(Woo-jin's POV)
Fame is the loudest kind of loneliness.
That's the first thing I learned after losing him.
People say I'm living the dream — the billboards, the premieres, the interviews that start with "How does it feel to be loved by millions?" They never see the part after the cameras stop flashing. They don't see me sitting in the dark, surrounded by awards that don't mean a damn thing.
I used to think success would fix everything. If I just worked hard enough, if I smiled bright enough, if I made the world believe I was fine — maybe I could convince myself too.
But that illusion never lasts long. Not when the alcohol runs out and the silence crawls in.
The empty bottle rolled across the floor as I leaned back on the couch, eyes burning. The city outside my window sparkled like a stage, but I'd long stopped feeling part of it. My hands trembled slightly as I rubbed my face, smearing faint traces of makeup from earlier that evening's shoot.
Another wrap party. Another photo op. Another meaningless cheer of "You're amazing, Woo-jin!"
Yeah. Amazing.
Amazing at pretending.
The truth was simpler — I was tired. Bone-deep tired. My manager called it burnout, the tabloids called it mystery, but I called it what it was: regret.
Every night, my mind found its way back to him — Jung Dae-hyun. The man who looked at me like I was a puzzle he didn't ask to solve. The man who hated omegas, who hated me, and yet… made me feel seen in a way no one else ever did.
I poured another drink, ignoring the faint tremor in my wrist. "To you, you idiot," I muttered under my breath, raising the glass toward the city skyline. "The only alpha who could make me fall for him at the same time."
The whiskey burned my throat. I welcomed it. Pain felt more real than numbness.
I glanced at the framed poster on the wall — Moonlight's Echo, the movie that made me famous. My smile in that photo looked radiant, but I remembered the day it was taken. I'd just signed the divorce papers that morning. The photographer had told me to "look hopeful."
Hopeful. What a joke.
I didn't even remember what hope felt like anymore.
The doorbell rang. I didn't move. I knew who it was — my manager, probably checking if I'd overdosed or ghosted another brand meeting. The door opened anyway; she had the spare key.
"Woo-jin," her voice cut through the dim room, a mix of irritation and worry. "You didn't answer your phone again."
I turned my head lazily. "The battery died."
She sighed, striding across the living room. "You missed your morning shoot. Again. The director is furious. I managed to cover for you — said you caught a cold."
"Good job," I muttered, taking another sip.
"Woo-jin." She crouched in front of me, eyes softening when she saw the bottles scattered around. "You can't keep doing this."
I laughed weakly. "Doing what? Breathing?"
"Drinking yourself half to death," she snapped. "You're not sleeping, you're not eating properly—"
"I'm functioning," I said, cutting her off. "That's all that matters."
"Barely," she whispered. "You're killing yourself slowly."
I looked at her — really looked — and for a second, I almost pitied her. She didn't understand. How could she? She hadn't woken up one morning and realized the only person who ever made you feel anything was gone. She hadn't watched someone she—"
No. Don't say it.
I swallowed hard and looked away. "You wouldn't get it."
"Then explain it to me," she said softly.
I stayed silent for a long moment. The lights blurred in my vision. "It's not about the job, or the fame. It's about…" My voice faltered. "Someone I can't forget."
Her expression shifted — not surprise, just quiet understanding. "The one from before?"
I laughed again, bitter this time. "Before? You make it sound like he was just… a phase." I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. "He wasn't. He was the whole damn thing."
"Then why not find him?"
The question sliced through me like a blade. I opened my eyes, meeting her gaze with a hollow smile. "Because he doesn't remember me back as a kid and hates me now."
Silence filled the room. Heavy. Suffocating.
"Woo-jin…" she began softly, but I raised a hand to stop her.
"It's fine," I said. "He's probably better off without me anyway. He hated me, remember? I made his life hell."
"That doesn't mean he didn't care," she murmured.
Maybe. Maybe not.
But I didn't deserve to find out.
