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Chapter Text

“For the secret of man’s being is not only to live but to have something to live for.”

—Fyodor Dostoevsky, from The Brothers Karamazov 

The credits had long since faded to black but Myeong still sat on the couch, letting her back grow roots into the cushy white upholstery. Even on the night when Yuhan’s head had gone limp and cold against her shoulder the television had cast them in a soft, flickering glow.

The din of the movie had still been audible—it wasn’t over.

But now in this moment, the dark maw of the screen felt insurmountable to Myeong. It seemed to stare her down, a burning question plastered all over its surface: What now?

In truth, the answer was achingly simple and mundane: Life went on quietly—as it always does. The whisper of what now was followed by the steady beat of her heart to the rhythm of And then. And then. And then.

Myeong did what she loved; she stepped into a hundred roles, a hundred lives, a hundred faces. Awards were won, singular cups of coffee were brewed.

And then, And then, And then,

On one particular quiet night after a magazine photoshoot, Myeong stood out on her balcony, noting how the early October air had now turned crisp from autumn’s beginnings. Yuhan died in June.

Myeong remembered the loss of her grandmother as a child—how she had cried and felt sad for the first week, but that it slowly got easier to forget her grandmother had ever been in her life at all.

She would occasionally encounter small things that would bring back that pang of remembrance, that realization of Oh, that’s right. I did have a grandmother; the taste of the strawberry hard candies with the gold and red wrappers, the slow, measured gait of a particular old lady pulling her trundle buggy down the street. These moments came less and less as years passed, thinned out by her few and fading memories.

With Yuhan, it was different.

It wasn’t this or that particular thing that called his face into her heart and mind. Rather, it was the places where she couldn’t find him that sometimes (every time) knocked the air out of her chest. And those were everywhere. A new driver. A table set for one. The spare key to her apartment collecting dust in a dish.

And the couch.

Myeong glanced at that couch, her eyes tracing over the faint impressions carved by the weight of her body on one side. The other leather cushion was pristine and smooth.

Even it knew not to wait for Yuhan’s return.

Shaking this thought from her head, Myeong turned back towards Seoul’s skyline. She realized that as lonely as it was at the top of the world, perhaps being an actor was the most honest way to live. And to die.

Every time she was asked how winning felt after the ceremony, Myeong often replied with some empty nicety or another. What she really wanted to say was, It felt like release. It felt like my thousandth death.

Even if someone held your hand as you passed or allowed you to rest your head upon their shoulders, that hand, that shoulder, could not follow you where you were going. That door had space for only one to walk through. Myeong thought to herself that walking up to receive an award was the closest feeling to what dying might be like—a solitary undertaking that was wholly yours, a moment that came for you and only you. The crowd could cheer for you as you climbed the steps up the glittering stage, but they couldn’t see where you would go next.

To be an actor was to accept that final and total loneliness. To embrace it.

So Myeong took comfort in knowing that she felt ready. At least, this was what she told herself. Because if she was truly being honest, she chased that feeling of winning because she liked to imagine it was how Yuhan felt when he left. That each step towards that singular spot on the victor’s podium might bring her closer to him. Even her seeming acceptance of Yuhan’s irrevocable goneness was a foolish attempt to make it a little less lonely. For whom, she didn’t know.

Yuhan had gone somewhere she could not follow. Yet still, she found herself searching.

She could let the fanmail, scripts, and contracts pile up on her coffee table but they would never fill the negative space carved into the shape of the mug he used for tea. Having everything just made it impossible to forget the one thing that you didn’t. And sometimes Myeong felt grateful for that remembering. But lately she really hadn’t felt grateful at all. Now, all she felt was an iciness that pierced straight to her marrow, only worsened by the chill in the air.

It seemed that after all, Myeong was growing weary of the brutal honesty she found in acting. 

What now? The wind wondered as it nipped along her pinkened cheeks.

And then, And then, And then,

Myeong knew that there was only one thing to be done about the bitter cold gnawing at her fingers, and at the inside of her chest: A steaming bowl of gukbap.

What now?

And then, Myeong decided it was time for a trip to the beach.

Chapter Text

“I don’t want harmony, for the love of mankind I don’t want it. I want to remain with unrequited suffering and my unquenched indignation, even if I am wrong. Besides, they have put too high a price on harmony; we can’t afford to pay so much for admission. And therefore I hasten to return my ticket. And it is my duty, if only as an honest man, to return it as far ahead of time as possible. Which is what I am doing. It’s not that I don’t accept God, Alyosha, I just most respectfully return him the ticket.”

—Fyodor Dostoevsky, from The Brothers Karamazov

“And cut. We’re done for the day. Let’s get take-down started.”

Myeong and Yuhan had just finished filming the emotional climax of Black Star in which Hakyeong and Jaesong promise a sad sort of forever as the universe contracts and expands around them. It wouldn’t be long before that infinite space inevitably expanded between them, too. 

It took Myeong and Yuhan what felt like eons to break away from each other. They were lost in the stars, those two. Watching every scene they shared felt like bated breath and lived on the cusp of Too Much and Not Enough. Although as the filming was drawing to a close, that crackling energy erred on the side of not enough.

Never enough. 

They were on a tight filming schedule, so it was a bit irritating when even the production crew got so drawn into their orbit that it delayed set-up for the next scene, but Director Cheon didn’t dare disrupt their flow. 

He knew not to mess with magic. 

Yuhan swiped his thumbs across Myeong’s cheeks, wiping away tears she shed during the scene. Then, after a couple more seconds of mooney-eyed glances and soft murmurs, Yuhan finally excused himself and headed back inside the building. Director Cheon noticed that his steps were measured and careful.

While the makeup and camera filters did an excellent job of hiding away the reality scrawled plainly across the gaunt contours of Yuhan’s face, there was no mistaking that he was slowing down; a leaking glass that was nearly empty. 

Director Cheon held vigil over the remainder of Yuhan’s gingerly retreat before letting his gaze slide back to the edge of the rooftop where Myeong lingered. Her willowy figure cast a gentle silhouette against the railing and the glittering backdrop of the night sky.

While it seemed that the magic from moments before was finished, perhaps for Director Cheon the spell wasn’t broken yet, because he found himself drawn towards her in the same way a needle and thread bridged the gaping chasm of a ripped seam.

Sometimes life pulled him in a definitive direction like this. And he let it; let it carry him, floating and bending in its current as hapless as a limp piece of seaweed. 

He gave Myeong a pensive glance before stating curtly, “The crying. That wasn’t in the script.” He took note of the way her back sprung up with a start before relaxing as she recognized his voice.  Without turning to look at him, Myeong replied with a matching plainness:

“But the shoot’s over. And you kept it.” 

Although he still couldn’t see her face, Director Cheon was willing to bet all of his Blue Dragon Film trophies on the fact that her mouth had tilted up into that not-quite-smile that she wore so often and so well. 

At his core, Director Cheon was an analytic and sharply observant individual; it was a hazard of the trade.

And so he tucked away that little categorization of Myeong’s smile into the ever growing mental file with her name on it, thinking nothing of it. 

“I did. It’s not my movie, after all.” 

Myeong let her elbows rest against the roof’s ledge and let her head tilt lethargically towards the sky as she gave a knowing hum at his agreement. 

Director Cheon took a step forward and joined her study of the stars. They flickered and sputtered, seeming to lose their composure in a way Director Cheon was almost envious of. They called to mind a younger, more hopeful version of himself from a time when he was just Jin to someone. Just like these juvenile, bright-eyed stars, Jin had also worn his heart on his sleeve. He didn’t miss that Jin per se, merely took note of his absence.

But he did turn his attention back to Myeong and couldn’t help but wonder what the night sky might mean for her. 

“Sit with me. I want to review the footage,” he declared. It was less of a question and more of a matter-of-fact statement.

But Myeong didn’t seem to mind.

And so together with all the decorum that a world class actor and director could possess, Myeong and Director Cheon sat cross-legged on the roof, connected by the tablet resting between their knees and the wire of his trusty white earbuds. 

Director Cheon let the scene they had just filmed play out. He felt a peculiar ache in his teeth at the way Myeong’s face was lit by the glow of her own crying form on the screen. When the clip was done, Director Cheon let his voice be pushed out by those old familiar guiding tides.

“Yuhan is almost done.”

Director Cheon spoke only in absolutes, never questions. And they both knew this unwavering statement wasn’t about the filming wrapping up.

Myeong’s reaction to his blunt words was less of a flinch and more of a crushing recognition that washed over her entirely, from the minute hitch in her breath to the weary hunch of her shoulders. 

“Yes, he is.”

Her voice could scarcely have been louder than a hushed whisper, but the rawness of the emotion coursing through it made it feel as deafening as the roar of a jet engine to his ears. 

Director Cheon had never been one to pull his punches, but he found himself wishing life had made him kinder, made him the sort of person who knew how to soften the blow, if even a little. But he quickly dismissed that thought.

His and Myeong’s relationship had been built upon a strangely natural straightforwardness from the very beginning. It worked because their bluntness was hewn from the very same edge of bitterly-earned pragmatism. 

There was a morbid and cosmic comedy to be found there: life had picked out the very same blade it wielded against Director Cheon all those years ago to cut Myeong into a painfully foreign shape.

Foreign to Myeong, that is.

Director Cheon knew its raw edges all too well: he tried to smooth them out every time he caught a glimpse of his reflection on his tablet screen.

Life had folded them together like a blank piece of paper, engraved the silhouette of sadness and passion into their surface, and was poised to cut them out along those lines; what a tragic chain of paper angels they would make.

“I’m going to open a restaurant. Once Black Star is complete.”

