawn into the existential horror of which story to choose, and now this script meeting?
"Great!" He clapped his hands, ignoring me completely. "Junho's bringing soju. Don't be late." And then, to twist the knife, he winked just like that, and he was gone, walking away with the confidence of a man who had never been told no in his life.
I stared after him, my fingers frozen over the keyboard.
Across the room, Yohan watched silently from his desk, fingers steepled under his chin. His gaze burned into me like he could see every lie, every hesitation. I quickly looked away.
I'm not sure why, but there's been a difference in Yohan's vision since we met or talked, and it feels more self-conscious than Junho's. He notices everything, from the way I walk to the way I breathe and speak. More specifically, when Siwoo was around.
I took a deep breath, trying to push away the thoughts that were consuming way more than they should. Yohan is quite observant, as Junho once said, and he is just as concerned and caring about Taekyung as Junho is. I can say this based on memories of Taekyung and other days when Junho and I came every day together. So there's no need for him to be so obvious about how he looks at me.
*
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*
The conference room reeked of expensive coffee, the kind that costs more than my dignity. One whiff, and my stomach twisted. Or maybe that was just the dread.
And there he was, the actor, holding court at the head of the table, dramatically reading the lines from the script...badly. "My love...is like afirework," he declared, clutching his chest. "Burning bright before the time—wait." he squinted at the page. "Is that a metaphor fordeath? Taekyung-ssi, you dark bastard?"
If you're wondering what he was reading, it's the script I wrote about two males soul-swapping bodies, one a famous but proud actor and the other a poor convenience store worker who juggles shifts and bills. However, after their souls exchanged on an unfortunate eclipse night, the actor is now stuck calculating sales prices, while the cashier awakens to a life of scandal, luxury, and script meetings where works are slaughtered by idiots.
Case in point: Siwoo flipping a page and gasping, "Oh! Do they kiss in this scene?"
Across the table, Yohan pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to leave marks. And at this point, I considered throwing myself out the window.
Junho groaned, "It's romance, not a funeral."
"All love is tragedy," Siwoo sighed, flopping into the chair beside me with force enough to jostle my laptop. "Right, Taekyung-ah?~"
I choked on water. Taekyung-ah? Since when were they that close?
Yohan's finger tightened around his pen knuckles, bleaching white the plastic creaking under pressure. My throat went dry. Why did he care? Was it the script? The nickname?
Then the pen snapped. The room went silent. Ah. So, that's how I die. Not from the overdose, not from the truck, but from the director's glare over a broken pen.
"Taekyung?" Junho nudged me. "Are you okay? You're sweating."
Fantastic. I swiped it with my sleeve. The fabric came damp. "Fine. Just...thinking."
"About how brilliant my performance was?" Siwoo batted his lashes.
I swear to God, if he weren't so unfairly pretty with those puppy eyes and that stupid, perfect smile, I'd have kicked him out of the same window instead of throwing myself.
"About how loud you are," Yohan corrected dryly, not even looking up from the script he was reading, or so I thought. The broken, poor pen pieces still sat in front of him like a warning.
Siwoo gasped, clutching his chest like a wounded soap opera actor. "Rude! And here I was going to invite you both to the VIP wrap party—" "No," Junho and Yohan said in unison and deadpanned.
I almost laughed. Almost. The kind you choke on when you're two seconds from either hysterics or a mental breakdown. Who wouldn't crack up at this circus? Me, apparently, but the sound died when my phone buzzed.
Eomma: Taekyung-ah, it's Eomma. Are you coming tonight?
My breath had hitched the way my laugh died before I laughed. It's Taekyung's mother, the real Taekyung's mother, who had no idea that her son's soul was no longer on earth and had taken mine as backup.
"Hey, that's your mother, isn't it?" Yohan raised his eyebrows and looked up from the script he was holding. But since there was nothing else I could say, I chose to keep quiet.
"Yeah! Lee Taekyung." Junho smacked the table, shaking his head like a disappointed uncle. "When was the last time you visited your home? Stop hiding behind these scripts and go see her."
The concern in his voice made my chest ache. These people cared, Taekyung. Loved him. And I was just a stranger wearing his life while the real Taekyung had...
My fingers twitched toward Taekyung's phone. He'd chosen permanent sleep—whether on purpose or by accident didn't matter. The sleeping pills had won. Over homemade food in his mother's fridge. Over Junho's rough affection. Over Yohan's silent care. Over Siwoo's yet fluttering, charming person.
God, he should've tried anything else. A midnight walk, a soft-scented candle, a therapist, or even punching a wall until his knuckles split would have been better than this quiet surrender.
The phone screen blurred. My thumb smeared across his mother's message like a sinner touching stained glass.
'A year, this is your body.' Kai's words echoed in my mind.
Yes, a year is my lifetime in this body, and he will no longer be alive, even if I do not know about him; I should give him the happiness he has missed.
The smile came unbidden—not quite mine, not quite his. But in this moment, these hands were my hands. This heartbeat is my heartbeat. However temporary, however borrowed, this life is mine to hold now.
I straightened up, the phone still warm in my palm. Around me, the meeting had dissolved into chaos again, with Siwoo dramatically replaying some scene, Junho groaning into his hands, and Yohan's gaze flickering between me and the broken pen. None of them knew. None of them could ever know. But I do.
And so, I typed back, finger steady for the first time since I'd woken in this life.
Me: "Yes, Eomma. I'll be there."
The reply came instantly, as if she had been waiting with her phone clutched in her hands: I made your favorite kimchi jjigae with extra tofu.
My throat itched. It's Taekyung's favorite, not mine, but it would be now. Because for this year, whether it's borrowed, stolen, or gifted, this happiness, these opportunities, and these aches would be mine too. Every messy, beautiful, imperfect part of it.
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Thanks for reading. See you in the next chapter.
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