The black van hummed faintly, the tinted windows reflecting the fluorescent glow of the broadcasting station's parking lot. Soojin leaned her head against the cool glass, mascara still intact despite the storm that raged inside her chest. The show had ended hours ago, but the laughter, the flashing lights, the too-careless question still pulsed like an echo she couldn't silence.
Her phone rested heavy in her palm. She'd scrolled through comments until the words blurred: "Jae and Soojin are hilarious rivals!" … "Look at him laugh when she talks about her ideal type—chemistry off the charts!" … "They'd make a great couple."
Couple. If only the world knew how much truth was buried beneath those innocent shipping jokes. If only they knew how those stolen glances weren't scripted. If only they knew her heart wasn't performing—it was breaking.
The van door slid open, snapping her from her spiral. Clara climbed in, her clipboard pressed tightly to her chest. "Good work today," Clara said briskly, not glancing up. "Fans ate up the banter. Keep it up."
Soojin nodded automatically, her throat dry.
But when Clara's gaze flicked up, there was a sharpness in her eyes. "You didn't have to stutter so much on the 'ideal type' question. Play coy, not guilty. Learn the difference."
Her face burned. Guilty. The word struck too close. She forced a thin smile. "I'll do better next time."
Clara scribbled something down and leaned back, satisfied. The conversation ended there, but Soojin's chest only tightened.
---
By the time she reached her apartment, exhaustion coated her bones. She collapsed on the couch without removing her shoes. The city lights filtered through the blinds, scattered like shards across the floor.
Her phone buzzed. Jae. Finally.
Her thumb hesitated before sliding across the screen. "Hello?"
His voice was low, steady, but tinged with something she couldn't place. "You okay?"
That simple question nearly unraveled her. She pressed her lips together. "I don't know."
Silence. A beat too long. Then: "I saw the clips."
Of course he had. The internet was already on fire. Memes, edits, hashtags spinning out of control. And in all of them, Jae was laughing, eyes soft in a way that fans interpreted as playfulness but Soojin knew better. It was guilt hidden behind practiced charm.
"You laughed," she whispered.
"I had to," he replied quickly. "You know I had to. If I didn't, it would've looked strange."
"Strange?" The word clawed its way out of her. "Or suspicious?"
He sighed. "Both."
Her throat tightened. The distance between them—thousands of miles, years of secrets—collapsed into that single suffocating pause.
"I wish," she started, her voice cracking, "I could just… answer honestly. Just once."
"Soojin—"
"No." Her eyes stung. "I wish I could say, 'My ideal type? He's tall, reckless, drives me insane but also makes me laugh when no one else can.' I wish I could say his name without it being a scandal."
On the other end, his breath hitched. But then his voice hardened, carrying the steel she hated and admired. "You know what's at stake."
Her silence screamed louder than any words.
---
The next morning came too soon. Jet lagged and disoriented, Jae returned from L.A. to a whirlwind of schedules. Cameras, stylists, managers, flights—his life was a carousel spinning faster with each turn. He texted her in snatches of time: "Back in Seoul." … "Meeting Daniel now." … "Don't stay up too late."
Each message felt like both a lifeline and a blade. He was close. He was unreachable.
Meanwhile, her own rehearsals stretched endlessly. Dance practices where Clara's voice cut sharper than the metronome. Vocal drills that left her throat raw. Interviews stacked back-to-back, each one demanding smiles and careful lies.
They lived in the same city now, yet might as well have been continents apart.
---
Two nights later, Jae slipped into his penthouse past midnight, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. He loosened his tie with one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other. His living room was silent, shadows heavy in every corner.
And yet, it didn't feel empty.
He turned. She was there. Curled on the edge of his couch, still in rehearsal clothes, her head bent low as if she'd been waiting for hours.
"You're here," he said softly.
Her gaze lifted, rimmed with weariness. "Where else would I be?"
Something in him cracked. He dropped his phone on the counter and crossed to her. She stood before he reached her, and for a heartbeat they simply stared, two magnets pulling against invisible chains.
Then she folded into him, arms tight around his waist, forehead pressed against his chest. He held her like a drowning man clutching driftwood.
"I missed you," she whispered.
"I missed you too," he murmured into her hair. But even as he said it, guilt gnawed at him. He'd missed her, yes, but he'd also laughed at her humiliation on national television. He'd chosen survival over honesty. Again.
Her body trembled slightly. "Do you ever wonder if it's worth it? Hiding like this?"
He closed his eyes. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say everything and nothing. Instead, he tightened his hold. "We'll make it worth it. Somehow."
---
Morning bled into chaos once again. Soojin slipped out before dawn, her hoodie pulled low. The city was quiet, but in her chest, the noise never stopped.
She opened her phone. Headlines screamed at her: "Soojin and Jae – Variety Show Sparks New Ship!" … "Rivalry or Romance? Fans Debate Their Chemistry." … "Industry Golden Pair?"
Her stomach dropped. Their secret wasn't exposed—but it was being danced around, teased, dangled dangerously close.
Clara texted her minutes later: "Keep playing it up. It's good for your image."
Her chest hollowed. Playing it up. Pretending her marriage was just banter. Pretending her love was a marketing strategy. Pretending she wasn't unraveling.
Her phone buzzed again—this time Jae. "Don't let it get to you. We're okay."
Her fingers hovered over the screen. What did "okay" even mean anymore?
She didn't reply.
---
That evening, rehearsals stretched late. Sweat clung to her skin, her muscles screamed, but none of it compared to the ache in her chest.
When she finally stumbled into her apartment, the clock blinked past midnight. Her phone lit up with missed calls—three from Jae.
She sat on the floor, back against the door, staring at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the call-back button. But her body felt too heavy, her heart too raw.
So she let the phone dim, the silence swallowing her whole.
---
The balance between them was cracking, the rope fraying thread by thread. Fame demanded their faces, their energy, their lies. Love demanded secrecy, sacrifice, silence.
And somewhere between those demands, Soojin wondered if there was still room for her own voice.