This time Director Cheon could actually see Myeong’s signature barely-there smile as she responded in a tone that was soft, but more sure. 

“By the beach, I’d presume.”

He couldn’t help but feel an odd warmth fill his chest; Later on, he would recognize it as the surprised pleasure of known. 

Anyone else would have found the tempo of their conversation utterly bizarre and jarring—but they didn’t see the way Myeong’s and Director Cheon’s eyes took on the same sheen when they watched movies. They didn’t know what it felt like to stand on a stage before a blinding mass of light and sound, the cold weight of a golden trophy against your palms.

How could they understand that the only thing separating an acceptance speech from a eulogy was the absence of a casket and a body?

And so they also couldn’t hear what Myeong and Director Cheon really said to each other in this simple exchange; but Director Cheon knew, he understood. 

While Director Cheon was typically self-assured and impenetrably aloof, Myeong had a way of throwing him off balance.  It was as though she tugged on the long tether he used to distance himself from living; dissolved the shaded lenses he used to view the world with an analytical eye and forced him to stare directly into the truth, no matter how sharply it stung. Darkness was calm, but it was cold and empty. Light warmed everything it could reach, but it was blinding; it hurt. 

Not enough. Too much. 

Director Cheon had come to realize that there was some merit to living somewhere in between the two extremes. For the first time in his life, it seemed possible to be content. To be ok. This change was in no small part thanks to Myeong, who had immediately noticed and challenged the disillusionment he wore like a trusty suit of armour. So he didn’t think twice before letting another cryptic statement slide easily past his lips:

“When you come, I’ll make you gukbap. It’s best on a cold day”

Director Cheon hoped that just as she had seen right through his movies to the festering wound that they concealed, she would see his words for what they really were: An olive branch. A reminder that even after…she wouldn’t be alone. 

Myeong seemed to consider his offer. It didn’t escape Director Cheon’s intensely discerning gaze the way she worried her thumb over the smooth screen of his tablet. How she turned her head away, letting her hair cascade over her face, covering it like a widow’s veil, He could only make out the faintest outline of her lips as she murmured, “On a cold day…”

Myeong and Director Cheon were like a two-note chord: while they were off-beat from the rest of the world, they shared a rhythm with the same kind of underlying syncopation. And what a comforting feeling it was to never strike out into silence; to know that there would be another voice running parallel alongside yours in the musical score. 

When Myeong finally turned back to face him she held herself with a careful and tenuous composure. Director Cheon swore he could feel the air around them shift, as though preparing to hold the weight carried in what she was about to say.

“Yes. When…when it’s time. Please make gukbap for me, Director Cheon. I’ll be counting on you.”

Black Star was unsurprisingly a Box-office smash and a critically-lauded success, both domestically and worldwide. Industry professionals and the general public alike predicted a record-breaking sweep during the upcoming awards season. It certainly helped that it was Director Cheon’s final film, and that the lead actors’ chemistry was so tangible that it would be studied in acting classes for years to come.

It was lightning in a bottle. 

Of course, a few insensitive people dared to remark on how Yuhan Eun’s tragic passing poetically mirrored his mother’s, immortalizing both iterations of Black Star as cinematic mausoleums for a truly generational talent.

Yuhan had missed the premiere by two weeks.

In the present day—nearly half a year after the film’s release—Jin Cheon paused before unlocking his shop to appreciate the way the sunrise spilled over top of the ocean’s rolling swells. It had taken several agonizing months of film promotion and red carpets that eventually gave way to fielding calls from his gratingly chipper real estate agent, but he was finally here. 

Jin Cheon Gukbap was an unassuming red brick building mere steps away from the shore of the sleepy seaside town he had almost called home long ago. It opened to little fanfare, just as Jin had hoped it would. He had kept his plans secret from the press, simply inviting Bin Lee to share a pitcher of makgeolli on the restaurant’s inaugural night.

As they drank deep into the night, Bin Lee had called him a fool for opening a restaurant so far from the main strip where his own newly established tteokbokki place could be found practically screaming at customers with its obnoxiously bright exterior. But Jin merely brushed aside Bin Lee’s boastfully veiled concerns with an indifferent shrug and a wry explanation: 

“I don’t care about the customers—don’t forget that I’m filthy rich. And anyways, the view of the sea from here is the best.”

He never thought to share the news of his restaurant with his parents; he had left them to drown in their money and their misery years ago. But Jin had considered extending an invite to Myeong. 

Myeong.

Jin Cheon recalled a talk show interview they had done together during Black Star’s press run. Yuhan’s funeral had been only the week prior, but even sitting beside her under the harsh studio lights, Jin Cheon thought you would never be able to tell.

Ever the professional, Myeong had crafted the perfect mask of bereavement. She wore it like a silk evening dress; wrapped it around her body with an air of graceful and appropriate sorrow. Jin knew that the subtle curve of her shoulders and tremble of her lips as she spoke to the host about the touching notion of a grand love preserved in a cinematic eternity were yet another role she was stepping into; it was all expert technique and skilled line delivery.

Myeong wouldn’t reveal the true face of her grief so easily, but Jin could sense the way it pulsed just beneath the surface of her skin as easily as he could feel the echo of loss thrumming under his own. 

That had been the last time he saw Myeong. 

While Jin Cheon had spent the past few months preparing to trade in his camera for an apron, Myeong had thrown herself into acting and managing her agency with a honed voracity. It wasn’t as though their lives were ever entwined in any mundane or habitual way, so it made sense that their contact tapered off, lost to the busyness of their separate schedules. 

But now that his world was quiet, save for the soft rumbles of the sea, Jin Cheon had nothing but time to think. He reflected on the vow that he had made her swear when he had shown her Self-Immolation for the first time and bared his ugliest truths:

Promise me that as a director and an actor…we’ll meet again.

When he clenched his fist mere inches from her lips and tucked it back against his lap, he knew he had chosen to move forward. He wanted to respect Myeong as an actor—as a person—without superimposing ghosts from the past onto her.

It had been a definitive moment; a clear border drawn around the bounds of their relationship. 

Nevertheless, Jin found that one question still scratched at his mind like a lingering cough: What was to become of that promise now that he was no longer a director?

He supposed that their agreement had been fulfilled through Black Star and that would be the end of it. He told himself that though their souls seemed to meet and dance with each other, perhaps that was only possible on a professional level through the medium of film. 

Yes, your connection to Myeong was profound, but it was purely because of your shared passion for your craft. You were artistic soulmates. And it likely had more impact on you than it did on Myeong. She never needed you to shine, to realize her desires and dreams. 

These ruminations led Jin Cheon to the following conclusion:

It was an easy and honest mistake to confuse your admiration for something…more, but it was just that: A mistake.

Where Gilnyeon was all red lips with easy smiles and knobby knees and fancifully flimsy plans reflected in blue contacts, Myeong is unflinching lines and hard won poise and eyes so dark they pull you in and drown you in your most unspeakable truths. She is clearly nothing like Gilnyeon. And neither are your feelings for her. 

For a time, she was your muse. Nothing more, nothing less. 

And yet, the memory of their rooftop conversation under the stars still weighed heavily on his heart and mind. On the night of Jin Cheon Gukbap’s opening, that infuriatingly persistent weight guided his hands to deliver a small and unassuming envelope to the local post office. 

Enclosed was a small, crumpled piece of paper with “Coupon: One Gukbap 99% Off” scrawled hastily on one side. On the other was a short message written more carefully in Jin Cheon’s usual neat and compact script:

For a cold day.

That had been several weeks ago. Jin still hadn’t received a reply from Myeong, nor did he expect one. 

But he did hope she’d heard his promise all the same. 

A gust of wind sliced along Jin’s neck with a razor-tipped chill, pulling him back to the present. He unlocked the restaurant door and stepped inside to shake off the threat of winter slithering along his skin. Jin surveyed the wood panel walls and sturdy oak tables before pulling his black apron from the coat hooks by the door and sliding it over his crisp white dress shirt. It was time to get to work.

Ever since that endearingly awkward student Aesuk had left for Seoul, his customer count had gone back down from one to zero. But Jin wasn’t complaining—that meant he could spend his days in a peaceful and contemplative silence, just the way he liked it. 

So Jin pulled out one of the oak chairs at the table facing the door, the scraping of its legs overpowering the ocean’s hum for a brief moment. Once he had seated himself, he found his aged yet pristine copy of The Brothers Karamazov waiting where he had left it the day before. 

The novel followed the three sons of a rich and cruel man: Alyosha, the brother who embodied goodness and faith, Ivan, the intellectual cynic, and Dmitri, who seemed stuck somewhere in between the views of his two brothers. While everyone else in his senior class at high school had complained endlessly about how dull and confusing the novel was, Jin Cheon found himself secretly captivated by it.

Back then, he identified strongly with Dmitri. He saw a kindred spirit in this young man who despite being neglected by his family and living with a deeply-rooted inner turmoil, still hoped and fought for a better life. 

Jin Cheon had carried that kernel of Dmitri’s determination when his parents’ divorce drove him to that town by the sea. Gilnyeon’s infectious vivacity only fueled his own passion and had given it a home, making each second seem to burst with possibility. His heart seemed to sing with the overflowing potential of what would happen next; a tentative yet joyful chorus of, What now?

Back then, Jin Cheon had been far too young and foolish to consider that each answer to this question was accompanied by a period; everything had to end, and so too did his idealistic dreams of a future with Gilnyeon. 

They had only read half of the book in his class and when he had returned to that town and discovered Gilnyeon was…gone, Jin had lost the desire to read the rest. He already knew what he needed to know. What was the point of reading a story whose end was already set in stone?

