In those days, your radiant energy turned heads.
You shined so brightly, dreaming of the future.
You probably had no idea.
I looked up, startled, a quiet "Huh?" escaping my lips. I tried to maintain the slight smile I had just moments ago, but I felt a familiar tension settle over the room.
The door opened, and a girl in a white dress walked in. "Just now..." she started.
"What's wrong, Myeong?" the guy in the light blue shirt asked the girl in the white dress.
The girl in the white dress looked back at the door. "I think there was someone outside..."
The guy in the black shirt immediately stood up, his chair scraping the floor. "Oh, really?" He peeked into the hallway.
Well... I don't see anyone in the hallway. He stepped back, shaking his head.
The girl in the white dress gave a nervous laugh. "I must have been mistaken. Sorry..."
"Heh, then let's continue with what we were doing," the guy in the light blue shirt replied.
The girl in the yellow shirt, still focused on the script, tapped her pen. "Okay... Oh! I've been wondering... about this character..."
My heart sank. I knew where this was going
The guy in the black shirt didn't wait for her to finish. He leaned back, directing the conversation—and his judgment—straight at me. "Don't you think she's too negative all the time?"
I kept my eyes on the script, but I felt the weight of their gaze.
The criticism continued, delivered with a casual cruelty. "I don't see any real reason for her to be this way, and it seems like she's changed a lot."
I sat silently, the script feeling heavy in my hands, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. The radiant energy they once praised now just felt like a spotlight under which I was being judged.
Can't she just work harder...?" The guy in the light blue shirt mused, tapping his pen. "Why is she so upset by this?" He looked across the table. "That's the impression I get."
I felt my cheeks flush. He was talking about me, using the character as a shield.
"It's hard for me to understand her emotions... Argh..." the girl in the yellow shirt groaned, tossing her head back.
The guy in the black shirt chuckled lightly, an irritating sound that carried a hint of superiority. "Hahaha. Have you ever experienced a setback in your life that you couldn't overcome, Myeong?" he asked, using my name in an almost rhetorical way.
I blinked, taking a second to compose myself. "Huh? ...Not really, I guess..." I admitted quietly. It was true; I had always pushed through things. I had to
He leaned forward, placing his folded hands on the table, a smug smile plastered across his face. "Yeah, I'm sure you've been able to overcome everything that's come your way." He paused, allowing the implication to hang in the air. "That's why you can't relate to the pathetic, whiny main character."
"OH, IT'S NOT THAT I THOUGHT SHE WAS PATHETIC...!" I burst out, immediately regretting the volume, throwing my hands up in a small panic. My hands trembled slightly as I lowered them.
"...I understand her in my head," I confessed, my voice softer now, "but it's hard to relate on a deeper level."
I rubbed my temple, frustrated. "I'm worried I might not be able to act it out well..."
The guy in the black shirt laughed again, then sat back, crossing his arms. The other two exchanged looks, a wave of familiar, exaggerated admiration washing over them.
"You worry too much!" the girl in the yellow shirt exclaimed.
"You can be crying one second, but once you start acting," the guy in the black shirt insisted, leaning in with a wild grin, "you change just like that!"
"ME!" The guy in the light blue shirt chimed in, equally over-the-top.
"YOU WERE BORN TO DO THIS!" the guy in the black shirt shouted, practically beaming.
"AHHH!" I cried out, covering my flushed face as they erupted into full-blown praise.
"YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER US WHEN YOU BECOME FAMOUS, OKAY?" the girl in the yellow shirt yelled, laughing.
"SHOULD WE GET HER AUTOGRAPH NOW?" the guy in the light blue shirt joked.
I laughed along, a sharp, slightly hysterical sound. "AHH! DON'T TEASE ME! WAH!" The whole table dissolved into a chorus of "HAHA." They were supportive, sure, but their support always felt like an impossible expectation.
(A final frame, a closing thought)
You couldn't have possibly known back then.
