Chapter 5c Smoke Signals
Smoke Signals
The streets of Seoul are quiet, mostly empty, save for the occasional hum of a distant car. I swing my bag over my shoulder, that mix of “I really should go back” and “maybe I shouldn’t” buzzing in my chest.
I could go back to my apartment, back to Shin and his calm, quietly exasperated presence, and let him fix everything in his usual, infuriatingly efficient way.
Or…
My mind drifts back to Suho. To the pull he always seems to have—reckless, magnetic, a little dangerous.
Part of me still wants that.
Part of me knows better.
So I don’t go back. I turn and walk, my feet carrying me through the quiet, sleeping streets of Mapo-gu until I’m standing in front of a familiar, unassuming apartment building.
My aunt’s apartment smells like home-cooked food and a quiet, uncomplicated life I’ve only ever seen in dramas. It’s small, a little cluttered, every surface covered in either a doily or a framed photo of a cousin I barely recognize. For the moment, it’s feels like the safest place on Earth.
She opens the door in her housecoat, hair in soft rollers, and doesn’t even glance at me, despite it being nearly midnight. She notices the dark circles under my eyes, the frown on my lips, and ushers me in without a single question.
She presses a warm mug of barley tea into my hands and starts cutting up a pear.
My aunt’s love language has always been unsolicited fruit—and, rare as it is, she never treats me like a celebrity.
No photos, no requests, no expectations.
Just her quiet, ordinary life, offered freely, and it’s enough.
“You look thin,” she says, pushing the plate of perfectly sliced pear toward me.
“I’m fine, Imo,” I say, the lie tasting flimsy.
“She called, you know,” she says, her voice casual, but her eyes are fixed on me, gauging my reaction. I don’t have to ask who she is. “Just to ask. She saw the news.”
My mother. A ghost who lives in Jeju and occasionally sends out smoke signals through my aunt.
“What did you tell her?” I ask, my voice carefully neutral.
“I told her you were strong. That you have good people around you.” She pauses, her gaze pointed. “Do you? Have good people?”
The question hangs in the air. I think of Shin, a man so good he’s practically a human weighted blanket. I think of Suho, a beautiful, glorious dumpster fire I can’t seem to stop running toward.
Good people? Absolutely. The right people to help me figure out who I am without a script? The jury’s still very much out.
“I think…” I start, the words feeling new and strange on my tongue. “I think I need to be alone for a while.”
My aunt just nods, as if this is the most logical conclusion in the world. “You can stay here tonight,” she says, already pulling a fresh set of blankets from the linen closet.
Later, curled up on the guest futon, the blankets heavy in a strangely comforting way, I finally pull out my phone. It buzzes in my palm, small and insistent.
There’s a message from Suho—some link to our agency’s internal news, about an upcoming press briefing.
A stupidly hopeful pang echoes in my chest, a ghost I know I need to exorcise. I don’t reply. I just stare at his name, at the chaotic future it represents, then swipe the notification away. A small act of defiance, but it feels monumental.
Then I open a new message and type to Shin:
I’m okay. Staying at my aunt’s tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. One message, a simple act of self-preservation. No other message is needed for kindness—this one will do. It’s a start.
***
The next morning, I wake up in a small, sunlit room to the smell of rice cooking. For a few blissful, disoriented seconds, I’m just a normal person—not someone in the middle of a paparazzi witch hunt.
But the quiet normalcy of my aunt’s life only serves to highlight the utter chaos of my own. I can’t hide here forever. I have to go back. I have to face the music—or in my case, the silent, brooding man who has taken up residence on my sofa.
Before leaving, I find my aunt in the kitchen, humming softly as she flips rice cakes in a pan. “Off already?” she asks, glancing at me with gentle curiosity.
“I have to,” I say, tying my shoes. “But… thank you. For letting me crash here. For the tea, the fruits… just everything.”
She nods, a small smile on her face. “Don’t make a habit of sneaking in late at night,” she teases lightly. “Come back when you need a real meal, not just a midnight snack.”
I hug her quickly, the warmth of her small apartment and her quiet kindness seeping into me, before I slip out the door.
“See you soon!” she calls after me, waving. I wave back and shout through my mask, “See you!” stepping into the morning light, feeling steadier than I have in weeks.
“Home,” as it turns out, now has an occupant who, while I was gone, reorganized my bookshelf in alphabetical order. That’s a sin for which he will never be forgiven.
Shin opens the door before I can even get my key in the lock, his face a mask of carefully controlled relief that probably took three hours of meditative breathing to achieve. “You’re back.”
“I’m back,” I say, dropping my bag by the door.
He put his foot down after my last ill-advised midnight stroll.
Metaphorically, of course—Shin is too polite for actual foot-stomping.
But he deployed his ultimate weapon: the Quietly Concerned Manager Stare?, a look so potent it could make a dictator feel guilty about questionable life choices.
The subtext was clear: You are a flight risk, Yoon Min-hee.
I am now your warden. A very kind, thoughtful warden who brings you chamomile tea—but a warden nonetheless.