But Jin Cheon disinterestedly supposed that all stories were like that, and resolved to give it no further thought. In the years after her death, Jin started to resonate with the disgust and resignation expressed by the brother Ivan:

“A beast can never be so cruel as a man, so artistically cruel. ” 

Indeed, when you looked too closely, people were ugly and life was assuredly vile.

So Jin let his eyes unfocus, became the cold and inscrutable Director Cheon: an auteur who tormented his female leads in pursuit of cinematic perfection. Or perhaps it was retribution. Director Cheon didn’t know, and quite frankly he didn’t care enough to make a distinction. He let the haze of his resentment distort the world and people around him into an inconsequential smear. 

Director Cheon was artistically cruel, yes. But he was also untouchable.

However, since the day that Myeong had irreverently blown smoke on his face during their first meeting, Director Cheon knew the tides were beckoning him in a new direction. Old wounds screamed at him to resist with all the hostility and icy indifference he could muster, but Myeong’s blazing tenacity would not be extinguished. 

So little by little, Jin allowed the world to come back into focus.

He was unsure of how he felt about what he saw, but he at least knew he wanted to give himself the space to search for an answer. That was why he now found himself rereading The Brothers Karamazov in the waning afternoon light that streamed through Jin Cheon Gukbap’s front windows. 

The tranquil monotony of his environment made it easy for Jin to lose himself in the novel’s meandering philosophical prose. But it also made it easy for him to sense when something disrupted that mundane peace. Something like the chime of the door and hesitant footfalls.

Propelled by reflex, Jin Cheon’s head snapped up towards the source of the disturbance.

“Welcome to Jin Cheon Gukba–” The mechanical sentence dies on his lips as his gaze settles on an achingly familiar form.

“Hello, Director Cheon.”

A breathless Myeong stood in his doorway, a small black suitcase at her side. Her cheeks were rosy from the bite of the sea breeze outside and her neck was swathed in a creamy white cashmere scarf to compliment the beige of her sleek trench coat.

For Jin, sometimes Myeong shone so brightly she was almost hard to look at.

Before Jin could open his mouth to return her greeting, she fumbled through the pocket of her coat and fished out a small, wrinkled piece of paper.

His coupon. 

He was so staggered by Myeong’s sudden appearance in his restaurant that he almost missed the slight tremor that ran through her hand as she presented the coupon to him. Almost. 

Myeong took a steadying inhale before continuing. Her next words were laced with something that sounded painfully close to hope. 

“It’s awfully chilly today, isn’t it?” 

Chapter Text

“‘I am suffering, forgive me, I am suffering!’ And in a sort of hot rush of emotion, she pressed her hands together before him.

‘From what precisely?‘

‘I suffer from…lack of faith…’

‘Lack of faith in God?’

‘Oh, no, no, I dare not even think of that, but the life after death—it’s such a riddle! And no one, but no one will solve it!’”

—Fyodor Dostoevsky, from The Brothers Karamazov 

Myeong found herself on the same cream couch where Yuhan’s last precious breaths mingled with hers. What had once been a fragile safe haven now felt alien and wrong; the leather squeaked when it rubbed against the stiff cotton of her simple black hanbok, drawing a slight wince from her each time. She was also keenly aware of the fuzzy throw pillow that seemed to burrow like a rough stone into the small of her back. Though most glaringly of all, instead of the comforting and warm weight of Yuhan’s shoulder leaning against hers, Myeong was now bracketed by obnoxious swaths of white lilies and chrysanthemums. 

Myeong had never wondered what might happen to the flower arrangements after a funeral. 

But this unasked question was given a rather unwelcome explanation when the funeral home attendants had all but cornered her after the service, rolling the massive floral displays along on black carts.

They had worn sympathetic smiles, but the curves of their mouths were sharpened at the edges like knife blades.

Although the funeral had been a private affair, Myeong knew she would be bombarded by swarms of paparazzi and “grief-stricken” fans the second she stepped foot outside. Like the funeral attendants, Myeong knew well how to wield facial expressions with a marksman’s precision. But all of her waning strength was being used to maintain an acceptable facade of composed sadness. So, picking her battles, Myeong blearily accepted the garish bouquets being foisted upon her, agreeing to let them load the monstrosities into her car. 

Myeong didn’t remember the silent ride home, nor did she remember thanking her new driver when he helped bring the flowers up to her apartment. She didn’t even recall locking the front door (although this last one was probably because she did, in fact, forget to lock it).

With all the weariness of a battle-worn soldier returning to their barracks from the frontlines, Myeong kicked off her black pointed pumps and slowly dragged herself, bouquets in tow, to the living room. 

To sit on the couch, she had needed to wade through the piles of sympathy cards and leftover obituaries that had overflowed from the coffee table and now spread across her carpet like invasive weeds. With the table barely visible beneath the mountain of envelopes and papers, she had little energy left for problem-solving. She elected to drop the flowers (and herself) unceremoniously on the couch. 

After hours of planning and pleasantries (if you could even call funeral small-talk that), Myeong was finally alone. 

She sank deep into the contours of the cushions and let her unfocused gaze wander down and across her lap.

There was a tear in her hanbok, just above her right knee.

Myeong absentmindedly picked at that jagged split in the fabric with a perfectly manicured nail. She wondered how long it had been there and thought it would be a real shame if she had greeted all those people as the chief mourner with a hole in her hanbok. 

The worst part was that she didn’t have a single clue how Yuhan would have reacted if he were here. She just hadn’t had enough time with him to know where he stood on rips in clothes or funeral processions or looking presentable.

She knew his most cherished joys, his greatest pains, how he liked his tea in the morning, and that he favoured sleeping on his stomach. But the terrible realization was washing over her that there was still so much about Yuhan that she did not and would never learn.

What sport he played in high school.

Whether he preferred chocolate or vanilla.

If he ever wanted to start a family.

These questions flooded her mind in a futile and desperate rush, followed by the cold shock of regret at having never thought to ask them when she had the chance. And their answers now lay inside a polished onyx urn, scattered amidst cremated ashes and bone fragments—the last of Yuhan Eun.  

Myeong didn’t know whether to blame her own short-sighted optimism or rage against the unfairly cruel expiration date that had been imposed on them. Still, in the meantime, her psyche seemed content to batter her with alternating howls of self-contempt and indignation.

Although she hadn’t realized it before, perhaps the constant focus the funeral had demanded of her had been a blessing.

Because now all she had left to do was sit in all the time that would forever pass Yuhan by. The stillness of the present was suffocating. The solitary quiet of her apartment made her thoughts unbearably loud.

She hadn’t even realized she was still scratching at the gash in her hanbok until a sudden knock at the door froze the fervid drag of her finger. Myeong couldn’t help but feel relief at this very welcome distraction that pulled her from the negative feedback loop she had been stuck in. She quickly rose from the couch, intent on discovering the identity of her inadvertent saviour, but paused when her nail caught on the rip in her skirt.

Silently cursing, she fisted her hand into the fabric in a hasty attempt to disguise the damage and hurried to answer the door. 

“Hello?”

Myeong’s voice rose in a question that was shortly resolved when the door swung open to reveal Director Cheon. She couldn’t recall if he had been at the funeral, and it certainly didn’t help that his standard black suit and tie were always entirely appropriate for mourning at a moment’s notice. 

“Director Cheon.” It was more of a confused statement of fact than a greeting. 

Under the intense gaze of Director Cheon, Myeong felt an unfamiliar self-consciousness creep in as she realized how dishevelled she might look. She nervously smoothed down the skirt of her hanbok, but her nail snagged on the ragged edge with an audible ‘snick.’ The faint noise immediately drew his attention down to the now-deepened tear. Myeong hastily scrunched her fist into the fabric to block the damage from his view. 

The look in Director Cheon’s eyes is thoughtful as he replies, “I have something for you. From Yuhan.” 

These words were enough to drain the warmth of embarrassment that had been colouring her cheeks. 

“Oh.”

Myeong was robbed of her usual eloquence, so she mutely moved aside to let him into her apartment.

She and Director Cheon situated themselves awkwardly close on the limited available space on the couch. A bemused expression briefly touched his face as his eyes traced over the hulking floral arrangements that loomed on either side of them, but this passed as quickly as it came, being replaced by a look of solemn purpose when he took in Myeong’s deflated countenance.

She felt more than she saw the way the wry twist of his lips flattened into a determined line. Director Cheon cleared his throat before rifling through the inner pocket of his coat, producing a nondescript DVD case. 

“It’s Black Star,” he said by way of explanation as he dropped the case into Myeong’s outstretched and quivering hands. 

“Yuhan asked me to give him an advanced copy on his birthday and I had my suspicions as to why—though I certainly wasn’t expecting it to be mailed back to my doorstep with instructions to deliver it to you, well…”

Director Cheon trailed off and shifted uncomfortably before finishing his sentence in a more somber tone,

“in the event that he couldn’t.” 

Unable to respond, Myeong just clutched the DVD case like a lifeline, worrying her thumb along the smooth plastic. She stared at it hoping that if she waited long enough, she wouldn’t have to face the utterly overwhelming everything that waited for her beyond this moment.

“If I took a picture of you right now, it would be terrible.”

This crass remark was enough to drag Myeong out of her stupor and hone the emotions swirling around her head into surprised anger. Myeong let out a huffed scoff as she finally looked up. and began to retort,

“What do you—“

Director Cheon’s shoulders seemed to drop with relief, but his eyes took on a puckish glint as he cut her off.

“Let me finish,”

He held his hands up in the shape of a rectangle and squinted as though framing a live portrait of her.

“It would be terrible because the shot’s too busy.” He gestured to the condolence cards and flower petals strewn about the room. 