(The scene flashes back to the end of the club meeting.)
I was laughing then, a genuine, joyful sound mixed with my flustered plea. "AHH! DON'T TEASE ME! WAH!" The whole table was loud with laughter: "HAHA HAHA HAHA."
"YOU WERE BORN TO DO THIS!" the guy in the black shirt yelled, his eyes wide with pride.
"AHHH!" I responded, covering my face again.
"YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER US WHEN YOU BECOME FAMOUS, OKAY?" the girl in yellow pleaded playfully.
"SHOULD WE GET HER AUTOGRAPH NOW?" the guy in the light blue shirt teased.
I laughed, a bright, sparkling laugh, oblivious to the undercurrents that day.
(A final thought on that moment.)
You couldn't have possibly known back then... that even the glory days come to an end.
Change
(
I stood in the gallery, wearing a quiet blue jacket, staring at a massive photograph on the wall. The subject of the photo was a beautiful girl with long black hair, wearing a high-necked sweater, smiling serenely.
(A close-up of my face now: muted, serious, changed.)
Behind me, I heard hushed whispers.
"She's so pretty."
"WHO IS SHE?"
A couple next to me stopped, admiring the portrait. "She's captivating." the woman said, clasping her hands. "Totally worthy of being Eunmil's muse."
I kept my back to them, my jaw tight. I felt the unfamiliar weight of the admiration, yet also the sharp separation from it.
(A side profile shot, bathed in artificial gallery light.)
The person in the photo was me, but it also wasn't me at all.
(A close-up of my eyes.)
In those photos, I was someone who was unwavering.
I looked at the image, trying to summon the person they saw. The person they praised.
I could understand in my head where that energy might have come from. I could grasp the concept of that former me—the one who shone so brightly and had no idea what was waiting. But she was gone, leaving behind only this celebrated, silent image.
I turned away from the portrait, a quiet dread settling in my chest. What had they expected of me then, and what did they expect now?
In those days, your radiant energy turned heads."
"You shined so brightly, dreaming of the future."
"You probably had no idea."
I stood in the drama club room, the girl in the white dress just having walked in. I watched the guy in the black shirt peer into the hallway. "Well... I don't see anyone in the hallway."
It was a time when I was the center of attention, for better or worse. Later that day, the criticism came: "Don't you think she's too negative all the time? I don't see any real reason for her to be this way, and it seems like she's changed a lot."
I stood now in the gallery, wearing a heavy blue jacket and a guarded expression, staring at the blurry photograph of my past self—the Myeong they knew.
I could understand in my head where that energy might have come from... but I couldn't feel it anymore, deep in my heart.
I looked at the sign: EUNMIL'S MUSE. I looked at the bold character for my name, 明 (light).
How did I change this much?
And who on earth was Eunmil...?
A close-up of my smiling past self flashed in my mind. The one who captured the person I'd forgotten about?
I bowed slightly to the person who was waiting for me near the gallery exit. "...Thank you."
(The scene shifts to the outside of a building, possibly a dorm or apartment complex.)
I finally met the person I was there to see. She immediately scolded me, her gaze sharp. "You're late, and you even didn't call. And what happened to you, anyway? Are you sure you're here to clean?"
I shifted my bag. "I got caught in the rain on my way here... I'm sorry."
She narrowed her eyes, unmoved. "Rain? I expected better from you." She sighed, the tension in her expression only slightly softening. "I'm letting it go just this once."
After running away from the exhibition, things still didn't feel real. The person in the photo felt like a ghost, and the current me felt like an imposter.
I stood in the brightly lit room—a simple room cluttered with boxes and children's toys—and adjusted the jacket I wore.
It felt like I had lost all of myself.
I was still standing on my own two feet, but the core of the bright, radiant girl they had captured was simply gone, replaced by someone else entirely.
