felt three things.
Maybe if that's all I felt—the devastation of seeing him with someone else—then it would have hurt less. But...
First... was the thought that I was holding back a man from his full potential. He was a rocket, ready for orbit, and I was the flimsy launchpad threatening to crumble under his power. The irony was suffocating. I, Myeong, whose name means 'fame,' was clipping the wings of the man I loved.
Second... was the realization that our love, bound by a sacred promise, was ultimately just an ordinary relationship. It was a beautiful, comforting cage we built together, but when the door was left ajar, he simply walked out into a brighter, louder world.
Lastly... that meant that I... had been completely defeated by Yena Ban.
I felt pathetic enough for feeling threatened by her in the first place, but... Hyunjae was the last bastion of hope I had left. The last proof that someone saw me as enough, even when the world told me I wasn't. Now, even that was gone, usurped by the woman who was everything I aspired to be: famous, successful, and apparently, loved.
"...STILL..." I looked up at them, my voice cracking, feeling the raw, desperate edge of betrayal. "WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING...?"
My eyes were blurry with unshed tears, but the image was painfully clear. Hyunjae, his face a mask of panicked regret. The other woman, Yena, looking at me with a soft, sympathetic gaze that only infuriated me more.
I took a shaky step back.
"MYEONG!!" Hyunjae's voice was a desperate cry, piercing the silence of the night.
"HEAR ME OUT, MYEONG...!" he pleaded.
But the only thing I heard was the shattering of my last piece of hope. I looked at the dark street, the clouds obscuring the beautiful crescent moon, and knew my own light was about to be extinguished.
"I was cleaning our home all day, getting excited thinking about what to eat together," I heard myself say, the words laced with a bitterness that tasted like ash. I looked at Hyunjae, standing there, shamefaced. "I'm so f*cking pathetic."
He started to explain, "Just now, that was… sigh… she was drunk…" His words trailed off, hesitant. He looked so genuinely distressed, so genuinely sorry.
"I'm so sorry. You know you're the only one for me, Myeong…"
I just let out a hollow sigh, not really believing him. He had always been so careful, so devoted. But the sight of him with Yena... it was seared into my mind.
He continued, trying to rationalize, "In my defense, it was because we were talking about the movie…" He stepped closer, attempting to bridge the gap that had suddenly widened between us. "You know that if this movie does well, I'm going to make my directorial debut. And then you and I can make that movie together, and fulfill our promise…"
"...I see." My voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. The explanation felt like a flimsy excuse, a distraction from the stinging reality.
"So while you were out drinking and kissing some other b*tch…"
The words tasted vile on my tongue, but they were true. My eyes finally met his, and the raw pain I felt must have been evident, because his face crumpled further.
"Myeong. I know you're angry, but that's not true. I…" he stammered, reaching for me.
I pulled back, a violent tremor running through me. "You still don't get it?" I felt a surge of cold fury, mixed with the profound hurt. "I'm sick of hearing about the promise! Just thinking about it makes me feel like I'm suffocating…!"
My voice rose, tears finally spilling over. The anger was a desperate mask for the crushing disappointment. "Why do you always have to put success before love? Isn't it enough just to love?" The question was a plea, a demand, an accusation. I looked at him, truly looked at him, and realized something horrifying. "I've changed too much since then. No, I'm a completely different person now!"
I felt myself shrinking, the vibrant, hopeful Myeong fading away. The strength I thought I possessed was dissolving. Now, I... I was just a shell. A ghost of who I once was.
"Did you drink together?" I asked again, my voice barely a whisper, hoping against hope for a different answer.
"Oh… well…" he began, his gaze dropping. His hesitation was all the answer I needed
He shifted uncomfortably. "Just now, that was… sigh… she was drunk…" He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I knew too well. "I'm so sorry. You know you're the only one for me, Myeong…"
"…I see." My tone was empty. My forced smile was a grimace. "So while you were out drinking and kissing some other b*tch…"
"Myeong. I know you're angry, but that's not true. I…" He stopped, unable to meet my eyes. He was scrambling for a defense, a lifeline. "In my defense, it was because we were talking about the movie… You know that if this movie does well, I'm going to make my directorial debut. And then you and I can make that movie together, and fulfill our promise…"
A harsh, desperate laugh escaped me. "I'm sick of hearing about the promise! Just thinking about it makes me feel like I'm suffocating…!" I felt the tears well up, fueled by a mixture of exhaustion and rage. "Why do you always have to put success before love? Isn't it enough just to love?"