“You should know by now that we film every shot my way—or we don’t film it at all. So, you’ll just have to let me clear this clutter from this scene.”

While this last part would read like a command on paper, he said it with a tentative softness underlying his teasing bravado. An unspoken qualifier of, “If that’s okay with you?”

Despite the heavy press of grief against her spine, the immense kindness he was offering was not lost on Myeong. Her voice was thick with humour and gratitude when she replied,

“You auteurs are such dictators.”

Myeong dismissed him with a wave of her hand and a playful huff.

“I know I can’t win, so do what you will.”

Director Cheon’s eyes widened slightly with surprise before glimmering with triumph. 

“I’m glad you finally recognize your place as an actor,” he shot back with faux smugness. Director Cheon stood up, brushing stray petals from his lap. 

“I’ll be starting with the source of these eye-sores. Where do you keep your vacuum?”

And so 45 minutes and several heaping trash bags later, Myeong’s living room was restored to pristine condition. Director Cheon stood in front of where Myeong still sat on the couch and once again framed her within his fingers.

“There, now it’s perfect.”

Myeong gave him a slight smile in agreement as she took notice of how dishevelled he had become in the process of cleaning; his tie was askew, his usually meticulously coiffed hair was ruffled, somewhere along the way he had rolled up his sleeves and one end of his dress shirt had come untucked from his slacks. 

“Thank you, Director Cheon,” she whispered with uncomfortable rawness. 

“No need to thank me. I’m a tyrant, remember?”

He lowered his hands and hesitated before stating more solemnly,

“I only did exactly as I wished.” 

Not long after that, they bid their goodbyes at the door. But before Director Cheon left, he hastily pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat. 

”Now, don’t think I’ve forgotten about the other one I let you borrow—which I’m still waiting to get back, mind you—But…“

“Here.”

He gently lifted her arm from where it hung limply at her side and pressed the soft cloth into her hand.

”Just in case you need it.” His voice was laced with something inscrutable, yet earnest.

By the time she had opened her mouth to protest or question his cryptic gift, he had already retreated too far down the hallway. 

Myeong shuffled over to her kitchen, alone once more. She gripped onto the edge of the kitchen island with one hand while cradling Yuhan’s DVD case in the other. She took one shaky inhale. Another. And finally she pried it open. A single piece of paper fluttered down onto the counter in front of her. 

Turn on the TV.

A stabbing pain pierced through her chest and a hard lump rose in her throat. The all-too familiar slope of Yuhan’s elegant script was enough to drop Myeong to her knees and make her curl into a weepy and tremoring ball on the floor.

Myeong left that note waiting where it had fallen on her counter.

Several days passed before one afternoon, the sight of the paper finally didn’t leave her keeled over; arms wrapped tightly around her middle as if they could keep her insides from spilling out. So, feet planted firmly on the ground, Myeong decided it was time to watch Black Star. She was foolishly determined to keep her promise to Yuhan to not cry when she watched the ending. 

Even still, Director Cheon’s handkerchief was a comforting shape in her back pocket. 

Just in case. 

Myeong packed the essentials into her compact black suitcase with the efficiency of a frequent traveler, only pausing the flurry of her travel preparations to stand in front of Yuhan’s urn, pondering whether or not she ought to bring him along; encase him within a cushioned layer of socks and shirts. In the end, she decided that Yuhan would just have to stay put—there was simply no safe way to transport the urn.

To assuage the odd guilt nagging at her conscience, Myeong told herself that they were just ashes and contained nothing of their original owner that really mattered (although this assurance replaced her guilt with a wave of sadness that felt decidedly worse).

Pushing on, she quickly drafted and sent an email to her assistant telling them to clear her schedule until further notice (one perk of running your own agency was taking vacations at your own discretion). 

She then bought a one-way ticket to the beachside town where Jin Cheon Gukbap waited for her, nestled between the sand and the sea.  

With her bag at the door and armed in her softest wool trench coat, Myeong took a deep breath and prepared to leave her apartment, but not before grabbing a carefully folded piece of paper and tucking it delicately into her coat pocket. She had taped Director Cheon’s coupon on the wall beside the hook for her keys. Looking at it every time she left the house was a comforting reminder that each day could be entirely different from the one that came before it. 

Myeong didn’t know if she could say that she felt ready to use the coupon. It might be more accurate to say that she knew it was her only way forward; that the restless ache of her body compelled her to reach for it and cling on tightly.

An unbearable itch had grown within her, one that urged her to find something new; something untouched by all the living and love and hurting that had come before it. Some would have called her absurd for thinking this thing could be found in a person from the past, but the wisest people know that the oldest friendships serve us best through discovery. 

And so, two hours later Myeong’s scenery had shifted from Seoul’s towering, sleek skyscrapers to traditional hanok homes scattered amidst verdant fields.

She thought of the last time she had ridden this train. It had been for that peculiar excursion with Director Cheon before they began filming Self-Immolation.

Back then, she had been thrown off by his unpredictable and aloof nature. Under his piercing gaze, she’d had no choice but to bare to him the tunneling wound that existed in her father’s place—a confession he had met with a flippant remark about how it would fit perfectly into the opening sequence.

The constant shift of his demeanor between sincerity and an insensitively mirthful professionalism had deeply confused and unsettled Myeong. While he had seemed to closely guard his true feelings and intentions to the point of repression, she swore that she could sense sincerity beneath his vocational interest as a director. The lines of their relationship had blurred just like her view of the countryside as it streaked past the train window. 

Despite now taking the journey in solitude, Myeong felt even more shaken than when her trip had been accented by Director Cheon’s mercurial moods. Myeong had been able to weather the emotional whiplash of that ride with the Director because she knew that Yuhan was only a call and two hours away. But now she was left untethered and disoriented without Yuhan’s steadying presence to ground her.

She realized that as the train barrelled onwards, it was also tearing her away from her life in Seoul with no anchor left to pull her back—a thought that was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.

Feeling a foreign sense of freedom relax her tense shoulders, Myeong allowed her mind to wander. 

Her father, ever the academic, was a champion of rote learning.

Verbal repetition had real staying power. If you said it enough times, it would stick in your head, be a truth you could really hold on to. Although he had only ever envisioned using it for academic success, Myeong had learned this particular technique well and employed it long into her acting career—and beyond. 

Like so:

Seoul is the Capital of Korea . Seoul Is the Capital of Korea. Seoul is the Capital of Korea. 

And:

Mr. Shin. Should we sleep together? Mr. Shin. Should we sleep together? Mr. Shin. Should we sleep together?

Or even: 

I love you. I love you. I love you.
(Always remember that. Please.)

“I Love You.”  

Those words had illuminated an otherwise dark screen in her all too empty apartment. But they couldn’t last forever. Movies had a run time that never changed. 

I loved you.

Myeong wasn’t quite ready to repeat this one yet—didn’t even dare to utter it aloud out of fear she would finally have to face Yuhan in past-tense. Say it three times. Let it stick. 

But eventually: 

It’s alright. It’s alright. It’s alright. 

It’s— 

I’m going to be alright.

Myeong recited this one every day like a prayer. She fervently hoped that any second now it would ring true.

And as comforting as that “I Love You” was, it was also bittersweet.

Your favourite movie had an inherent end that you anticipated with sad familiarity. It was a flame burning down to the end of a sparkler.

But Myeong’s life smoldered on, so she couldn’t help but yearn for sparks that still fizzled in the night alongside her own. 

Looking back on the first time she had watched Black Star, Myeong liked to think that she had fulfilled Yuhan’s wish as best she could. She chose to believe that tears didn’t count if they never left her face—that the stains they left behind were what made them real.

And yes, perhaps she had needed the help from Director Cheon’s handkerchief to halt the inevitable trail of a few rogue droplets, but in the end all that mattered was that she had kept that last promise. 

Both of Director Cheon’s handkerchiefs were meticulously folded into her luggage, which currently rested by feet on the floor, waiting to be reunited with their owner. 

Little by little the lush farmland overlapped with sandy shorelines, like lovers’ hands entwined, and the smear of the landscape was sharpened by the slowing of the train.

Myeong had finally arrived. 

An odd combination of relief and anxious anticipation that churned her stomach was her sole companion as she caught the singular bus into town and meandered down its main strip. She stopped along the way to ask an elderly woman with a bright red coat and kind eyes for directions. In her single-minded focus, Myeong didn’t even process the loud green and black exterior of Bini Tteokbokki as she passed by, but it would surely demand her attention soon enough. 

After a short walk along the uneven boardwalk that bridged the gap between the beach and the town’s paved streets, Myeong now stood in front of the plain wooden door of Jin Cheon Gukbap.

The stillness of the moment made the reality of what Myeong had done sink in, sapping her of the determined momentum that had fueled her up until this point and replacing it with uncertainty. What if he wasn’t there? What if he was busy? 

Or worse: what if Director Cheon was happy? 

What if he had finally found his happiness exactly as she had hoped for him after their private screening of Self-Immolation, and her visiting would only drag him back into old sadness and grief? Myeong knew that whenever they were together, the lines between past and present became blurred for the Director, and she would hate to become a painful reminder to him rather than a respected colleague. Colleague—and friend.

(Though she still hesitated to consider what they had a friendship.)

Before this concoction of nerves and doubt could fully take hold and solidify into regret, Myeong removed her hand from the handle of her suitcase to grasp the door’s handle.

The weak rays of the setting sun, for all their breathtaking vibrancy, provided little warmth against her back as the cold iron of the handle sank into her fingers. At the same time, the ocean-tipped wind buffeted her, exposing all of her coat’s vulnerabilities with an unforgiving frosty blast. The shivers wracking Myeong’s body reinvigorated her resolve.