Internal Monologue/Flashback)
In those days, your radiant energy turned heads. The memory of that person, my past self, was a blur of confidence and light. You shined so brightly, dreaming of the future. I looked down, my present gaze fixed on the script. You probably had no idea.
I looked up, startled. "Huh?"
The girl in the white dress stood in the doorway, her smile fading. "Just now..." she said. The guy in the light blue shirt, holding his script, looked over his shoulder. "What's wrong, Myeong?"
The girl in the white dress replied, "I think there was someone outside..." The guy in the black shirt immediately stood and went to the door. "Oh, really?" He peered out. "Well... I don't see anyone in the hallway." He closed the door.
The girl in the white dress managed a nervous chuckle. "I must have been mistaken. Sorry..."
The girl in the yellow shirt leaned forward, pen in hand.
"Okay... Oh! I've been wondering... about this character..."
The scrutiny began, directed at me but masked as script discussion. "Don't you think she's too negative all the time?" the guy in the light blue shirt asked, tapping his pen. "I don't see any real reason for her to be this way, and it seems like she's changed a lot."
"Can't she just work harder...?" he continued. "Why is she so upset by this? That's the impression I get."
The girl in the yellow shirt groaned in agreement. "It's hard for me to understand her emotions... Argh..."
The guy in the black shirt chuckled, a superior sound. "Hahaha. Have you ever experienced a setback in your life that you couldn't overcome, Myeong?" he asked me.
I swallowed, the warmth on my face turning to a hot flush. "Huh? ...Not really, I guess..."
He nodded, leaning in. "Yeah, I'm sure you've been able to overcome everything that's come your way. That's why you can't relate to the pathetic, whiny main character."
"OH, IT'S NOT THAT I THOUGHT SHE WAS PATHETIC...!" I nearly shouted, throwing my hands up in a small, panicked gesture. I quickly calmed my voice. "...I understand her in my head, but it's hard to relate on a deeper level." I rubbed my forehead. "I'm worried I might not be able to act it out well..."
The moment of vulnerability was instantly swept away by a tidal wave of exaggerated praise.
"You worry too much!"
"You can be crying one second, but once you start acting, you change just like that!"
"ME!"
"YOU WERE BORN TO DO THIS!" he yelled, his face ecstatic.
I covered my face, laughing a sharp, slightly hysterical laugh. "AHH! DON'T TEASE ME! WAH!"
"YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER US WHEN YOU BECOME FAMOUS, OKAY?"
"SHOULD WE GET HER AUTOGRAPH NOW?"
I smiled brightly for the camera's imaginary snap. You couldn't have possibly known back then.
(Present Day: The Cleaning Job)
Which one is the real me?
The girl in the white t-shirt and bright smile, or the one in the cleaning apron, ponytail pulled tight, standing in this pastel-colored room filled with childish things?
I stood in the large, bright room, ready to clean. I adjusted the ponytail high on my head, an echo of the drama room days, but this time for work, not performance. I put on the blue apron.
(Late at night, at the apartment complex 105.)
I stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching the guy in the bed—the one with the glasses and ponytail from the drama club, who now lived with me. He was turned away, his back to me.
"...You sleeping?" I asked quietly.
"Yeah." he mumbled.
"We need to talk."
He shifted, lifting an arm to shield his eyes from the light of the room. He didn't turn around. "I have to leave early tomorrow."
After a moment of tense silence, he muttered, the question muffled by his arm. "Isn't it too early to go to bed?"
He still hadn't looked at me. The bright, confident light of the club room was gone, replaced by a suffocating darkness. I stood there, trapped between the ghost of the girl he praised and the tired person he now ignored.
The silence in the bedroom was heavier than the darkness. He hadn't moved since muttering, "Isn't it too early to go to bed?"
I pushed off the doorframe and walked closer to the foot of the bed. "I told you, we need to talk."
He finally shifted, turning his head slightly on the pillow so I could just see his profile. His voice was laced with annoyance, every syllable a sigh. "About what, I? Is this about cleaning that damn room again?"
