The camera panned to the visuals — a man standing beneath rain, back turned, red hair glinting faintly. It was an ad for Jung Enterprise.
My throat tightened. Jung. Dae-hyun's company.
I hadn't seen his face in years, but even that voiceover — that was his tone. That quiet, grounded kind of strength that always made me feel like a storm beside him.
The applause roared around me, but I couldn't hear it. My pulse thundered in my ears.
The screen flashed again — Winner: Jung Enterprise Commercial — Director: Jung Dae-hyun.
The audience clapped politely as the announcer said, "Unfortunately, Mr. Jung could not attend tonight."
Of course he didn't. He never liked crowds.
My manager leaned toward me, whispering, "Small world, huh? The CEO's name's the same as your ex's."
I couldn't breathe. I forced a smile, my voice barely steady. "Yeah. Must be a coincidence."
"Woo-jin, you okay?" she asked, frowning.
"Fine," I lied. "Just… thinking."
Thinking about the way his name still burned like salt in an open wound.
The ceremony dragged on. My segment came near the end. I walked on stage, script in hand, applause ringing in my ears.
"Good evening," I began, smiling into the spotlight. "I'm Kang Woo-jin, and I'm honored to present the award for Best Director."
My voice sounded fine — smooth, practiced, charismatic. No one would guess that my palms were sweating, that I was trembling inside.
As I read through the teleprompter, my gaze flickered toward the audience — all those faces looking up at me, believing the illusion.
The words blurred.
Suddenly, I saw him — or thought I did — sitting near the back, dressed in a dark suit, eyes unreadable. My chest constricted.
It wasn't him. It couldn't be. But for one agonizing moment, I wanted it to be.
"Woo-jin?" the stage assistant whispered, panic in her eyes. "You skipped a line."
I blinked. My mouth had gone dry. "Ah—sorry."
A ripple of polite laughter moved through the audience. I forced another charming grin, finished the lines, handed out the award, and left the stage to thunderous applause.
But inside, I was unraveling.
Backstage, I collapsed against the wall, trying to steady my breathing. My manager rushed over. "What the hell happened out there? You looked like you saw a ghost."
"Maybe I did," I whispered.
"Woo-jin—"
I turned away before she could say more. "I need air."
Outside, the night was cold. The moon hung heavy over the city, pale and cruel. I loosened my tie and exhaled shakily.
My reflection stared back at me in the glass doors — perfect, composed, empty.
I pressed a hand to my chest. "Dae…"
The name felt strange on my tongue, like a prayer I wasn't supposed to say.
"Are you happy now?" I whispered to the night. "You built your empire. You're free. You forgot me."
The wind carried no answer.
The door slammed behind me as I stumbled into the apartment — or what passed for one.
Empty bottles on the counter, a few scripts I never finished reading, the faint smell of stale cologne and exhaustion.
Home.
I laughed bitterly at the thought.
What a joke.
I dropped the trophy they'd given me on the table — not mine, someone else's, some "thank-you-for-presenting" nonsense — and yanked off my tie, tossing it somewhere into the dark. My reflection in the window looked like a stranger. Hair perfect, makeup smudged, eyes hollow.
The city glittered below, so alive it made me sick.
I poured whiskey into a glass, hands shaking. "Cheers," I muttered to no one, raising it slightly before taking a long, burning swallow.
It didn't help. Nothing ever did.
I sank onto the couch, staring at nothing. The silence was deafening.
Every tick of the clock felt like a reminder that I was still breathing — and I didn't even know why.
"Two years," I whispered. "It's been two goddamn years."
Two years since Dae-hyun walked out.
Two years since that last argument, when he'd said it so calmly it tore me apart.
"You're exhausting, Woo-jin. Everything with you is a performance."
I laughed now, the sound cracked and ugly. "You were right, Dae. That's all I am. A performance."
I poured another drink, slamming it down in one swallow. The glass clinked against the table, unsteady.
"I hated the silence after you left." My voice trembled, barely above a whisper. "But now it's all I have. Maybe that's what I deserve."
I leaned back, head resting against the couch, staring at the ceiling. "You used to call me a mess. Said I was like a storm that couldn't stop moving. And you… you were always…
A shaky breath left me. My eyes burned.
"Do you know what it's like, Dae?" I murmured. "To wake up every morning hoping you'll text? To stare at every pink sunrise and wonder if you still hate that color because of my hair?"
My lips twisted into a broken smile. "You probably do."
The alcohol buzzed through me, warm and cruel. The words kept spilling out — confessions I'd never dared say sober.
"I thought I could hate you too. I really did. Told myself you were cold, heartless, and selfish. But I was the one who made you like that. I pushed you away until you stopped caring."
My vision blurred. I wiped my eyes roughly, but it was no use.
"You said you needed peace," I whispered, voice cracking. "Guess I wasn't part of that peace, huh?"
The room was spinning slightly now, shadows swaying with the light.
"Everyone says I've changed," I said softly. "That I've matured, that fame looks good on me. But all it did was teach me how to pretend better."
A dry laugh escaped my throat. "I can cry in front of cameras now, Dae. Isn't that ironic? I couldn't cry when you left — I just stood there like a fool, letting you walk out. But now—"
The words cut off as my chest tightened. My breath came out uneven, my throat burning.
"But now I can't stop."
Tears finally broke free — hot, uncontrollable, spilling down my face. I pressed a hand against my mouth, muffling the sobs that tore through me. My shoulders shook violently.
"I miss you," I gasped between breaths. "God, I miss you so much."
Every part of me ached. My heart, my chest, even my hands that used to hold him like he was the only thing keeping me alive.
"I wasn't good enough," I whispered. "I never was. You were kind. And I was just noise."
The glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor, but I didn't move.
"I thought if I worked harder, became better, maybe you'd notice me again. Maybe you'd see me on some screen and think, 'That's the man I used to love.' But you probably change the channel."
A bitter smile tugged at my lips. "And you'd be right to."
Every beat felt like a punishment.
"Maybe I deserve this," I whispered. "To miss you more than you'll ever miss me."
The silence that followed was unbearable. So I kept talking — to the air, to the ghost of him that lingered in this room.
"You said I was too much," I murmured. "Too clingy. Too loud. Too emotional. I tried to change, Dae. I really did. But every time I look in the mirror, I still see the idiot who begged you to stay."
My voice broke completely. "You said I'd find someone better. But how? How do you replace the only person who ever made you feel real?"
The sobs came harder, uncontrollable now. I buried my face in my hands, shaking.
"I'm sorry," I cried. "I'm sorry for everything I said, everything I did. I just wanted you to love me. I didn't know how to love without breaking things."
The minutes blurred. Maybe hours. I didn't know anymore.
Eventually, I curled up on the couch, empty glass forgotten, cheeks wet, chest hollow.
"Goodnight, Dae," I whispered into the dark, voice barely audible. "Even if you don't remember me… I'll remember enough for both of us."
My eyelids grew heavy. The last thing I saw before sleep claimed me was the faint reflection of the city lights on the window — bright, distant, and heartbreakingly familiar.
Like him.