After all, it was very cold, and Director Cheon had promised Gukbap for a day just like this. 

Smoothing her fingers over the worn edges of the coupon resting in her pocket, Myeong tightened her other hand’s grip on the door handle and began to slide it open. The door scraped along its frame with a resistance that told Myeong it desperately needed to be oiled, but it eventually opened wide enough for her to fit through. She reached down to grab hold of her suitcase before stepping into the restaurant.

Myeong didn’t have any time to take in the interior decorations, as her searching eyes immediately snapped to the lone form in the restaurant that sat hunched over a book at one of the tables facing the door. 

“Welcome to Jin Cheon Gukba-”

A jolt of electricity ran through Myeong when Director Cheon tilted his head up to greet her, a mixture of shock and recognition mingling on his face.

Director Cheon’s eyes were a shade of brown so deep it could almost be mistaken for black—a feature that heightened his striking and intense gaze. When Myeong first met the Director, she found that the abyssal quality of his eyes gave them a murky coldness that made her shudder. The only time they lit up was when they shone with a darkly mirthful glint. However, now she found that if she looked close enough, she could see that his eyes had taken on a vibrant and lively shine. 

He sported his usual dress shirt and tie and his hair was parted almost perfectly down the middle with not a single strand out of place—all traits that contributed to his consistent and classically handsome appearance. 

But aside from the addition of a plain black apron to his ensemble, Myeong could tell that something else about him was different:

Ensconced in this cozy little restaurant by the sea, Director Cheon seemed content.

At peace. 

Self-doubt creeping back in, Myeong took a few hesitant steps forward. 

“Hello, Director Cheon.”

Feeling as jerky as a puppet with freshly cut strings, she swiftly pulled the coupon from her pocket and thrust it out between them, hoping it would justify her unexpected (but hopefully not unwelcome) intrusion in his world. 

“It’s awfully chilly today, isn’t it?” 

For a moment it was quiet, save for the sound of her breathing that echoed in her ears with the ambient crashing of the waves outside. After what felt like an eternity, Myeong heard the drag of a chair against the tiled floor and gentle, even footfalls that drew nearer with every echoing step. She kept her eyes trained on her trembling hands, afraid to meet his keen gaze, knowing he would see far too much.

Myeong saw the toes of his polished suede oxford’s enter the edge of her vision, the skin on her arms prickling from his proximity. 

She was painfully aware that she had given Director Cheon the power to define what would come next, and that vulnerability was accompanied by a relief so sharp that it almost circled back to agony. Myeong squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear the tension that her whole body vibrated with. 

All of a sudden, she felt the shaking of her hands stop.

Finally mustering up the courage, Myeong peeled her eyes open to see that Director Cheon now held the other end of the coupon with his slender yet steady hands. She dared to lift her gaze even further and took in the unreadable expression that occupied his face. As though snapped out of a trance by the weight of her attention, his eyes quickly darted to the floor. His mouth opened and closed several times, as though he was struggling to find the right words, until eventually he rasped out:

“Myeong…”

The Director cleared his throat before continuing, and his voice came out much smoother as he said with a knowing smile tingeing his voice,

“It really is cold today. You’d never guess it’s only the start of October.”

Myeong was certain that an embarrassingly stark combination of gratitude and hope was written all over her face at his response. She couldn’t help but let the corners tug upwards in a small smile to match Director Cheon’s. 

“No, you really wouldn’t. Feels more like the dead of winter,” She exclaimed as she nodded in agreement.

How easy it was, to slip back into the odd cadence of conversation that only they shared. 

Stepping back and absentmindedly scratching the back of his head, Director Cheon seemed to have been struck with a sudden realization. 

“Ah. Where are my manners? Please sit down,” he motioned her forward with a perfunctory wave of his hand towards the several empty tables.

“I believe I owe you a meal.”

Settling into the seat across from the one Director Cheon had previously occupied, Myeong felt a phantom pressure sliding off her shoulders and nudging her over the precipice she had been teetering on since she stepped through the door. 

And then:

“How have you been?”

“I’ve been alright. What about you, Director?”

“Well…”

The Director disappeared into the kitchen, arriving back several minutes later with a steaming bowl of Gukbap that he placed on the table in front of Myeong. The hours of transit caught up to her, as the comforting aroma of the rice soup wafting up towards her prompted a humiliating gurgle from her stomach that she prayed he didn’t hear. 

After setting down her food, Director Cheon returned to his original seat and watched with satisfaction as Myeong scarfed down the Gukbap with what little dignity she could muster in her ravenous state. Mere moments later, Myeong gave a sigh of contentment, having polished off her bowl. 

“I’m glad the soup was to your liking,” 

The Director’s teasing tone startled Myeong out of her food-induced bliss. She attempted to salvage her pride by covering her mouth with a napkin and eking out a muffled, “Thank you. It was delicious.” 

His voice was dripping with smugness as he drawled, “Yes, I could tell.”

Myeong let out an indignant sputter and prepared to put an end to his taunts but as usual, Director Cheon was quick on the draw.

“You should really see your face right now. It’s hilarious.” 

His objectionable statement was bracketed by poorly restrained puffs of laughter. 

Without thinking, Myeong shot back: 

“Yuhan thought I always looked beautiful.”

Oh. That wasn’t what she had meant to say. At all.

She didn’t know why she had brought him up; why she had even subconsciously compared them in the first place. It was so obvious how different Director Cheon and Yuhan were, both in personality and relationship to her. Glaringly dissimilar, really. And now she had unintentionally come across as a petulant lover to someone she held in high professional regard. 

Myeong clapped a hand over her mouth, wishing she could stuff the words she had just blurted out back down her throat and let them liquefy in her stomach acid, unspoken and unheard.

But unfortunately, her rushed retort had undoubtedly been heard by the Director, whose snickering died at the mention of Yuhan’s name, as swiftly as if she had said ‘leukaemia’ or ‘inflation rates’. He seemed to regard her more seriously as her haphazard comment hung in the air between them like sour notes from an out of tune piano.

Myeong cringed internally and readied a reply at her lips, unsure of whether it would come out as an apology or an explanation. But before she could find out, the Director’s expression relaxed back into amusement and he said something even more shocking. 

“Well clearly he never saw you eating Gukbap, because right now you are hideous.”

A gasp bursted unbidden from Myeong’s chest and Myeong felt her eyes widen with astonishment before she doubled over and erupted into peals of snorting laughter.

The remark had been so utterly brazen, so utterly bizarre, so utterly Director Cheon that all she could do was clutch her abdomen as it spasmed with near hysterical howling. It was far easier to hide her grief amidst her giggles, and perhaps Director Cheon knew that when he’d said something so ridiculous with such grave conviction. 

Although the languid lines of his body sketched a picture of ease, he had been watching her reaction carefully. Taking in the way her whole body shook with the force of her honking laughter, the Director relaxed the slightest bit further into his chair. 

“Yup. So ugly.” 

Absolutely, gloriously ugly, he added on privately in his head. 

Wiping tears from her eyes, Myeong breathlessly exclaimed with no small amount of fondness:

“Director, you’re absolutely deplorable. Really, just the worst.”

She seemed to sober up a little as she quietly murmured a sincere, “Thank you.” 

The softness crinkling the corners of his eyes was at odds with the feigned indifference of his dismissive reply: 

“We’ve been over this already, you never need to thank me. I just do what I want.”

The pair shared a meaningful glance before Director Cheon stood up to clear the dish away. Eyeing the suitcase at Myeong’s side, he couldn’t resist curiously inquiring, “So, how long are you staying for?”

But before Myeong could even think to answer, both of their attention was diverted to the harsh bang of the front door being shoved open. Through it swaggered Bin Lee’s brawny form. Any surprise he might have shown at Myeong’s presence in the restaurant was quickly overpowered by hooded eyes and a smarmy grin. 

“Looks like I’m getting real lucky tonight.”

Enter, MacGuffin. 

Chapter Text

“‘Will you explain to me why you ‘do not accept the world’?’ said Alyosha.
‘Of course I’ll explain, it’s no secret, that’s what I’ve been leading up to. My dear little brother, it’s not that I want to corrupt you and push you off your foundation; perhaps I want to be healed by you,’ Ivan suddenly smiled just like a meek little boy. Never before had Alyosha seen him smile that way.”

—Fyodor Doestoevsky, from The Brothers Karamazov

When Jin Cheon had first purchased the restaurant from Gilnyeon’s aging parents, he had never considered the logistics of living in his first love’s childhood home. However, now that he was standing amidst a clutter of boxes and floating particles of dust, he couldn’t help the shudder that ran down his spine as he took in the empty space above the restaurant. 

It was clear that Gilnyeon’s parents hadn’t lived there in a long, long time—Jin Cheon’s sizable (and anonymous) offer was the perfect opportunity for the aging couple to rid themselves of the property and move into assisted living in Seoul.

The irony of their new metropolitan lifestyle was not lost on Jin—he recalled how Gilnyeon’s mother had never missed the opportunity to remind her that she would always have the countryside running through her blood. 

Pushing those thoughts aside, Jin surveyed the modest apartment as he began to unpack.

The two bedroom, one bathroom unit with a combined living room and kitchen was certainly a far cry from the excessively large mansion he had occupied in Seoul, and his realtor had expressed concern at its cramped size with greedy glint in her eye. Obviously hoping to squeeze a larger commission out of him, she had relentlessly tried to convince him to see larger properties more ‘befitting’ of someone of his status, but Jin staunchly refused each attempt. 

There was only one larger property located anywhere remotely close to town—and he knew its cold and empty halls far too well from his short-lived stay in high school. No, he thought that the compact space he now stood inside of would suit him far better. 

