By thethird day, I’m practically living in my room, letting the entire living room become a sort of shrine for the ghost under the sofa. I’ve placed a bowl of kibble and his rabbit squeaky toy just beyond the sofa, and I keep my bedroom door cracked—just a sliver, like a slightly desperate spy cam—to monitor for any signs of movement.
Taking care of Hondongi, even when he refuses my care, gives my days a fragile structure. I wake up and fill his water bowl. I sit on the floor and talk to him in a low voice while I drink my coffee.
“It’s okay, little guy,” I whisper. “You’re safe here. I won’t hurt you.” My voice feels ridiculous, lonely, echoing in the apartment’s dead silence. I keep narrating my mundane activities—pouring water, straightening a cushion, telling him what happens outside the window. The act is less therapy for the dog and more a bizarre, self-soothing ritual for me.
Hours pass, stretching out the silence. The sofa doesn’t budge. Nothing moves. I start to suspect I’ve been scammed into adopting a very dusty, very bony piece of minimalist sculpture.
Then, late in the evening, a soft shuffle of uncertainty. One tentative, scruffy paw peeks out from under the sofa’s fringe. I freeze.
My breathing hitched—I’m pretty sure my lungs have gone on strike—and my heart starts doing that familiar, frantic celebrity-scandal rhythm against my ribs. A twitching nose follows, sniffing the air, assessing the threat. Two more paws, a careful step. Hondongi’s wide, wary eyes finally meet mine across the carpet.
I remain perfectly still, a statue of patient, desperate hope. “Hi,” I manage, my voice a barely-there breath. “It’s me. I won’t hurt you. Promise.”
He inches forward, ears pinned flat, every muscle taut. He’s a perfect portrait of fear in a four-pound package. I slowly stretch out my hand, palm up, a silent, public-relations-approved invitation, letting him set the pace. A long, agonizing pause. Then, another tiny step.
His body brushes against mine, a feather-light contact that feels disproportionately important. I scratch gently behind one ear, careful not to press my luck. A soft sigh escapes him—a small, fragile sound that makes the silence suddenly feel less hostile.
Minutes pass, and he finally lowers his head to nuzzle my hand, sniffing, testing, deciding if this is a mistake, before growling and scrambling back under the sofa, as if he’s mad at himself for letting himself have a small moment of weakness.
My heart lifts slightly. It’s not trust yet. Not even close. But it’s the first time he willingly lowers his guard around me, and somehow, that small action feels bigger than any movie premiere.
***
After a week of quiet persistence, I finally feel confident enough to try something that once felt impossible: taking Hondongi outside.
It’s a big step for both of us, but it also feels instantly, overwhelmingly stressful. The leash is a foreign object in my hands, and Hondongi trembles, ears flat—scared of everything: every passerby, every car honk, even the shadow of a falling leaf.
After a few hundred meters, he cries, tries to hide, and refuses to walk another step. I sigh, accepting defeat, and scoop his scruffy body into my arms. I tighten his tiny earmuffs over his fragileears and adjust my mask and oversized hoodie over my own face.
Cradling his weight, I think wryly how uncanny our resemblance is: him, a traumatized dog; and me, a traumatized actress under the ceaseless gaze of the netizens. The only real difference is the size of our respective scandals.
Walking back to my apartment, my mind drifts—as it often does when I am doing something mindless—to the Jellypop girls. Every single one of them would go hysterical over a cute dog on set.
Gigi, especially. She grew up with five dogs; she’d be squealing and climbing over everyone to hold him, analyzing his breed, and telling me exactly what brand of organic chicken treat he needs.
But Hondongi is… not exactly a cute puppy like the ones Gigi grew up with. He is more like a miniature disaster with a deep capacity for mistrust. And we are no longer the girls who crowded around a shared screen in our dorm, giggling over puppy videos. We have grown into women managing separate careers, separate scandals, and separate, very public silences.
I can’t really pinpoint when our friendship died. Me, winning the Scandal of the Year awardmultiple times, probably doesn’t help. As Shin says, don’t stand too close to someone who attracts lightning—you might get struck too.
I had more faith in my friendship with Gigi. Even after the others drifted away, she was the last one still there. Until… we started talking less and less each day. Before, whenever I found something exciting or funny, my first instinct was to text her. Then her replies took longer and longer—first a day, then weeks, then months. I started doing the same, hiding behind,“Sorry, I’ve been sooo busy.”
Then the weed-or-not-weed scandal hits, and her so-called support feels so surface-level, so generic, that it might as well not exist.
So no, I haven’t truly talked to her—not about anything real anyway—in years.
As if summoned by the thought, my phone buzzes in my pocket. A notification from a major entertainment site. My stomach sinks. I haven’t dared look at one of these in weeks. But this time, the headline isn’t about me.
It’s about Gigi.
[EXCLUSIVE] Jellypop’s Gigi Opens Up About Her Struggles: “The Idol Life Almost Broke Me.”
I tap the link. The article is long, honest, unflinching. Gigi writes about her battle with anxiety, her eating disorder, the constant pressure to perform, the weight of expectations. She describes loneliness that makes being in a room full of people feel like being invisible.
How could I have missed all this? How could I not have known?It hits me because I understand—I’ve been there too.
After reading it, the realization sinks in slowly: I wasn’t there for her when it mattered. I should have known. I should have cared. I’d been so wrapped up in my own storms that I never notice she is drowning right next to me.
I look down. Hondongi is curled into a small, tense ball in my arms, his head tucked tight, as if trying to disappear. I punch in the code to my apartment and set him gently on the floor. Without a glance back, he scurries behind the couch again.
