It’s the same bitter aftertaste I remember from when I was twenty-four, during my first real scandal.
It wasn’t a drug charge, just a grainy photo of me outside his apartment, my hand raised in what looked like a heated argument.
The evidence was as clear as a curry stain on a white shirt. The agency called an emergency meeting. Their verdict was swift.“Both of you will hold a press conference. State clearly that the rumors are false.”They didn’t ask what we wanted. Our story, the one we’d been writing in secret for years, was over. Canceled by the network.
After the press conference, we were ushered down a back hallway, away from the chaotic glare of the cameras.
The only sound was the low hum of the overhead lights and the soft scuff of our shoes on the linoleum floor. He was a step ahead, his shoulders rigid, a wall of designer fabric between us.
“We should just go along with it,”he said over his shoulder, his voice flat.
“So that’s it?”I shot back, my voice a harsh whisper.“Years of sneaking around, and it’s over just like that?”
“Do you think I want this?”he snapped, turning his head just enough for me to see the raw pain in his eyes—a mirror of my own.
“I think you don’t want me enough to fight for it,”I said. The words tasted like poison, but I said them anyway.
He stopped, hesitating. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer.“No… I do. I just… I can’t right now. But when this dies down, when it’s safe… we’ll find our way back. I promise.”
The promise that became the blueprint for every promise he’s broken since.
I open my eyes, the memory settling like a fine layer of dust on my chest. I’m back in my apartment, but the space feels brittle, like a pane of glass ready to shatter.
The journalists work fast; headlines about my police visit are already everywhere. I scroll through them all, a form of self-flagellation. The comments are a dark sea of opinions, ranging from“Lock her up”to“She’s probably innocent”and, my personalfavorite,“I liked her hair better last year.”The sheer, stupid absurdity of it all is a numbing venom.
The air in the apartment feels too thin, too recycled, and the panic starts to prickle under my skin. I don’t even know where I’m going, but I start packing. It’s a purely animal instinct: flight. I grab the essentials: my favorite worn-out sweatshirt, my analog camera, a toothbrush. A pathetic little survival kit for the life I’m about to set on fire.
A sharp knock at the door makes me jump so hard I nearly swallow my tongue.
It’s Shin. He’s already inside, his gaze taking in my frantic packing, the unlocked door, the general chaos.
“Trying to give me a heart attack?” I ask, toothbrush still clutched in my hand.
“The door was unlocked,” he says, his voice dangerously flat. “Bad idea these days.”
Guilt, sharp and unwelcome, flickers in my chest. “Guess I’m not exactly in peak security mode right now.” I shove another T-shirt into my bag, refusing to meet his eyes. “So, are you here to lecture me or just practice your ice-cold glare? Because you’re nailing the glare.”
His eyes flick to the half-packed bag. “Is there a zombie apocalypse I missed?”
“Funny. That’s exactly what it feels like.”
The silence is heavy, thick with last night’s ghosting and unanswered calls. He deserves better, and I decide to just get it over with.
“I’m going back to his place,” I say, the words clipped and final. “I need to go.”
He doesn’t have to ask who.
The fight drains out of his eyes, replaced by a deep, weary concern that’s somehow worse than his anger. His gaze is heavy with a history I just betrayed. “Min-hee…” He stops, shakes his head. “Just… promise me you won’t do anything stupid. No pills. Nothing like that.”
His fear is so specific, it makes my throat tighten. After a long, painful pause, I manage a single nod.
He lets out a slow, defeated breath. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”
The drive across the city feels like an execution. And as we pull up to Suho’s apartment building, I know this isn’t just a step back into a storm.
It’s a willing walk into the heart of the wildfire.
7b