However, its walls did have their fair share of ghosts—starting with the faint pencil lines marking the doorframe of one of the bedrooms. It was odd to imagine that the same parents who left Gilnyeon with bruised cheeks and bruised dreams were also the same ones who carefully etched her height onto the walls of their home for every passing birthday.

But Jin supposed that love and hatred were branches grown from the same tree, even if his own parents had defaulted to cool indifference towards their vaguely disappointing son. 

Jin lost himself in these musings as he steadily swept away the cobwebs and phantasms with a feather duster and furnished the rooms with his own belongings. 

For any self-respecting director, a screening room is the most important space in the home. Without the luxurious home theatre from his Seoul mansion, Jin decided he would simply make do with a flat screen television in the living room. He knelt on the floor in front of his dark oak TV stand and reached for the final box which was simply labelled “old”.

Indeed, Jin Cheon had brought along ghosts of his own. 

Reaching carefully into the box, Jin Cheon pulled out a small stack of simple white DVD cases—one for each film Director Cheon had ever made. The only distinguishing feature between the cases was the film titles scrawled in black ink on each spine.

Though he never revisited them, he felt compelled to bring these original copies of the films with him in every move. He lined them up in chronological order on a small shelf just below the TV and ran a finger along the spines, letting it linger for the briefest moment on the oldest one. Arcadia. 

After her, he had thought that no place or person would ever fit him quite right, would ever make him as perfectly comfortable and alive as she had in their little make-believe paradise. 

And for many years that had been true. 

Jin Cheon flitted from project to project, each interaction and each day chafing against his tender edges and adding to the knotted ball of tension and indignation within him. But in the padded quietude of his new living room, Jin felt that ball loosen just enough for him to exhale deeply. 

Perhaps he could never get back to that magical place he and Gilnyeon had once shared, but for the first time in a long while, Jin Cheon was home. 

That newfound stillness was harshly interrupted by the buzzing of his phone. Jin glanced down to find the screen illuminated by a very familiar caller ID: 

Bin Lee—DO NOT ANSWER

He let out a long-suffering sigh and answered the call, as he always did. 

“Hello?”

”Hey, bro! You done unpacking yet?” Bin Lee’s gruff tone was accented by the static of the call. 

Another deep sigh. “Yes, why do you ask?”

”Because I’m standing outside your door with a bottle of makgeolli and black bean noodles! Let me in so we can have a proper house-warming!”

”Fine, I’ll be there soon.”

”Y’know, you really ought to visit my restaurant soon and return the favour!” 

“Sure, sure. As soon as you repaint those awful green walls. They give me a migraine.”

“Looks like I’m getting lucky tonight.”

Bin Lee never did repaint those walls. But he continued to stop by Jin Cheon Gukbap one night every week with a bottle of makgeolli. And as Bin Lee had smugly pointed out, he had indeed picked a fortuitous night to drop in and see his old friend. 

“Ah, Mr. Lee, it’s nice to see you again.” Myeong had recovered from her initial shock quickly enough to fire off this mechanical yet cordial greeting to the man who swaggered forward and draped a lazy arm over her shoulder. 

“The pleasure’s all mine, sweetheart!”

Jin Cheon eyed the meaty hand grasping Myeong’s shoulder and felt his grip on the dirty dishes tighten. He stood frozen by the table, hesitant to leave her alone with their perverse colleague. 

The ever-theatrical Bin Lee placed his other hand over his chest in mock distress as he continued, “But I’m so hurt! How could you not tell me you were coming to town?”

Myeong grit her teeth in annoyance and pointedly removed his errant hand from her shoulder. 

“Well Mr. Lee, you know I’ve been very busy, and it was a spur of the moment thing—”

Clearly uninterested in her reply, Bin Lee cut Myeong off, levelling an accusatory finger at Director Cheon. 

“Yes, yes. And what about you, Jin? How could you not tell me our dear Myeong was here? Were you planning to have her all to yourself? How selfish!”

Unused to being the target of Bin Lee’s goading, Jin Cheon scoffed and retreated to the safety of the kitchen, unceremoniously dumping the dishes into the sink. With a damp washcloth in hand, he returned to find Bin Lee with both arms wrapped around Myeong’s shoulders once more as he pestered her with questions. 

The sight was eerily similar to his overbearing advances towards Myeong during the filming of Self-Immolation. That shoot had been the first time that Jin’s enjoyment of Bin Lee’s indecent antics had worn thin. 

Feeling annoyance, guilt and something not entirely dissimilar to protectiveness well up in him, Jin stepped forward and dropped the towel directly on Bin Lee’s face. 

“Wha-?”

After letting out a shocked sputter and shaking the towel from his head and onto the table, he turned to Jin with an expression that screamed What the hell was that for? 

“Why don’t you give Ms. Yu a break and go hug my dirty dishes? They’re so lonely without you Bin.” 

Jin had certainly intended for the quip to drip with mocking sarcasm. But much to his chagrin, his voice came out with chafing stiffness. 

Easily picking up on Jin’s irritation, a mischievous grin slid across Bin Lee’s face. 

“Careful Jin, for a second there you almost sounded jealous. There’s more than enough Bin to go around.” 

Jin felt vindicated to see that the look on Myeong’s face matched the revulsion he was feeling. 

“Anyways, my favourite co-star and I were just talking about how great it would be if we all had dinner at my restaurant!” Myeong’s slight nod of agreement was betrayed only by the exasperation lining her gaze as she locked eyes with Jin.

With a defeated sigh, he merely shrugged and muttered an unenthusiastic agreement. They both knew the only way to be rid of the imposing man was to humour him, if only for a while. 

“Alright, let’s go then.”

Jin strode past the two, but not before dragging Bin Lee along with him in a firm headlock. 

“You lead the way.”

Slightly disgruntled, Bin Lee extricated himself from Jin’s hold and stepped outside. 

He glanced back at Myeong, who rose from her seat and rubbed the back of her neck with a slight shudder. He almost held out a bent arm before thinking better of it and tucking both hands behind his back.

“Walk with me?”

Myeong gave a grateful nod, sticking close to his side but careful not to touch.  

“Hurry up, you two! We have so much to catch up on!”

Myeong and Jin exchanged resigned looks before setting off after the sauntering Bin Lee on the boardwalk, which was now illuminated by the evening glow of the setting sun. 

They were surely in for a long night.

As it turned out, they were spared Bin Lee’s barrage of questions as when they arrived at the tteokbokki restaurant, he was instantly whisked away by his scolding wife to do his rounds with the customers. Bin Lee apologized profusely and insisted they sit down wherever they’d like. 

The restaurant was packed with locals and tourists alike. A shrieking baby could be heard amidst the clatter of silverware and hurried footfalls of servers. Glancing around the bustling space, they spotted a small round table that was bracketed by the window and a blessedly empty booth with a reserved sign placed in its center.

Figuring it was as separated as they could get from the chaos of the restaurant, they made their way towards it and sat down. 

Once settled, Jin watched Myeong as her eyes darted around the room, taking in the vibrant, almost neon, green walls and matching green tiled floors. The walls were lined with articles about the owner’s acting accolades and movie posters. 

Bin Lee had clearly put his biggest fan in charge of interior design: himself. 

“This place is certainly…” 

“Nauseating?” Jin Cheon offered in a dry tone, resting his chin against his palm. Each time he blinked, he was reluctant to open his eyes and be forced to reacclimate to their overstimulating surroundings. 

She snorted at his brazen honesty, “I was going to say that it’s just like its owner. Very…flamboyant.” She finished delicately.

Myeong picked at the grossly mismatched red and white gingham tablecloth before murmuring more pensively, “Jin Cheon Gukbap is just like its owner too.”

Jin quirked an eyebrow at her statement in question, daring her to continue. 

“Very simple, no-nonsense. But the food is warm.”

”And delicious, I hope?” He interjected with amusement and the barest hint of satisfaction at her honest assessment. 

”Of course.” Myeong replied with a soft smile gracing her lips. He found that when he focused on the expressive depth of Myeong’s eyes, the room’s visual assault faded into a tolerable smear. 

Jin knew he had been staring at her far too intensely and far too long to be socially acceptable, but he had never cared too much about following etiquette; rather, he basked in the discomfort of others, felt most at ease in just the slightest bit of discord. 

And it was all too easy to fall back into old habits, especially when Myeong was so entertaining to test and to tease. He never knew whether she would adopt an exasperated flush or challenge his off-kilter behaviour and push it even further. Jin noticed with faint disappointment that today she reacted with the former as she abruptly broke eye-contact to intensely eye the laminated menu in front of her. 

“I’m still quite full from the Gukbap, do you mind if we split something?”

“Ah, yes. That’s fine.”

It was almost difficult to tear his gaze away from her when the waiter arrived to take their order and informed them that their meal was on the house at Bin Lee’s insistence.  

As they waited for the food to arrive, Jin noticed that Bin Lee had re-entered the dining area adorned in a bright green apron with a chibi-version of his face on it and a tray of steaming food. Mrs. Lee followed closely behind, briskly tightening the apron’s tie around his waist and delivering a swift slap to the back of his neck. 

Bin Lee approached their table and placed a heaping bowl of rosé tteokbokki, and gingerly rubbed his neck with a cross between a grimace and a smile adorning his face. 

“So, you two! What do you think of my humble restaurant?” 

“Yes, Myeong, what do we think?” Jin Cheon drawled disinterestedly, hiding the slight tug of a smile behind his curled fist.

Myeong shot Jin a delightfully vexed glare and scrambled to reply with forced admiration, “It’s…just wow! And it’s so busy! You’ve really done well for yourself, Mr. Lee.”

He puffed his chest out at the praise, “I have, haven’t I? Y’know, I’m basically a pillar of the community now.”

