My eyes drift to the bathroom door.
Suddenly, a thought hits me—a tiny, dangerous epiphany: there’s a bottle of sleeping pills in the cabinet. I’ve taken them the night before shoots, or whenever the anxiety is too loud to let me sleep.
My body moves before my brain can argue. I walk barefoot to the bathroom. The light flickers on—cold, fluorescent, a harsh reality check. My reflection in the mirror is a mess: hair greasy, lips cracked, eyes red-rimmed. I look like I already died last night.
I open the cabinet. The bottle is in my hand before I even realize it. A translucent cylinder with a white cap. Twenty or thirty pills inside.
I sink down onto the floor, my legs folding beneath me like I used to in the dance practice room. The one where the teacher used to scold me for sloppy turns and messy footwork, especially compared to my group mates’ sharp, precise movements.
Maybe it will be quiet. Maybe I’ll just fall asleep and not wake up. One less disgraced celebrity for the nation to drag through the mud.
I’m still staring at the bottle when I hear it: a knock. Then the soft click of a key turning in the lock.
Shit.
I forgot that he has a spare.
The door creaks open. Footsteps. Low and cautious.
“Min-hee?”
That voice. Kang Shin, my manager. My ever-present, very-long-suffering manager.
I curl tighter around the bottle but don’t move. Another step.
“Min-hee, I saw the news. Are you okay?”
Am I okay?What a stupid question. Of course I’m not okay. I’m broken. I’m over. I’m done. My entire life, all the sacrifices I’ve made—for what? To end up like this?
But I don’t say any of that. I don’t say anything at all. I just grip the bottle tighter and wait for him to walk away.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he kneels down, and I can see his shadow in the light under the gap.
“I brought soup,” he says.
I almost laugh. I almost cry. Of course he does.
2
The One Who Stayed
I was twenty-three when they assigned me a new manager. A male manager. That was new, considering my life until that point had been run exclusively by no-nonsense female publicists and older-sister figures from the company.
It happened around the time our girl group, Jellypop, had become less active, as each of us started shifting toward our inevitable solo careers—mine in acting.
We met for the first time over a quiet lunch in a glass office tower in Gangnam. He wasn’t what I expected.
With a four-year age gap between us, he felt much older—quieter, more put-together, like he’dalready figured things out while I was still fumbling through everything.
“Hi,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Let’s work together from now on.”
That was it. No dramatic flair. No over-eager flattery about how much he admired my work. Just a calm voice and an even calmer gaze. He didn’t talk much during that first week—just drove me to auditions, handed me scripts, and stood quietly in the background while I rehearsed lines in the backseat of the van.
Previous managers I’ve worked with are all about the flash and sizzle—quick with jokes, fluent in casual banter, always armed with the latest industry gossip.
Shin is nothing like them. He keeps to himself, speaks only when necessary, and seems content to fade into the background. I remember thinking,Never mind. No need to make small talk. They’d probably assign me someone else soon anyway.
