I wake up already tired.
Not the regular kind of tired, the "didn't sleep enough, need coffee, why is adulthood a thing" tired.
The other one.
The one that feels like someone left a stone on my chest in the middle of the night and forgot to take it back.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my aqua blouse draped over the chair.
It looked perfect yesterday when I ironed it.
Today, my brain decides it might be too much.
Too bright.
Too fitted.
Too hopeful.
"You're being ridiculous," I tell myself. "It looks fine. You look fine."
My reflection lifts an eyebrow at the word fine.
I put it on anyway. Aqua silk, soft and fluid, the way it falls over my curves like it knows what it's doing. Black trousers, clean lines. Hair in loose waves. The version of myself I decided I wanted to be… instead of the one I used to be.
Matcha, hot with two pumps of vanilla and oatmilk, goes into my travel cup.
I take a sip and whisper my usual prayer.
"Let today be normal."
My chest does not believe me.
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The studio smells like coffee, hairspray, and ambition.
I walk in, script tucked against my chest, matcha in hand, shoulders squared. The aqua blouse moves when I move, catching the overhead lights in little ripples.
It should make me feel powerful.
It just makes me feel exposed.
"You're fine," I tell myself again as I cross the stage. "You are a competent thirty year old professional woman. You write people's feelings for a living. You can manage your own."
My grip on the script tightens anyway.
"Bin-bin."
The voice slides in from the side, smooth as ever.
My chest seizes.
I turn my head before I can talk myself out of it.
Lee Hyun-woo is standing a few steps away, hands in his pockets, expression easy in that way that used to make me feel chosen and now makes my stomach twist.
"Hyun-woo sunbae," I say.
He walks closer, slow, assessing.
"You look different today," he says, eyes tracing me from hair to shoes. "Tired? Are the hours getting to you?"
There is a version of that sentence that would feel like concern.
This is not that version.
"I'm fine," I reply.
He tilts his head, gaze dipping deliberately over my shoulders, the line of my blouse.
"Do you remember how you used to show up to set in college," he says lightly. "Oversized hoodies, ponytail, hiding behind your bag. You always said you didn't want people to look at you."
I remember.
I wish I didn't.
"You always carried your weight differently," he continues. "It made you self-conscious."
The words are soft. Casual. Not quite an insult. But not quite not one.
My fingers curl tighter around the script.
"I have a meeting," I say, voice clipped. "I should go."
He smiles like a teacher humoring an anxious student.
"Don't be too harsh on yourself," he says. "Some things are just harder for… sensitive people."
He walks past me without waiting for an answer.
The stone on my chest triples in size.
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I am halfway to the writer's corner when So-ah intercepts.
She always looks camera ready, but today she seems extra curated. White blouse, delicate gold jewelry, clean lines. The expensive kind of simplicity.
"Writer Yoon," she chirps. "You look so cute today. Aqua is really your color."
I force a smile.
"Thank you."
She steps closer, eyes doing a quick scan that feels more like a measurement.
"Did you change stylists," she asks sweetly. "Something feels… different."
My heart skips.
"I dress myself," I say. "No stylist."
"Oh," she says, as if she is impressed. "That's amazing. Most people couldn't pull off silk like that."
Compliment. It is a compliment.
My shoulders relax a fraction.
Then she adds, almost as an afterthought,
"Not everyone can wear silk when they are… curvier. But you really make it work."
The word curvier lands like a drop of ink in clear water.
Spreading. Staining.
My brain translates it instantly into every other thing I have heard or imagined.
Curvier, not like the others.
Curvier, but at least you are trying.
Curvier, so be grateful it is not worse.
I swallow.
"Ah," I manage.
She smiles wider, eyes round, tone apologetic.
"Ah, I hope that didn't sound rude. I just meant, you have presence. The camera loves that. There are so many skinny girls, you know. You stand out."
Stand out.
Wrong kind of spotlight.
"I should check with the director," I say. "We have revisions."
She pats my arm.
"You're doing great," she says. "Don't overthink it."
Too late.
I walk away on legs that feel half a size smaller and twice as heavy.
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The writer's corner is usually my sanctuary.
Today, my chair scrapes louder than usual when I pull it out. The laptop screen feels too reflective. The script pages feel heavier. I sit on the edge instead of relaxing back, as if taking up less space will make everything hurt less.
You always carried your weight differently.
Curvier.
Sensitive people.
Stand out.
"No," I whisper under my breath. "We are not doing this, again. It has been years."
I open the script to the most recent scene.
The words blur.
Voices drift in from the other side of the set. Laughter. Footsteps. The clatter of equipment.
And then the particular cadence of So-ah in polite conversation.