Jin snorted incredulously at this statement. He knew from their weekly chats that Bin Lee was really only at the restaurant once a week to maintain appearances, leaving management to a senior employee the rest of the time.

“This place is a huge meeting spot for locals. In fact, I even have a deal going with the town retirement home—Soft Shores? A bunch of the residents come here for a complimentary meal with yours truly.”

“Gee Bin, what do you get in exchange for all this generosity?” Jin asked sarcastically. 

Bin Lee let out an overdramatic gasp of indignance, “You wound me! The smiles on the faces of our sweet elders is payment enough for me.” 

He gave a furtive glance around the space before whispering conspiratorially, “Though I gotta say, it has been great for my public image! Have you seen the tabloid headlines lately? ‘Bin Lee: From Lecherous Lead to Model Citizen’ It’s definitely gotten the missus off my case...”

Jin remarked sardonically, “Happy wife, happy life?” 

Completely missing Jin’s mocking tone, Bin Lee clapped him on the back and exclaimed jovially, “Yeah, exactly!” His eyes slid from Jin to Myeong and back to Jin as a smirk played across his lips, “I’m sure you’ll get it soon enough bro.” 

Jin was eager to put whatever wildly faulty notion his friend had concocted about his relationship with Myeong to rest, but Bin Lee was distracted by the jingle of the door chimes that signalled a new customer.

“Speak of the devil! It’s the Soft Shores residents I told you about.” Jin and Myeong turned, following Bin Lee’s gaze towards the group of seven elderly folks crowding the entryway with an assortment of walkers, canes and a singular wheelchair in tow.  

Myeong’s gaze landed on a hunched old woman who was swallowed up by a bright red coat that seemed to be about four sizes too large. Her eyes lit up with recognition, lips parting to let out a soft, “Oh!”

“Do you know her?” Jin prodded curiously, nodding in the petite woman’s direction.

Myeong turned in her chair to face Jin again, “Well, not really. But she gave me directions when I first got to town. She was very kind.”

Bin Lee grinned excitedly, “Oh that’s perfect. Let me introduce you all properly then!”

He hurried off to greet them with a winning smile, laughing animatedly at something the old woman in the wheelchair said before pushing her towards the booth, closely followed by the rest of the group. The elderly men and women tittered amongst themselves as they shuffled into the neighbouring booth. 

The woman in the red coat was markedly quiet, electing to nod along to her companions’ words rather than contribute to the conversation herself. She slid into the outer end of the booth closest to Myeong.

Jin found it odd that she didn’t take off her jacket, despite the stuffy warmth of the restaurant.

Once Bin Lee parked the lady in the wheelchair at the end of the table, she murmured her thanks and pursed her coral red lips as she eyed Jin and Myeong with interest.

The woman beckoned Bin Lee forward with a come-hither crook of her finger, and he was quick to kneel pliantly by her chair and grasp her wizened, yet perfectly manicured hands in his own.

Bin Lee’s weakness had always been formidable women. 

The sizable, glittering diamond affixed to the gold band on her ring finger spoke to wealth that Jin was very personally familiar with from his silver-spoon upbringing; His mother had worn a similarly garish ring, though more as a display of status rather than of love. The pearl encrusted bangles on her wrists clacked together with the movement of clasping hands with the actor. “What is it, Mrs. Kim?” Bin Lee implored. 

Jin couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his simpering tone. He caught Myeong’s eye as she stifled a snigger behind her fist, clearly enjoying Bin Lee’s comical attempt at kissing up to the woman as much as he was.

Mrs. Kim gave Bin Lee’s hands a playful squeeze, “Oh please Binnie, I already told you to call me Youngsuk!”

“Binnie?” Jin Cheon echoed, his voice dripping in amusement. 

Mrs. Kim’s eyes shot towards Jin, taking on a calculating glint. She curled her red lips into a shark-toothed smile, “Binnie, are you going to introduce us to your special guests?”

“Of course, Youngsuk.” Bin Lee rose to his feet and clapped his hands together. 

“Everyone, these are my friends, the esteemed Director Jin Cheon, and the incomparably lovely actress, Myeong Yu!”

The group erupted into hushed, yet excited whispers amongst themselves. Mrs. Kim immediately threw her fellow residents a pointed look, causing their voices to die out as they scrambled to bow their heads in greeting. She turned her attention back toward the pair, that razor-tipped smile slithering across her face once more. 

“What an honour to be in the company of such talented guests!”

A bespectacled woman who was sitting beside the red-coated woman piped up, “You know, we’re putting a play together at Soft Shores; Romeo and Juliet! And our Binnie has volunteered to be the director.”

Bin Lee’s chest puffs up at the praise, “Well, I can’t take all the credit. It’s only thanks to Youngsuk’s husband’s generous support that we can put on the production at all!” 

While a pleased smile graced Mrs. Kim’s thin lips, her eyes narrowed when they landed back on Jin and Myeong. If Jin Cheon’s spine wasn’t forged in steel from years in the public eye, he might have shrunk under her shrewd gaze. 

“You know,” Mrs. Kim’s smooth voice interjected once more, “our amateur theatre could really benefit from the input of industry professionals such as yourselves. If you ever have time to stop by our rehearsals, we would be so grateful to you.”

The table instantly tittered in agreement, their crow’s feet and wrinkles doing nothing to dull the excitement shining in their eyes. Bin Lee glanced around at the now electrified group, a grin splitting across his face. 

”Oh, what an excellent idea Youngsuk, I’m sure they’d love to help! Right, you two?” Bin Lee exclaimed excitedly. The whole table turned to Myeong and Jin Cheon expectantly, awaiting their answer. 

Jin glared daggers at his loose-lipped friend for offering up their help so flippantly and opened his mouth to protest, “Well, Myeong is here on vacation so I’m sure she’d rather not—“

“Actually, we’d love to.”

Myeong, who had been watching the exchange unfold quietly from her seat, broke her contemplative silence to cut off his hasty excuses. Jin cringed internally as the group broke into cheers that were shockingly exuberant for people of their age. 

“Oh, how wonderful! 

“This is sure to be a world-class production now! We’ll have to fill you in on…”

He nodded absentmindedly at Bin Lee and Mrs. Kim’s words, electing to shovel a piping-hot spoonful of tteokbokki into his mouth so that he wouldn’t have to contribute to the conversation further. He needed to talk to Bin later.

Tuning out their rambling, he shifted his focus to Myeong. Jin was surprised by her ready agreement; he had moved to this town for peace and quiet and he assumed that she had come here looking for the same. 

Jin’s eyes flickered to her face, hoping that she would read the question in his slightly furrowed brow. However, Myeong’s soft gaze was already directed elsewhere as she leaned to her right and murmured a greeting to the woman enveloped in the red coat. Jin leaned forward to catch their conversation.

”Hello, do you remember me from earlier today? In town?” The old woman nodded slowly in response, her small hands peeking out from her sleeves to reach out and hold Myeong's.

Like Mrs. Kim, she was wearing a wedding ring, although the simple gold band was a far cry from the other woman’s ornate ring.

“Yes, of course.” 

The woman’s voice was barely above a whisper and roughened at the edges with age, but Jin could still hear a warmth in her tone that even decades of living hadn’t sanded away. In fact, perhaps the many years under her belt only served to make her voice more vibrant and alive. Jin’s long-dormant director’s instincts told him that she most definitely had screen-worthy stories. 

“I was in such a hurry that I didn’t introduce myself. Please forgive my rudeness.”

“It’s no worry at all my dear, it’s nice to meet you properly now. My name’s Yesun.” Yesun gently patted Myeong’s hands as she glanced between her and Jin, a small smile creeping across her face. 

“It looks like you got to where you needed to go. I’m glad.” 

Jin Cheon was no stranger to subtext; being a director practically guaranteed his fluency in it. So he could tell that the elderly woman had clearly misinterpreted his and Myeong’s relationship. 

While Jin was usually quite comfortable with the ambiguous impression he left on others, this particular assumption unsettled him. He was self-aware enough to know it was because he himself did not know how to classify what he and Myeong were to each other. 

While he had previously vowed to maintain a professional rapport with her, he knew that his actions as of late had stepped far over the line of industry acquaintances and into the murkier waters of friendship. 

But the word “friend” seemed far too inadequate, too simple to capture the oddly intense dynamic that had become obvious to other people now too.

This wasn’t to say that he had romantic feelings for Myeong, Jin reasoned to himself. No, what he had with Myeong was of an entirely different cadence than the low rasp of desire or bubbly attraction that he had experienced with Gilnyeon. 

Of course he knew that she was gut-wrenchingly beautiful; that fact was etched into the delicate curve where her shoulder met her neck; the graceful tilt of her chin as her laughter rang out like chimes in reaction to something Yesun said. 

But his recognition was not private or personal—Myeong’s beauty was public knowledge. He regarded her in the same way he would be awed by a roaring waterfall or revel in a majestic sunset; a purely, objective and aesthetic appreciation.

In any case, Jin was fairly certain that he simply could never love someone as intensely as he had Gilyneon. Her death had left him burning with the flames of rage and resentment for so long that when their embers had finally died down, all he felt was cool disdain.

While it was true that Myeong had started to thaw the icy bitterness he used to distance himself from life, he wasn’t sure he had the ability or desire to be capable of such intimacy with anyone ever again. 

Especially not her. 

Myeong deserved more than vague reenactments of the past, and Jin wasn’t sure he trusted himself to see beyond the broken promises that haunted him; to not use her to chase after their resolution. 

If he had to try to describe their relationship, maybe he’d say they were more akin to world-weary travellers who had happened to take shelter under the same tree in a downpour. 