"No," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "It's about everything. It's about how you haven't looked at me all day. It's about how I saw that photo of myself in the gallery—the 'muse'—and realized I don't even know who that person is anymore."
He rolled onto his back and glared up at the ceiling, then turned his head toward me, his glasses reflecting the dim light from the hallway. "What do you want me to say? That you're not the same person? We all know that."
A sharp, electric pain shot through my chest. "You used to call me 'born for this.' You said I was brilliant."
"You were brilliant," he corrected, emphasizing the past tense.
"The Myeong in those photos was. The one who could separate the real I from the performance I. The one who could push through anything. But you just seem... tired now. And honestly, it makes things harder for everyone."
He sat up suddenly, his expression intense and unforgiving. "I'm trying to make a name for myself. I'm busy. And I don't have time to hold your hand while you figure out why you can't be that energetic girl anymore."
I took a shaky breath. "But I'm here. I'm cleaning for you. I'm still trying."
He fell back onto the pillow, turning away from me again. "Just... let me sleep. We'll talk later."
The rejection was absolute. I stood frozen in the dim light, staring at the uncompromising line of his back. The radiant energy he once praised was now just a memory, and the current reality was a cold, lonely performance I couldn't seem to win.
I turned and walked out of the room. The hallway was dark, but the fluorescent lights of the kitchen seemed almost painfully bright. I was still Myeong, still I, but I was living in the shadow of a girl who no longer existed, performing a life that wasn't mine.
I stood for a long moment, staring at the closed bedroom door, the barrier between his exhausted indifference and my frantic attempt at connection. My jaw ached. We all know that. His words echoed, sharp and cold. He didn't just reject me; he rejected the tired, imperfect version I had become.
I finally turned away, the soundless movement amplifying the emptiness of the apartment. I walked into the kitchen, the overly bright fluorescent light casting harsh, sterile shadows. I felt like a performance artist who had forgotten all her lines, the brilliant spotlight of the past replaced by this flat, white glare.
I opened the refrigerator, not for food, but for the sheer act of movement. The interior light flashed on, illuminating nothing of interest. I leaned against the counter, the cool surface doing nothing to ease the frantic pulse in my veins.
He said the Myeong in those photos was brilliant. The one who could separate the real I from the performance I.
The memory of the drama club, the shouting laughter, the ridiculous, impossible praise—"YOU WERE BORN TO DO THIS!"—felt like a cruel trick. I had been performing then, too, but I didn't know it. I thought that boundless energy was the real me. Now, the mask was gone, and no one wanted to look at what was underneath.
I went to the utility closet and pulled out the large, empty laundry hamper. I walked back into the living space, where the reality of my cleaning job now seemed less a source of income and more a symbol of my reduced state. I was the maid, the supporting character, sweeping up the mess of a life that was supposed to be grand.
I opened the hamper and tossed my small, worn day bag inside, the soft thump barely audible. I closed the lid. It felt like I was closing the lid on a part of myself, sealing away the exhausted woman who had just been rejected.
I walked to the window. Outside, the world was dark and quiet. I rested my forehead against the cool glass.
I was still standing on my own two feet, but it felt like I had lost all of myself.
The old Myeong was a bright, dazzling lie. The current I was a silent, aching truth. And in the gap between them, my life had disappeared.
The alarm screamed at 5:30 AM. I was already awake.
I stood by the window, watching the false dawn bleed a weak gray into the sky. His words from last night—"You're not the same person... We all know that."—had chased sleep away. He didn't want the current I; he only wanted the Myeong from the photographs, the muse who could perform happiness on demand.
I moved quietly, retrieving my small, worn day bag from the laundry hamper where I'd tossed it. It held only what I needed: ID, phone, and the worn script from the club days, a relic of the time before the spotlight became a cage.
I glanced toward the bedroom. The door was still closed. He was getting the extra sleep he needed for his own "busy" life. I wasn't going to wake him. I wasn't going to ask for permission, or even say goodbye.
