"Oh yeah, the laundry." I paused mid-step, my eyes wide as the thought hit me. I was on a roll, having just finished scrubbing the bathroom floor. The whole apartment sparkled. "Now I just have to mop, get groceries... what else?"
I gave a satisfied little "okay" sign to myself. I had been spending the morning running about excitedly. My place, the apartment in building 105, actually looked like a hotel. I was wearing my blue apron, the one that said "TIDY CLEANERS," and feeling a proud, almost foolish joy.
And as a result...
"Looks like a hotel," I murmured, a wide smile spreading across my face. It felt so good to finally have everything spotless.
I stood by the freshly made bed. "Phew." I smoothed a hand over the duvet, thinking of the reason for all the frenetic cleaning.
"Hyeonjae's coming back today."
I sighed, a complex feeling of relief and anxiety washing over me. "Our relationship had been at its lowest just a few days ago... but the time away from each other had put a lull in the fighting." The bed was so smooth, so pristine, like a new beginning.
A Few Hours Earlier
The day had started with the last lingering shadows of our argument.
I flashed back to a bar, the dim lights, the clinking of glasses. I wasn't there, but the memory of the conversation, the emotional weight of it, felt close. A friend, the guy with the glasses and the cap, was leaning in, looking intensely emotional, sweat beading on his skin. He was asked a heavy question, one that echoed the uncertainty in my own relationship.
"Do you still feel the same about her as you did back then?"
He looked panicked, overwhelmed, struggling for a response. "I..."
The conversation continued, the question hanging in the air, not just for him, but for me, too, for what Hyeonjae and I had been through.
"...What about now?"
The memory faded, bringing me back to my apartment and the mountain of chores.
That heavy feeling of doubt and conflict had been the undercurrent of my days.
"That's been bothering me for a few days..." I thought, looking past my shoulder at the striped shirt draped carelessly over the back of a chair. The visual clutter of the forgotten laundry had been a small symbol of the messier parts of our life. It felt good to finally be getting everything in order before Hyeonjae walked through the door. I just hoped the clean apartment was a symbol of a clean slate for us, too.
I carried the striped shirt to the bed, the last piece of laundry that had been bothering me. I held it up to my face and closed my eyes.
Sniff, sniff.
"Hyeonjae's scent..."
Taking in his familiar scent, I sat down on the bed, holding the shirt close. "...Hyeonjae."
It was a powerful anchor, a reminder of him, of us. As I lay back and held his shirt, I remembered something that I'd forgotten about. Lying there, gazing up at the ceiling, I began to question my frantic cleaning and my underlying anxieties.
"Why was I having such a hard time, and what was I in such a rush for?"
I'd been so fixated on making our apartment perfect, a flawless space to welcome him back, but the real heart of the matter wasn't the dust. A sudden realization washed over me. "Maybe I don't have to be a celebrated artist's muse."
The Memory of the Script
My mind drifted back to a day under a tree, bathed in the soft glow of cherry blossoms. Hyeonjae and I were sitting on the grass. He handed me a script, the cover simply marked "UNKNOWN."
"You wrote this script, Hyeonjae?" I remembered asking, my voice full of surprise.
"Yeah," he replied, looking a little shy.
I held the papers tightly, my excitement bubbling up. "Wow!! It was so good, I read the whole thing in one sitting yesterday. I could really feel the main character's melancholy, and it pulled me in!"
I looked at him, my expression earnest. "I love your writing. It's tender, yet there's a loneliness to it..."
He blushed, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. He wore his glasses and the cap, but his expression was soft, a stark contrast to the guarded look he often had.
"I'm embarrassed, hearing all this praise. Thanks, Myeong," he said.
"Of course. But I'm serious!" I insisted.
That was the Hyeonjae I remembered—the talented writer, the one whose inner world I felt so connected to. That was the relationship I fought for, not the one weighed down by messy arguments and expectations. My anxiety about cleaning and making things "hotel-perfect" was just a distraction from the real issue: forgetting the core connection that made us work.