When she finally left, I sat there in the silence again, clutching the half-empty glass. I thought about calling him — not that I had his new number. I thought about visiting his company — not that I'd have the courage to face those eyes again, cold and unrecognizing.
Instead, I stared at my reflection in the glass window.
"Hey, honeybear," I whispered to the night.
My voice cracked, breaking into a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "You once said you hated omega pheromones. Guess what? I hate mine too."
I tipped the last of the drink back, the warmth flooding my throat. "At least we finally have something in common."
The room blurred again — from the alcohol, from exhaustion, from everything. I let the glass slip from my fingers, shattering softly against the marble floor.
And as darkness crept in, I wondered if he ever thought of me.
Even once.
Even in passing.
Because every day, every night, every breath — I thought of him.
.
"Woo-jin, wake up. We're late."
The sound of my manager's voice yanked me out of a half-dream. I blinked. My head was pounding — too many drinks, too little sleep.
"Get up," she said again, yanking the blanket off me. "You have an award show in three hours."
I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. "Cancel it."
"Not this time," she said firmly. "You're presenting Best Director. It's live, Woo-jin. You can't cancel a live broadcast."
I peeked one eye open, squinting at her. "What if I fake appendicitis?"
She gave me a look that said try me.
With a defeated sigh, I sat up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. My hair was a mess, my throat raw. "You're evil," I muttered.
"I'm your manager," she shot back. "Close enough."
As she barked orders at the stylists who'd just walked in, I slumped against the headboard, trying to remember what day it was. My phone buzzed with notifications — messages, emails, endless chatter. I ignored them all.
Two years of fame, and I still hated the noise.
"Coffee," I said hoarsely. "Black. No sugar."
"Already on the table," my manager replied without looking up from her tablet.
The stylists swarmed around me like bees, fixing my hair, my suit, my face — painting me back into the person the world wanted to see. Kang Woo-jin, the perfect idol, the charming actor who smiled like heartbreak was just another rumor.
Inside, I still felt like the same broken man who cried over whiskey bottles at 3 a.m.
"Stop frowning," one of the stylists scolded gently. "You'll ruin the foundation."
I forced a grin. "Sorry. My face forgot how to behave."
The makeup artist chuckled nervously. "You always joke before events. Makes you human."
If only she knew.
By the time I arrived at the Seoul Grand Hall, flashes from cameras were already lighting up the red carpet like lightning. Reporters shouted my name from every direction.
"Woo-jin! Over here!"
"Smile for us, please!"
"Is it true you're dating actress Seo Mina?"
I smiled mechanically, posing where they told me, answering nothing. The tuxedo felt like armor — suffocating but necessary. My manager hovered close, whispering reminders.
"Remember, just present the award, thank the sponsors, no off-script comments. And please—" she lowered her voice — "don't drink tonight."
I shot her a lazy grin. "I'll only drink if I win something I don't deserve."
"You're not nominated."
"Perfect," I muttered, walking ahead.
Inside the hall, the stage glittered under spotlights, a massive screen projecting smiling faces. I took my seat near the front row, surrounded by familiar strangers — co-stars, producers, people I'd spent months pretending to like.
I caught snippets of conversation around me.
"Woo-jin looks incredible, doesn't he?"
"He's been more reserved lately."
"Burnout, maybe?"
I tuned them out, eyes drifting toward the stage. My fingers tapped nervously against my thigh. This used to excite me once — the glamour, the thrill. Now it all felt hollow.
The show began. Applause, music, laughter. I smiled when the cameras pointed at me, clapped at the right moments, laughed when others did.
Then the host announced, "Up next, the nominees for Best Advertising Cinematography!"
A reel of short clips flashed on the screen — vibrant, elegant commercials. My attention barely flickered, until—
A familiar voice played through the speakers.
Low, confident, precise.
"Strength isn't always loud. Sometimes, it's quiet. Sometimes, it's the choice to keep going when everything hurts."
My heart froze.