I walked into the kitchen and saw the small, white Post-it note I'd placed on the counter. The note was simple: "I'm leaving."
I took a final, deep breath of the air in the apartment—the air heavy with his ambition and my stifled existence.
Then, I opened the front door.
The Dividing Line
(A final, internal reflection as I step out.)
The person in the photo was me, but it also wasn't me at all. That Myeong had the strength to overcome anything, but only because she didn't know the true cost of failure.
I closed the door softly behind me.
I pulled the collar of my jacket high against the morning chill. I didn't have a plan, only the certainty that the space between the radiant energy of the past and the tired reality of the present could no longer be my home.
I looked up at the sign for the apartment complex, 105. It was just a number. It wasn't the stage where I was born to perform.
I walked down the steps. I was still standing on my own two feet. Maybe I had lost the famous Myeong, but for the first time in a long time, I felt the faint, unfamiliar stir of the real I.
I walked toward the street, ready to find out who she was.
finally slowed down, leaning against a low wall, gulping air. My mind was still reeling from the past few days: the criticism at the club, the rejection at the gallery, and the final, brutal confrontation with the guy I lived with.
As I struggled to catch my breath, I looked up. Standing in front of me, leaning against a building, was another person from the old days. It was the guy with the black shirt and glasses, the one who had led the criticism during the script reading. He was the only person present who wasn't the guy I just left. He looked up, startled, catching my eyes.
He stepped back quickly, pulling his hands into the pockets of his jacket, an expression of utter surprise, perhaps even guilt, freezing on his face.
"Myeong?" he whispered, using the name only the old I answered to.
My stomach dropped. Just as I thought I had broken free of the past, here was a direct, living remnant.
He quickly collected himself, smoothing his expression into a familiar, practiced neutrality. "...Is everything alright?" he asked, his voice low, looking from my distressed face to my small bag.
I stood up straight, trying to summon the unwavering composure they had always admired, even if it was a lie. I had to continue the performance, just one last time.
"Yes, everything's fine." I forced the words out, my voice tight. "I just needed to clear my head."
I pushed off the wall and started walking past him, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead. The moment felt like the final, fragile divide between the girl he knew and the woman I was trying to become. I didn't slow down, didn't look back.
The brilliant Myeong is gone, I thought, the thought a silent, fierce declaration. This is just I. And I is walking away.
Myeong was sitting on her bed, checking her phone. An alert popped up, indicating a new email. She initially wondered if it was "More spam?" since she looked somewhat resigned when first looking at the notification.
However, the email was from Metaphor Entertainment. The subject and opening line were direct: "Dear 明 [Myeong/Light], we saw your photo exhibition." The email continued, addressing her as "...Dear Myeong. We were endlessly captivated by your charm, and would love to meet the muse in person..."
The sender's name—Metaphor Entertainment—made her pause. She questioned the name aloud: "METAPHOR ENTERTAINMENT...?" Myeong's face registered a clear shock and a hint of tears welling up as she processed the message.
A Major Agency
The panels reveal the significance of the sender: "THE UNEXPECTED E-MAIL WAS FROM AN AGENCY THAT MANAGED THE COUNTRY'S TOP ACTORS."
This highly prestigious agency was extending an invitation to meet her, which clearly stunned Myeong. The news was so momentous that it was given a final, electrifying detail: their roster of talent "INCLUDING YENA BAN."
The last panel leaves Myeong sitting in her room, absorbing the fact that an elite entertainment agency wants to meet her following her photo exhibition, which hints at a major turning point in her life regarding her "RELATIONSHIP, AND ACTING."
The story is left TO BE CONTINUED, with the art and story credited to SOOJIN.
This encounter suggests Myeong, whose name translates to "Light" or "明," may be on the verge of a life-changing entry into the entertainment industry as a result of her photography.
Do you want to know more about the story's setting or the character Myeong?