I let go of the breath I'd been holding, the smell of his shirt a reassurance. I didn't need a perfect apartment; I needed us to remember our real story.
Past
My compliment made Hyeonjae drop his gaze. He looked distant, almost a little sad, as he confessed, "Even until last year, I found it difficult... to access my innermost emotions..."
I offered him a gentle, reassuring smile, the cherry blossoms falling around us like tender confetti. "...But now I think I'm starting to understand."
I meant it. Being with him, sharing a life, had cracked open a world of feelings I'd only read about.
He looked up, meeting my eyes with a question. "Then do you wanna keep it?"
I was caught off guard. "Oh, I didn't mean that I wanted to keep the script..."
He chuckled softly at my flustered reaction, but then my thoughts returned to the story itself.
"I'd really like to try this kind of acting someday," I admitted, imagining myself bringing his complex characters to life.
Hyeonjae leaned back against the tree trunk, a pensive look on his face. "You know... I saw this comic once."
He began to tell me about it, his eyes lighting up as he talked about his inspiration. "It was about a boy and a girl who were dreamers."
He continued, his voice growing soft and sure. "On the day of their graduation, they make a promise. That the girl will act in the boy's first project."
My heart swelled at the beautiful simplicity of the promise.
Hyeonjae watched me, his gaze intense. "And if their dream were to come true..."
He paused, a tiny, poignant silence hanging between us. Then his gaze became deep, almost a little intense, the kind of look that went right through to my soul, as he finished the thought.
"...so would their love."
I looked at him, realizing that the story wasn't just about some characters—it was a blueprint for us. That feeling, the hope and promise of that day, was what I needed to hold onto, not the temporary messiness of a dirty apartment. We had a dream, and that dream was what would make our love endure.
The thought of the dream we shared was intoxicating. Hyeonjae and I were sitting under the falling cherry blossoms, the script for "UNKNOWN" between us.
"Someday, you'll be an actor... and I'll be a director," he said, the idea filling the air with hope. "I think about that future a lot these days."
He then gently took my hands, holding the script with me. "How nice it would be if you could be the star of the first film I direct. So I want you to hold onto this."
My eyes grew wide. "What? Hyeonjae..."
Then came the stunning confession. "I wrote this script for you."
My cheeks flushed, and my eyes felt wet. I looked at him, overwhelmed. Hyeonjae was so earnest, his smile soft and warm.
"People only see the happy, bubbly side of you, but... I sense melancholy from you." He spoke with such certainty, recognizing a part of me I often hid. He continued, his voice husky with affection, "I want to capture all of you in my camera."
He took a deep breath, looking almost bashful. "It's a little embarrassing to say this out loud... since it sounds so scripted, but..."
He leaned in, his gaze burning with genuine emotion. "You're my muse. Myeong."
My mind spun. "Hyeonjae..." I could barely form the word. This was the true core of our relationship, the foundation of our love: his ability to see me, truly see me, and his desire to capture that vision in his art.
I tightened my grip on the script. This wasn't just a promise for a film; it was a promise for our future.
"Let's do that," I said, my voice firm with renewed determination. "Someday when you're a director and I'm an actor..."
My memory of that perfect, blossoming day was a powerful wave, washing away the doubt of the last few days. I was holding the script, "UNKNOWN," and my heart was racing with the old, familiar rush of hope.
"Let's be together," I whispered, leaning in closer, the scent of cherry blossoms mixing with his subtle cologne.
Hyeonjae's eyes, behind his glasses, were wide and shining. His cheeks were a deep, beautiful red.
"We don't have to wait until then," I said, challenging his idea of waiting for our dreams to be achieved. My hands reached up to cup his face. "I like you, and I admire you, Hyeonjae."
I didn't give him a chance to respond. I simply closed the final distance between us and kissed him.
The kiss was soft, tender, and electric. When we finally pulled back, he was breathless, a shy, happy smile playing on his lips.
"Thanks, Myeong," he murmured.
He cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts, his eyes reflecting the clear blue sky. "Alright, Myeong. And once we achieve our dreams... let's take this script and turn it into a movie. It's a promise."
He extended his hand, and I took it, sealing the pact.
Present
I would hold onto this script, this promise, and this beautiful connection until the day we made that dream a reality. The "melancholy" he saw in me wasn't a flaw; it was the depth he loved and wanted to show the world. That was worth fighting for.
Suddenly, the image of his face, sweaty and panicked under the dim bar lights, resurfaced in my mind. He was struggling to answer the question, "Do you still feel the same about her as you did back then?" and then, "...What about now?"
I saw my own self in the present, sitting on my perfectly made bed, wearing my "TIDY CLEANERS" apron, holding his shirt and the script. The script was more than just a dream; it was the foundation of our connection.
I looked down at the paper, then back up at the door, expecting him any minute.
"Hyeonjae..." I whispered to the empty room, clutching the script he wrote for me.
The anxiety was still there, a knot in my stomach, but it was overshadowed by a deep, essential truth I had just remembered. The perfect, clean apartment, the lack of fighting—none of it mattered as much as this.
"...we're still the same as we were back then, right?" I asked the silence, reaffirming our promise, our love, and our shared future. The Tidy Cleaners apron was just a job, but being his muse, and him being my director, that was our true relationship. I felt ready for him to come home now.
The memory of our promise under the cherry blossoms had warmed my chest, but reality was a jarring chill. I was still sitting on our now-immaculate bed, the "TIDY CLEANERS" apron a ridiculous contrast to the powerful emotions I was feeling.
"Hyeonjae's coming back today," I'd told myself excitedly, smoothing the duvet until it was perfectly smooth. I'd spent the morning running about, bursting with energy because the apartment looks like a hotel. I'd been so proud.
But that frantic cleaning was just a shield. I knew the truth: "Our relationship had been at its lowest just a few days ago... but the time away from each other had put a lull in the fighting." Taking in the familiar scent from his shirt, I had to admit the frantic rush was fueled by fear.
"Why was I having such a hard time, and what was I in such a rush for?" I asked the silence of the room. It dawned on me as I lay back, clutching the cloth to my chest: "Maybe I don't have to be a celebrated artist's muse."
I didn't need to be perfect. I just needed to be the Myeong he saw when he wrote his script, the one with the quiet melancholy he vowed to capture. I held the script he gave me, the one titled "UNKNOWN."
We'd kissed beneath the falling blossoms, a moment of pure, hopeful passion. "We don't have to wait until then," I'd said, making the first move. "I like you, and I admire you, Hyeonjae. Let's be together." He'd smiled, a perfect, bashful smile, and I knew in that moment he meant it when he said, "I'll always love you."
Yet, the memory of that day warred with the memory of the few hours earlier: the dimly lit bar, the anxious look on my friend's face, sweating as he was asked, "Do you still feel the same about her as you did back then?" and then, chillingly, "...What about now?" I saw my own Hyeonjae's panicked face in that moment, the one who didn't know how to answer.
A Dangerous Arrival
The present intruded violently. I was pulled out of my thoughts by the cold, harsh light of the evening.
Down on the street near building 105, a taxi pulled up, its light a small splash of red against the dark pavement. From the back of the cab, I saw Hyeonjae and another friend, their figures illuminated by the streetlamps.
Hyeonjae was hunched over, holding his phone to his ear, his face etched with frustration and a dark concern. "Sigh... why isn't anyone answering their phone...?"
He was looking down at a figure leaning against him—a girl in a yellow sweater, her head resting heavily on his shoulder. She looked unconscious or deeply passed out.
"Yena, get a hold of yourself," someone—a friend perhaps—was saying, trying to keep her upright.
Hyeonjae's face was a mask of worry and resignation. "I made it back to my neighborhood, but I can't really take her home like this... Man..."