My voice rose to a shriek. "You still don't get it? I've changed too much since then. No, I'm a completely different person now!"
I felt the panic rising in my chest, a sudden realization of my own transformation. I looked down at my hands, feeling the overwhelming pressure to be the "Myeong" he needed—the muse for his ambition, the symbol of his humble beginnings.
"I..." I whispered, the old self, the hopeful girl in the golden light, briefly shimmering in my mind. "I don't think I can make your dreams come true anymore."
I saw myself as I was back then—young, beaming, full of naive love, sitting beside him on the grass. He was talking about his dreams, and I had been ready to dedicate my life to them.
"Do you still feel the same about her as you did back then?" he'd asked me later, sitting across from me in a dimly lit room, a drink on the table.
"I… still feel the same," I had answered, looking at the man I saw in my past—the one I loved.
But the reality keeps changing. He stared down at his drink. "The promise we made to each other when we were young… sometimes feels overwhelming and impossible. Because we were so naive back then."
He looked up at me with a soft, determined smile. He seemed to genuinely believe in what he was saying. "Because that promise is what makes our relationship special. But I don't plan on changing."
His unwavering resolve was both his strength and my undoing. It brought me back to the present, standing on the cold street, tears streaming down my face.
"Did you drink together?" I asked again, my voice thin and fragile.
"Oh… well…" he mumbled, confirming everything without saying a word.
Second... was the realization that our love, bound by a sacred promise... was ultimately just an ordinary relationship. That promise—to make a movie together, to conquer the world side-by-side—had been our entire identity. Seeing him embrace another woman, even for a fleeting, drunken moment, proved that our "sacred" bond was no stronger than any other that could be broken by a casual drink and an attractive colleague.
Lastly... that meant that I... had been completely defeated by Yena Ban.
I could taste the metallic tang of frustration. I felt pathetic enough for feeling threatened by her in the first place, but the evidence was right there. Hyunjae was the last bastion of hope I had left, the one person who saw worth in the pre-fame Myeong. Now, he was clinging to her.
I swallowed a dry sob, my teeth gritting. "...STILL... WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING...?"
"MYEONG!!" Hyunjae cried out, his voice raw with panic. "HEAR ME OUT, MYEONG...!"
But I couldn't. I turned away from the sight of him. I needed to know the truth, even if it destroyed me. "...Did you drink together?"
"Oh... well..." he hedged, and his hesitation was my answer.
The Weight of the Promise
I recalled a conversation we'd had recently, an echo in the present betrayal. We were sitting in a quiet bar, and I was trying to understand his relentless focus on his career.
"Because all you think about are movies," I'd observed, watching him fidget with his glass.
He sighed, his attention always half on the work. "But you were in a slump. We had to make sure that didn't get in the way of the shoot." He was talking about Yena, of course, about having to protect his vision, his dream.
I smiled, a little mockingly. "Heh, that's what you think."
Yena had cut into our conversation, her gaze steady on him. "I had to do something to get your attention. Because all you think about are movies." She had tapped the lime slice in her drink, a brazen, casual gesture.
Hyunjae smiled, accepting the criticism with ease. "...You're steadfast." Then he turned to me, his look both confident and challenging. "But I can take on a challenge, heh."
I listened as Yena continued, twisting the knife. "Heh, that's what you think. That promise might have felt overwhelming to Myeong."
She was right. I had told him as much just now.
Hyunjae shook his head, refusing to let the foundation of our relationship crumble. "...Yeah. That's possible. But I believe in Myeong, and I know we'll both make it someday." He looked at me then, his smile genuine, radiant with the conviction that had drawn me to him in the first place. "That hasn't changed since the very beginning."
Yena had merely laughed. "And you believed that?" she'd asked him, a challenging glint in her eyes. Then she hit him with the ultimate point of logic. "What? If you love her so much, then you shouldn't be out drinking with me."