"Hyun-woo sunbae, I was so excited when I saw your name on the call sheet," she says. "I watched your last series twice."
He chuckles.
"You flatter me."
His voice is coming from the hallway beside the writer's corner. I tell myself to focus. My ears do not listen.
"You and Writer Yoon used to date, right," she asks. Light tone. Curious. Sharp.
He exhales like someone recalling a mildly amusing memory.
"She was different back then," he says. "Shyer. More insecure."
My chest tightens.
"Really," she says. "She seems so confident now."
He makes a low sound.
"It is a mask," he says. "She always needed a lot of reassurance. Compared herself to everyone. Sensitive. Emotional."
Like those last two words are flaws that stained him by proximity.
My fingers dig into the edge of the table.
"You must have been very patient," So-ah says.
There is something in her tone I do not like.
"I did what I could," he answers. "But some people just… hang on to things. Old hurts, old habits. Makes it hard for them to move on."
Silence.
Then her voice, a little softer, a little lower.
"Some bodies bruise easier, you know," she says. "They mark faster. Even when the touch is light."
The breath leaves my lungs.
I stand there, frozen just at the corner of the hallway, half concealed by a lighting stand.
They cannot see me.
Their words see me anyway.
Bruise easier.
Sensitive.
Needing reassurance.
Insecure.
I turn away before either of them can step out and catch me eavesdropping on my own autopsy.
My reflection in the blacked out monitor as I pass looks… wrong.
Too much cheek.
Too much curve.
Too much everything.
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For the rest of the morning, I move like a ghost that someone dressed nicely.
I stay on the edges. I angle my body away from people. I hold my script in front of me, my bag on my lap, my laptop against my torso. Always something between me and the room.
I laugh at a joke I do not hear.
I nod at a question I do not process.
Internal monologue:
You are not that girl anymore.
You left her behind.
You are not the insecure twenty-two year old who counted calories and apologies.
Then another thought, poisonous and immediate:
You are just her, in silk.
My stomach twists.
At some point I realize my matcha is still full. I have taken exactly three sips since arriving.
"Writer Yoon, did you eat," the assistant at the corner asks quietly.
"I am not hungry," I say.
It is not a lie. Shame is filling enough.
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Jingyi finds me in the tiny hallway between stage one and stage two, where the soundproofing muffles everyone else's life.
"Hey," he says.
My spine straightens automatically.
He looks tired, hair styled already, emerald jacket half buttoned, eyes soft in a way that makes everything inside me want to fold.
"Hi," I say.
He studies my face for a second longer than usual.
"You look pale," he says.
"I am Korean," I reply. "We are naturally pale."
He does not smile at the joke.
"Did you eat," he asks.
"Later," I say.
His brow creases.
"You said later at breakfast last week," he says. "By the time we wrapped, you were shaking, and nearly passed out from low blood sugar."
"I am fine," I insist.
He leans his shoulder against the wall, blocking part of the hall, but not my exit. A presence, not a barrier.
"Are you cold," he asks.
"No."
"Did someone say something."
The question slices through the air.
I force my face to stay neutral.
"No," I say.
He exhales slowly, like he is counting backwards from ten.
"Su-bin," he says, almost a sigh. "If someone hurt you, you can tell me."
The dangerous part is that I believe him.
The more dangerous part is that believing him makes my throat close.
"I have to check a rewrite," I say. "They are waiting."
I slide past him without touching.
His hand lifts, as if he wants to reach out, then drops.
"Okay," he says quietly.
I walk away.
I can feel his eyes on my back.
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We have a wardrobe check after lunch.
The stylist team pulls actors and key staff one by one onto the small continuity set near the racks. Fluorescent lights. Full length mirrors. Cameras that capture every wrinkle for later.
I hate this area on a good day.
Today is not a good day.
"Writer Yoon," the wardrobe assistant calls. "A quick blouse check on camera two."
I step onto the marked tape.
The monitor shows me in flat, unforgiving light.
Aqua silk, black trousers, hair, face.
All of it.
I stand there, staring at myself, feeling every comment from the morning echo louder.
Insecure. Shyer. Sensitive. Curvier. Mask.
One of the junior stylists squints at the monitor.
"Maybe size up on the blouse," she mutters. "Silk shows every curve. On camera it can… you know… add volume."
The words volume and add feel like they hit me directly, like truck-kun would at this very moment.
Heat flashes up the back of my neck.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
Before I can swallow it down, another voice enters the space.
"She looks perfect."
It is not loud.
It is just absolute.
We all turn.
Jingyi stands just outside the tape line, hands in his pockets, expression calm, gaze locked on the monitor.
"If anything on camera is not flattering," he says, tone still even, "adjust the camera. Not her."
The room goes silent.