The girl, Yena, was clearly in bad shape, and Hyeonjae had brought her to my building. The memory of our perfect promise, of our clean slate, shattered. The fighting had stopped while he was away, but the complications, the emotional mess, had just arrived on our doorstep.
I gripped the script tighter, the word Hyeonjae a silent accusation in my mind. What was I going to do now?
A wave of nausea hit me. I had just finished my frantic cleaning, holding onto the promise of a fresh start, only to witness Hyeonjae arriving with another woman passed out in a taxi outside our building.
The Truth Arrives
I scrambled off the bed, clutching the script he had written for me. He was standing on the pavement, his phone to his ear, his tired face illuminated by the harsh taxi light. I watched in a terrible silence as he wrestled with the problem of Yena's unconscious form.
Don't you dare, I thought, a cold, hard knot forming in my stomach. Don't bring her here.
I saw his friend, who was trying to keep Yena steady, speak to him. It looked like they were arguing about what to do with her. The friend then made a call, clearly failing to reach anyone.
Hyeonjae dropped his hand from his phone, his expression defeated, and looked toward the apartment building. Our building. Building 105.
"Yena's phone is dead, and no one is picking up their phone," he grumbled to his friend.
I knew what that meant. In the face of a crisis, when he couldn't get help from others, he was coming to me. He was bringing the mess right to the "hotel" I had worked so hard to create.
I watched him as he started walking toward the door, carrying Yena, who was still draped over his shoulder, her yellow sweater a splash of color against the dark night. His friend followed close behind. I could practically hear his tired sigh.
He's bringing her up.
I swallowed the scream that caught in my throat. I couldn't just stand there and let him walk into the clean space with this problem. I bolted out of my thoughts and out the door.
When he reached the landing, he saw me. I was standing there, blocking the hallway, my eyes blazing with all the forgotten hurt of the past few days.
"Hyeonjae," I said, my voice dangerously flat. I pointed a trembling finger at the unconscious woman hanging off him. "Who is that?".
His eyes, framed by his glasses, widened in panic. His breath hitched as he tried to find an excuse. "Myeong, look, that's...".
"No, don't tell me," I cut him off, the cold realization hitting me. My hands clenched around the script, crumpling the promise he'd written.
I pointed down the hall, my voice rising in a sharp, desperate shriek. "You don't get to bring her here, Hyeonjae!".
The dream of the perfect, clean slate—of the director and the actor, of the love that would endure—all of it felt like ash in my mouth. He was here, but he didn't come back to me. He came back to his problems.
"You don't get to bring her here, Hyeonjae!" I shrieked, my voice echoing off the sterile walls of the apartment hallway. The sight of him standing there, burdened with an unconscious woman, was a physical blow.
Hyeonjae's eyes darted between me and the girl draped over his shoulder, a look of desperate panic on his face. "Myeong, listen to me—it's not what you think!"
"Not what I think?" My laugh was bitter and strained, more a cough than a sound. I took a menacing step closer, pointing a trembling finger at the poor girl. "Who. Is. That?"
He seemed incapable of a coherent answer, his face contorting with worry and fatigue. He took his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose, and let out a defeated sigh.
"She's a friend from my crew... Yena," he mumbled, avoiding my gaze.
A friend. A friend he couldn't even manage to take to her own apartment, so he brought her to ours, on the day he was supposed to come home and find a clean slate. My eyes narrowed.
"I don't care if she's the Queen of England!" I spat, my voice cracking. "You don't get to—"
My hands, still clutching the script he had written for me, tightened into fists, crumpling the pages of "UNKNOWN". That symbol of our future, our dream, was being destroyed in my own hands. I looked down at the ruined paper, then back up at him. I couldn't bear the reality of what his return had brought.
"Take her somewhere else!" I screamed, finally letting the full force of my anger and disappointment tear through the silence.
I was tired of being the anchor for his messes. I was done cleaning up the emotional debris of his life outside of our home. I wanted the Hyeonjae who wrote beautiful, melancholy stories, not the one who dragged home his problems on his shoulder. I wanted the promise back.