And so, we are now playing house in the most platonic, most excruciatingly awkward way possible. He sleeps on the sofa, a silent, watchful guardian. I sleep in my bed, feeling less like a scandal-plagued actress and more like a teenager who has just been grounded for eternity.
Shin is right there, a steady, living presence in the apartment, whose love language is a perfectly timed ibuprofen.
But I also have my phone that buzzes relentlessly—a separate battleground.
My decision to ignore Suho’s texts seems to have only motivated him; he now sends a steady stream of memes, cat videos, and motivational chaos, a digital tug-of-war designed to break down my defenses.
It’s the “Support Options” menu. Option A: The Stable Harbor. Option B: The Beautiful Disaster. For years, my life has been a frantic, exhausting pinball game between these two polarities.
And as I sit here, in the suffocating, crushing silence of my own apartment, the resolve from last night solidifies from a fragile flicker into a hard, cold certainty. I don’t want to play anymore.
Running to either of them isn’t a choice; it’s a retreat. It’s falling back into a role I’ve already rehearsed. Both men, in their own loving, infuriating ways, are trying to save me. The problem is, I’m not sure the person they’re trying to save is someone I even want to be anymore.
***
A few days later, Shin corners me at the dining table while I’m pretending to read.
“I think we should go to the police station,” he says, each word carefully measured.
“Proactively. Before they issue a formal summons. It shows cooperation.” He pauses, gaze gentle.
“We can submit a hair sample, too, if you’re okay with that. It could clear your name faster.”
I just nod, too tired to argue.
The trip to the station is grim and silent. We move through a sea of flashing cameras and shouted questions, a scene I’ve performed a hundred times before.
Inside, it’s all cold, impersonal efficiency. I answer questions in a monotone, my mind floating somewhere above the room, a defense mechanism I perfected years ago. I let them take my hair, my urine, a clipping from my fingernail.
I feel less like a person and more like a collection of evidence. A specimen to be analyzed. By the time we leave, I feel drained, exposed, and bare.
The frightened official email arrives the following Tuesday. I read it with my breath on hold:
From: Seoul Metropolitan Police Department
Subject: Final Toxicology Results
My eyes fly across the screen, skimming past the dense official jargon. Then, at the very bottom, one line stands stark and black against the white:
Final results: Negative.
I blink at it, expecting relief, maybe even joy. But instead, there’s… nothing. Just a hollow, strange emptiness, as if a storm passed through and left only the echo of wind. Relief, yes—but muted. Uncertain. Not triumph, just quiet, brittle clarity.
“Good news?” Shin asks, setting a bowl of soup on the coffee table.
“I’m innocent,” I say flatly, holding up my phone.
He reads the screen, and a slow, genuine smile of relief spreads across his face. “Min-hee, that’s… that’s wonderful.”
“Is it?” I mutter. “Congratulations, Yoon Min-hee. You’re not a felon. Your grand prize: freedom, a few auditions for B-list dramas, and a future as messy as your reputation.” I hold back, realizing I sound too bitter—especially in front of Shin, who’s just an innocent onlooker.
The silence that follows feels weirdly loud. It’s the “so… what now?” kind of silence.
Sure, I’m legally free, but my personal mess hasn’t magically fixed itself. The outside cage is gone, but I’m still stuck in my own head. And Shin—always there, quietly watching—hasn’t gone anywhere either. It feels a little… suffocating.
I take a shaky breath, trying to steady my voice. “Shin… I need you to leave,” I say, softer this time, the words carrying both resolve and care. “Not because of anything you’ve done. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. But I need to be alone. To figure out… me. On my own terms.”
He blinks, and I can see the hurt flicker in his eyes. “Alone?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Just for a bit. I need some space—to clear my head without someone hovering. I’ll be okay. I just need to figure this out on my own.”
A long silence stretches between us. He doesn’t argue. He just looks at me, eyes searching, measuring.
“Okay,” he says at last, voice low. “But promise me one thing. Don’t… ever think about doing anything reckless again. There’s a lot to look forward to now—more than you realize. Your name’s been cleared, Min-hee. You have a chance to start over.”
“I promise,” I say softly.
He nods once, then turns away. After a moment, he begins to pack a few things—his charger, his notebook, a change of clothes. Each movement is slow, like he’s buying time.
He folds the blanket on the sofa, adjusts a pillow, and tidies up the used mugs on the countertop, moving them to the sink. Everything he touches falls into place with the same neat precision as always—a kind of calm order he leaves behind wherever he goes.
Finally, he stands at the door, bag slung over one shoulder. He turns back to me, the professional composure he usually maintains giving way to something more human: a small, tender smile.
“The spare key’s on the counter,” he says softly. “Just… in case. And Min-hee…” He hesitates. “I’m a call away if you need me. Take care of yourself. Really.”
“I will,” I answer, voice steady, though my chest feels tight.
He nods once, slowly, then walks out. The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand in the middle of my living room, completely, utterly alone for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.
The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s empty. It’s chosen. It’s mine.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do next.