The junior stylist's eyes go wide.
"Oh, I… I didn't mean," she stammers. "Writer Yoon, I wasn't saying you look bad. It is just… silk… and lighting…"
"It is fine," I say quickly.
It is not.
"But the blouse is not the problem," he continues, voice still almost gentle. "She looks the way she is supposed to look."
His eyes flick to mine for a split second.
Something in my chest cracks.
The head stylist bows.
"Of course," she says. "We will adjust lighting, not wardrobe."
The assistant bows too, cheeks flushed.
"I am sorry, Writer-nim," she says. "I spoke too casually."
"It is fine," I repeat.
It sounds less convincing this time.
"Thank you," I add, because it feels like the correct line.
I step off the tape, heart pounding.
I do not look at him as I pass.
I still feel the weight of his gaze like a warm coat I am not sure I am allowed to wear.
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By the time the sun starts lowering outside the high windows, I am exhausted from holding myself together.
We finish a blocking rehearsal. The director calls it a day earlier than usual.
I pack my bag mechanically in the writer's corner.
Laptop. Script. Notebook. Pen.
The pen almost slips off the table when I hook the strap over my shoulder.
I catch it just in time.
Small victories.
"Bin-bin."
The sound of that name makes my entire nervous system want to leave my body.
I turn.
Hyun-woo stands in the entrance to the writer's corner, hands in his pockets, like he owns whatever space he walks into.
"Do you have a moment," he asks. "We should talk."
"No," I say.
He laughs, like I have made a charming joke.
"You always were dramatic," he says. "It has been a long time. You look… quiet today."
"Maybe because I am just busy," I reply.
He takes a step closer anyway.
"You are always busy," he says. "You bury yourself in work when you don't want to feel things. You used to do that with me too."
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag.
"Don't psychoanalyze me," I say. "You were not that good at it when we dated. You have not improved."
He smiles in that indulgent way he uses when he wants to make me feel like a child.
"I am just saying, you do not have to be so defensive," he says. "We have history. That does not vanish."
I open my mouth to tell him exactly what can vanish and where he can go to help it along.
A shadow falls between us.
"Is everything okay here."
Jingyi's voice.
He appears at my side so suddenly it feels like he stepped out of the space between heartbeats.
He does not touch me.
Just stands slightly, deliberately, between me and Hyun-woo. Not blocking me entirely, just enough that if I wanted to step back, I could do it behind him.
"We are talking," Hyun-woo says. "Old friends."
"Ex," I say.
The word feels like glass. It still feels better than letting him say anything else.
"Ah, right," Hyun-woo says smoothly. "Ex. She always did like labels."
His gaze slides to Jingyi.
"You must be the new one," he says, tone light, eyes sharp.
The back of my neck prickles.
I want to explain. I want to scream. I want to sink into the floor.
Jingyi's expression does not change.
"If I am anything," he says calmly, "it is whatever she wants me to be."
The sentence lands between us like a quiet thunderclap.
My heart does something complicated and painful.
Hyun-woo laughs softly.
"Careful," he says. "She is sensitive. Needs a lot of looking after. You might get tired."
"Stop talking about me like I am not here," I snap.
Both of them look at me.
I regret raising my voice.
I regret not raising it more.
"I am fine," I say. "This is nothing. He is nothing. I am fine."
The last part comes out too fast.
I hear it the same moment I see it hit.
Hyun-woo's smile tilts, smug at the crack.
Jingyi's eyes change.
They do not go cold.
They go… dim. Like someone turned down the light from inside.
He bows his head slightly.
"Goodnight, Writer Yoon," he says, voice too formal, too distant.
The title lands like a wall between us.
"Jingyi," I say quickly. "Wait, I didn't mean… I just…"
He steps back, just out of reach.
"It is late," he says. "You should get home safe."
He does not look at me when he turns away.
I watch his back as he walks out of the writer's corner, out of my immediate orbit.
The space he leaves feels louder than any shouted argument.
"Still dramatic," Hyun-woo remarks.
I round on him.
"Don't talk to me," I say.
He raises his hands in mock surrender.
"Suit yourself," he says. "Just remember, not everyone will be as patient as I was."
He walks off, whistling under his breath.
I stand alone in the writer's corner, bag strap biting into my shoulder, script digging into my palm.
My reflection in the dark monitor looks back at me.
Aqua blouse.
Curves.
Tired eyes.
Mouth pressed into a line.
"Why did he look like I pushed him away," I whisper.
The monitor does not answer.
"Why does this hurt more than anything you ever did to me," I ask the empty room.
The stone on my chest feels heavier than it has in years.
I take a shaky breath, turn off the monitor, and walk out into the hallway feeling like I have broken something I do not know how to fix.