The memory snapped back to the cold street. He had no answer for that then, and he had no answer for it now.
He dropped to his knees, begging me to listen, but the moment for reconciliation had passed. All I could see was the broken screen of his phone on the cold, concrete ground, showing a cracked, distorted image of them together. What romantic love. The shattered glass perfectly mirrored the state of my heart.
"Oh..." I heard the pathetic whimper escape my lips. "But over the time that had passed, we'd become adults with nothing special about us..."
The beautiful delusion of our destiny was over. I couldn't have imagined that we'd break up over such an ordinary reason. It wasn't a tragic, cinematic sacrifice; it was a cheap, messy drama of one drunken kiss and a broken phone screen. ...And there were no comic book miracles.
The dream that made our love special became like shackles... blinding him... and making me obsolete.
And that's how we broke up. The cold reality was stark. In the end, the broken dreams... faded away. All that was left was the vast, silent, indifferent sky.
"You still don't get it?" I shouted, the dam finally breaking. "I've changed too much since then. No, I'm a completely different person now!" I looked at the man who wouldn't stop saying he didn't plan on changing, clinging to a promise we made when we were naïve. I felt myself shriveling inside. Now, I... I....
The tears poured down my face as I admitted the devastating truth: "I don't think I can make your dreams come true anymore."
He cried out my name, "MYEONG!! HEAR ME OUT, MYEONG...!" but I couldn't face him.
I walked away from him and kept walking, with nowhere to go.... No friends... No family? Yeah, no family... I have nobody...
After walking around all night, I ended up at... a place that contained the exhibition of myself. It was a secret space where I felt a kinship with Eunmil, who had captured and preserved my happiness. I sank to the floor, my whole body shaking with sobs.
A voice cut through my despair. "WHAT'S WRONG?" "WHY ARE YOU CRYING...".
I couldn't look up, only sob and wonder: how can someone lose everything over such an ordinary failure?
"What's wrong?" I heard the soft voice cut through the ringing silence of my grief. I was still huddled on the floor, my sobs ragged and uncontrolled.
I had lost everything, and with nowhere to turn, this place was the most welcoming, I mumbled. I had nobody left. No family. My life was now just an exhibition of myself, a painful display of my raw, broken state in front of a giant, glowing photograph.
He knelt down, his face framed by the warmth of the golden-lit image.
"Myeong. I know what you're thinking," he began, his tone gentle yet firm. "That this photo is nothing but the exhibition of your broken heart. And that I'm just watching it."
His words hit me with the force of truth. I felt exposed, seen in my most vulnerable moment.
He continued, "But this photo is not that kind of thing. It's a miracle, a blessing."
A miracle? A blessing? I stared at the beautiful, smiling figure in the picture—the former version of myself—and scoffed. "What a load of bulls*. If it were a blessing, why would I be like this?"**
He remained calm. "This photo is a reminder that you were a happy person and that you were loved. Do you want to deny that now?"
I couldn't answer. To deny the happiness in that picture would be to deny that any of it had ever mattered.
He leaned closer, his eyes earnest. "Myeong, you're a good person. Don't punish yourself."
I was tired of being the good person who finished last. I closed my eyes, the tears still flowing. I knew what I had to do now.
"I just want to prove my worth," I whispered, my voice raw. "I want to make a movie that will make him, and everyone else, look up to me."
His response was immediate and focused. "Then I'll help you. Let's make a movie together."
I looked at his extended hand, and then back at the portrait of my former self. My heartbreak was turning into a weapon, and I was ready to.
He was a calming presence in the chaotic space, his appearance notable even amidst my distress. He had the sort of striking beauty that held your attention—a sharp, angular jawline, and expressive eyes that often seemed to hold a hint of melancholy or deep thought. His hair was dark and pulled back beneath a simple baseball cap, framing a face that was serious but not unkind.
What made his appearance truly captivating was not just the physical features, but the sense of unflinching sincerity that emanated from him, especially when he spoke. Even when delivering uncomfortable truths, his gaze was earnest and direct. The combination of his composed, handsome features and his intense, focused attention made his beauty one of quiet, compelling determination.
But the real question is who is he??