There was great comfort in kinship borne of circumstance; to see the same struggles mirrored in their eyes, let the cold and exhaustion pull the lines of your bodies together as you gathered your strength and weathered the storm. When the rain let up, Jin imagined that the travelers would nod to each other and go their separate ways; the brief convergence of their paths over. 

Although Myeong had come to visit him now, he was sure that soon enough she would regain whatever strength she needed and set off towards a new bright future. And with each day spent by the sea, Jin felt himself growing closer to accepting the wonder and contentment that life continued to thrust against the walls of his long neglected heart. 

Their connection had always been built on a painful sort of understanding. What happened when the rain stopped?

Nonetheless, Jin was grateful he could pay back his insurmountable debt to Myeong, even if it would only ever be through the occasional catch-up over gukbap. 

And while he was still unenthused at the prospect of helping with the retirement home’s production, a begrudging yet persistent realization rose up inside him as he studied the small, genuine smile that hadn’t left her face since she had started talking to Yesun: I owe her this much. 

And more. So much more. 

Jin thought to himself that if he was lucky enough to catch a breathtaking sunset, he really ought to bask in its glow until the very end.

Jin stewed in his warring resignation and gratitude, letting the rest of dinner pass by in a blur. 

When the evening had completely melted into night, goodbyes were said and both groups went their separate ways, agreeing to meet for a first rehearsal the next day. 

Myeong had left her luggage at Jin Cheon Gukbap, so the pair now found themselves walking side by side down the beach. 

Jin breathed a sigh of relief when they had left the commotion of the restaurant behind. The soft plodding of their steps against the weathered planks and the gentle crashing of the waves were their only other companions on the moonlit boardwalk. Jin stole a sidelong glance down at Myeong. Her gaze was turned away from him, focus moored somewhere beyond the inky sea. 

Some people could not bear silence; felt an anxious need to fill up any pause with needless babble.

Jin Cheon was certainly not one of them. And neither was Myeong. He had always appreciated the unspoken agreement they shared; that they could find solace in the mere fact of each other’s presence.

But he had also never been afraid to disrupt that quiet peace, to test and disturb the waters between them. And tonight, the pensive silence ate at him like an unscratchable itch below his skin.

Jin drew his cigarette pack and lighter from his coat pocket. He deftly tapped two out into his palm in a smooth, practiced motion and placed one between his lips before turning to Myeong.

“Want one?”

Finally tearing her gaze away from the horizon line, Myeong glanced down at the cigarette he was offering and declined with a polite shake of her head. 

“I quit. In May.” 

In May. Before Yuhan died. 

It didn’t take much for Jin to read between that line. It was funny; Myeong had stopped smoking in some grand gesture of cherishing the time she had left while he had started the habit after he learned that Gilnyeon had died. 

Whether it had been in the name of remembrance or punishment, he couldn’t recall. 

The comparison made defensiveness rise up in him like it had when Myeong had lain on the beach until dusk; had asked him who he was, Mr. Shin or Bido? 

This time he had no director’s chair to hide behind to lick his wounds, no camera lens to shield him from the woman who was clearly not afraid of moving forward. An old, ugly part of him resented her a bit for how hopeful she was, how settled in herself she was, even if he knew that her gentle smiles were hard-earned. 

“That’s good. These’ll kill you.” It was a statement that flew easily from his lips, borne of Jin’s almost instinctual caustic sarcasm. 

“Sometimes they don’t.” 

She shrugged, taking his snide comment in stride, but Jin could see the way she absentmindedly picked at the skin around a manicured nail.

He was still new to regret and apologies (at least as far as the living were concerned) so he just shrugged and put away the extra cigarette before focusing on the task of lighting his own. In all honesty, he was grateful for the distraction from the distress he may as well have splashed across her face like frigid water. 

Flicking his calloused thumb against the familiar metal ridges of the spark wheel, he waited for the warmth of the lighter’s small flame, but only a few meagre sparks flew out before fizzling just as fast. He tried again to the same effect. 

Jin was ready to give up until a familiar silver lighter came into focus in front of him. Myeong held it out, her expression clouded yet expectant, “Want me to..?”

Jin nodded gratefully and leaned down to meet the flame from her lighter. He noticed how the flame’s warm glow was captured in Myeong’s dark eyes, reminding him of the night he had called to set his plans for Black Star into motion.

Director Cheon, the fireworks are so pretty right now, she had exclaimed, her voice breathy and steeped in awe. 

He couldn’t help but think to himself that the bursts of light reflected from the fireworks in her eyes would make for a beautiful shot. His hands itched to reach for a Polaroid camera that had been absent from his neck for many months. 

Once the cigarette was lit, they broke apart, resuming their unhurried pace down the boardwalk. He inhaled the bitter burn, letting the nicotine’s comforting warmth flood his lungs, spreading to his entire body. He turned his head away from Myeong slightly, blowing tendrils of smoke out in a single relieved sigh. 

“You kept the lighter.”

“I still have use for it,” she stated delicately, rubbing her thumb over the star etched into the lighter’s silver surface. He didn’t miss the way her eyes flitted towards the worn leather watch on his wrist as he took another drag of his cigarette. 

Deflecting the obvious challenge in her heavy gaze was second nature for him. 

“The play. Why did you agree to it?” 

The words were exhaled alongside grey wisps of smoke. He felt safer hiding behind the smoky veil. Parry, deflect, attack; Jin fell back on old tricks. 

With her, smoke and mirrors took on a vastly different meaning; but at that moment, he felt far too exposed under her scrutiny, so he would gladly put the phrase’s original intent into practice. 

Myeong’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though she was aware he was avoiding her question. But she broke the tension with a long exhale, “Honestly, I’m not too sure myself. I don’t exactly love the thought of seeing Mr. Lee more often…”

“Then why?”

“I do really want to talk to Yesun more. She told me she used to be an actor, back in the 60s.”

“Really?” Jin rifled through his extensive cinematic knowledge. Her name had seemed familiar. 

“Yes! I think I could learn a lot from her.” 

“That’s true. But why not just visit her?”

The pair’s conversation was cut short when they arrived at Jin’s doorstep, but he could tell from the slight furrow of her brow that Myeong was still considering the answer to his question. 

Jin quickly flicked his cigarette to the ground and extinguished it with a quick press of his shoe, “One moment.” 

He unlocked the door and retrieved her luggage, returning to stand outside of his restaurant beside Myeong. She briefly thanked him but didn’t tear her eyes away from the horizon in front of them. 

Waiting for her to break the silence, Jin rocked back on his heels and absently twisted the leather band of his watch. With the exception of slight fading, the leather bore very few signs of its age. Jin oiled it regularly to prevent cracking—he probably took better care of the watch than he did himself. 

He wondered what Myeong’s lighter would look like in 10, 20, 50 years; would it rust and tarnish over time? Or would Myeong carefully polish it every few months; keep it like a perfectly maintained urn in her pocket. Here lies Yuhan Eun. Forever loved, forever missed.

That thought left a taste in his mouth more bitter than the cigarette he just smoked. But he had no time to dwell on why, because Myeong finally spoke.

“I think…I just need to do this.”

Turning towards her expectantly, quietly urging her to continue. 

“I used to act in a lot of local plays when I just graduated from university,” she began, her arms crossed tightly as if to ward off the chill in the night air.

“It’s been a long time since then. I keep climbing higher and higher as Myeong the businesswoman, Myeong the actress, but that also means getting further and further away from who I used to be before…all of this. When I was just Myeong” 

She took a steadying breath, “Maybe a smaller production and a slower pace are just what I need right now.” She turned towards him, her eyes scanning his placid face for any reaction. 

“Ok.” His voice was even, unreadable. But he nodded once as though satisfied with her answer.

“I’m still not sure how this plan involves me, though.” His voice was deadpan, but the mirthful curl to the edges of his mouth gave away his teasing.

Myeong winced a bit, “I am sorry about agreeing on your behalf without asking first. I’m sure I can clear things up tomorrow and get you out of it.”

Jin brushed her apology off with a wave, “There’s no need. I’ve never directed a play before, it could be…different. Fun.” 

Myeong seemed surprised by his answer, “Oh! Well then, I’m glad.” Jin couldn’t help the smile that crept across his lips in response to her own beaming face. 

“It will be fun—working as a director and an actor again,” she declared, but her tone was careful, measured, her lips pressing into a determined line. Her eyes searched his own, as though she were looking for confirmation of the line her words had knocked against. 

“Yes, as a director and an actor,” he agreed flatly. Coming from her, the words of his past self felt like a slap across his face.

Myeong nodded, her movements jerky, “Right. Well then. I should probably check into the hotel.” 

“Yes. Of course.”

Myeong grabbed hold of her suitcase handle and took a couple steps away from him, “Goodnight, Director Cheon.”

Jin couldn’t see her face, but he could see the stiffness in her shoulders, could hear it in her voice. 

“Myeong, wait,” His voice came out louder, more desperate than he had intended. 

She halted in her hurried retreat away from him and looked over her shoulder, her eyes wide, questioning. 

“There isn’t much to eat in this town. You should still come by for Gukbap.”

The smile returned to her face, warm enough that Jin barely felt the frigid sea breeze, “Thank you, Director Cheon. I’d like that very much.” She started to turn on her heel.

“One more thing,” he swallowed thickly, unused to the nervous tension thrumming through his body. 

“Just call me Jin. I am retired, after all.” He clenched his hands into tight fists at his sides. Myeong’s mouth parted in surprise, “Oh.” 

“Then…goodnight, Jin.” Her voice was tentative as it tested out the shape of his name but her eyes twinkled with delight. 

“Goodnight, Myeong.”