The soft hum of the city outside couldn't drown out the restless silence in Soojin's apartment. She had barely slept the night before, her mind replaying every moment from the charity gala, every glance exchanged with Daehyun, every whisper of gossip that seemed to follow her into her own thoughts. She sat curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, still in the oversized sweater she had thrown on after getting home, its fabric carrying the faint scent of her perfume mixed with exhaustion.
On the low table before her, her phone lit up suddenly, vibrating with a steady buzz that seemed louder than it should have.
Soojin flinched.
She leaned forward, her fingers brushing across the screen—and froze when she saw the caller ID.
Father.
Her breath hitched. It had been weeks since they last spoke. Her schedule gave her excuses—photoshoots, studio rehearsals, back-to-back meetings—but the truth was simpler. Conversations with Mr. Han always left her torn. There was love in his voice, but there were expectations, too. And in the space between, she often found herself trapped, unable to bridge what she wanted with what he believed she should want.
Her thumb hovered over the answer button, trembling slightly.
After a long pause, she pressed it.
"Appa."
"Soojin-ah." His voice carried the weight of years—steady, measured, but warm in a way that immediately softened something in her chest. "You sound tired."
She forced brightness into her tone. "I'm fine. Just… busy, you know how it is."
He hummed thoughtfully, and she pictured him sitting in his study back in Busan, glasses perched low on his nose, a book or an old vinyl spinning quietly nearby. A man of routines, of careful words. He wasn't one for grand speeches, but when he spoke, each sentence was deliberate.
"I saw the photos," he said after a beat. "The gala. You looked beautiful."
Her throat tightened. Praise from him was rare, wrapped often in caution. She knew what he meant—I'm proud of you, I see you, I follow your career even if I don't say so directly. But behind it, she heard the shadow of another question: Are you happy?
"Thank you, Appa." She twisted the edge of her sweater sleeve around her finger, grounding herself.
Silence stretched, punctuated by the faint rustle of papers on his end. She imagined him choosing his words with care.
"Soojin-ah," he said at last, his voice softer now, "fame is a strange thing. It shines bright, but it can also blind you. You've worked so hard for it—I know. But promise me you're not chasing only the lights. Promise me you're searching for happiness, too."
Her chest constricted. Happiness.
The word struck like an arrow. Images of Daehyun flickered in her mind: his laugh, the warmth of his hand when it found hers in stolen moments, the secret thrill of knowing they belonged to each other. The marriage license hidden in the drawer of her dresser—their truth locked away where no one, not even her family, could see it.
She swallowed hard. "I… I'm trying, Appa."
A sigh, heavy and thoughtful, crossed the line. "You're my only daughter. I don't want you to repeat the mistakes I made."
The confession startled her. Soojin frowned, her grip on the phone tightening. "What do you mean?"
For a moment, silence stretched so long she thought he might actually answer. But then came the faintest chuckle, tinged with regret. "That's a story for another time. Just remember, Soojin-ah—don't let the world's applause drown out your own heart."
Her eyes burned. The urge to confess surged up suddenly, raw and overwhelming. To tell him: Appa, I already chose my heart. I married him. I love him. Even if the world wouldn't understand, I hope you would.
But the words stuck fast in her throat.
If she told him, would he still look at her the same way? Or would disappointment cloud his face? Would he see her not as the daughter he raised, but as a celebrity caught in a scandal of her own making?
She stayed silent, her breath uneven.
"I'll remember," she whispered at last.
He shifted slightly, the faint creak of his chair carrying through the line. "I miss you, Soojin-ah. The house feels emptier without your voice."
Her chest ached. Memories flooded unbidden—sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor of their old house in Busan as a child, her tiny hands struggling to mimic the piano keys he had guided her through, his gentle patience when she got it wrong. Or the time she fell off her bike at ten, scraping her knee, and he had run from the porch, kneeling to comfort her before her tears had even started. He had always been steady, always present.
"I miss you too, Appa," she said, her voice cracking.
"Then come visit. Even for a day." His tone was hopeful, almost pleading.
Her grip on the phone tightened. A visit meant facing him, standing under his gaze. Could she keep the truth hidden from him in person? He had always been able to read her, always able to see through her smiles.
"I'll try," she managed, her voice small.
"Good." His steadiness returned, but she caught the faint thread of longing beneath it. "Take care of yourself, Soojin-ah. Don't let the world take more than it gives."
The line went quiet for a beat before the call ended with a soft click.
Soojin sat frozen, the phone still against her ear as if she could hold onto his voice a little longer. Slowly, she lowered it to her lap, staring at the black screen.
Her reflection wavered faintly on the glass—eyes wide, lips pressed thin, the faint trace of unshed tears.
She thought again of Daehyun. The ache in her chest pushed her to unlock her phone, thumb hovering over his name in her contacts. She wanted to call him, to hear his voice, to tell him how her father's words had both comforted and wounded her.
She typed out a message—I just talked to Appa. He asked if I was happy. I wanted to tell him about us.
Her thumb hesitated over "send."
Then, with a sharp inhale, she deleted the words.
It wasn't the time. It wasn't safe. Not yet.
She set the phone on the table with trembling fingers, her heart pounding against her ribs. For a long time, she sat there in the dim light of the apartment, listening to the muted sounds of the city outside—the laughter of strangers, the honk of a taxi, the hum of a world that demanded she keep smiling.
Finally, she picked up the phone again. Her fingers brushed over the screen, but she didn't open any apps. She simply held it, gripping it as though it were the only thing tethering her to both halves of her life—the daughter her father still believed in, and the secret wife no one knew existed.