Chapter 6c Hondongi
Hondongi
For the first four days after Shin leaves, the silence in my apartment is an aggressive, physical presence.
It’s not peaceful. It’s the dead, humming quiet of a server room after the power has been cut.
I’m not used to this stillness—since I was thirteen, I’ve been dancing, singing, acting, always moving from before sunrise until long past midnight.
Without anything to do, the apartment feels too large, too empty, and I feel… restless.
I try to act like a normal person. I make coffee, but it goes cold on the counter, a forgotten prop. I turn on the TV, but the cheerful inanity of a variety show feels like a personal attack, so I turn it off.
I stand by the window and watch people on the street below—laughing, talking on their phones, walking with purpose—and the glass feels less like a window and more like the wall of an aquarium. I am the strange, exotic fish on display, trapped in a world of my own making.
Freedom is a strange thing. My body craves motion, my hands crave work, my mind craves a rhythm it hasn’t known in weeks. Being still, being left to my own devices, is almost unbearable.
On the fifth day, I can’t take it anymore. The pacing has worn a track in my expensive rug. The silence is screaming. I need a task. A purpose. Anything other than the sound of my own thoughts, which have started to loop like a corrupted audio file.
I pull out my phone and scroll to Bora’s contact—my endlessly resourceful stylist who knows every corner of Seoul. I hit call before I can overthink it.
“A… dog?” Bora sounds dumfounded, her voice tinny through the speaker. It’s not the first time she’s fielded one of my wild ideas—this one perhaps a little clichéd but absolutely necessary—but this sudden request still manages to throw her off balance.
“Yes! A dog! You know, a thing that won’t make me tea, doesn’t care if I’m a successful or disgraced celebrity, can be trusted completely, and will give me unconditional love? Yes, I want one of those, please.”
There’s a pause on the line. Then a sharp inhale and a faint, incredulous chuckle. “Min-hee… are you serious? Shouldn’t we call Shin for backup?”
I can practically see her in my head, judging me silently, thinking this ranks a solid nine on the ‘classic-Min-hee’ scale—something that would normally demand Shin’s immediate intervention.
“I am deadly serious,” I say. “And no, please, no Shin. Now, can we go? Just us?”
“Fine,” she sighs, but there’s laughter in her voice. “But only because I can’t imagine letting you wander a city animal shelter alone, terrifying all the poor dogs. And also because I really want to see the disaster you’re about to adopt.”
Within the hour, Bora and I are driving through Seoul. She mutters commentary under her breath—half wondering, half teasing—as we approach the animal shelter.
The city animal shelter smells exactly like you’d expect: bleach and a low-grade, furry sadness, undercut by the surprisingly cheerful yapping of a dozen dogs who haven’t yet realized they’re in dog-jail.
A kind-faced woman with a name tag that reads ‘Mi-young’ gives me a warm, tired smile. “Here to look?”
“Just looking,” I nod—because that’s what everyone who’s absolutely, definitely about to adopt an animal says.
She leads me down a hallway of enclosures.
There are big, goofy retrievers who press their wet noses against the chain-link, their tails thumping a hopeful rhythm.
There are tiny, fluffy Pomeranians who look like sentient clouds.
They are all, in their own way, perfect.
Adoptable. And I walk past every single one of them.
And then, in the very last kennel, tucked away in the corner, I see him.
He’s a scrawny, trembling thing, a patchwork of matted fur and bones.
He’s curled into the tightest possible ball in the back of his cage, his oversized ears flat against his head.
His eyes, when they briefly flick up to meet mine, are too big for his face, and they are filled with a deep, profound terror that I recognize on a cellular level.
“Oh, that’s Hondongi,” Mi-young says, her voice soft with a familiar pity. “He’s a special case. A little… difficult.”
“What’s his story?” I ask quietly, careful not to spook him.
“He was found on a construction site. Malnourished, terrified of everything. We’ve had him for three months. He was adopted once, but they brought him back a week later. Said he was ‘too much work.’ He just… doesn’t trust people.”
Too much work... A special case... Recognition strikes sharply.
I crouch down in front of his kennel, keeping my movements slow. He flinches, pressing himself farther into the corner. I don’t try to reach for him. I just sit on the cold concrete floor, cross my legs, and wait.
“What’s his breed?”
She scratches her chin. “I’m not sure… I think he’s a dachshund mixed with something,” she says, glancing over the patch of brown, trembling fur.
After a few moments of silence, she asks, “You’re an actress, aren’t you? Yoon Min-hee?”
I tense, bracing for the inevitable judgment and awkward questions.
“My daughter was a huge fan of Jellypop,” she says, her smile soft and nostalgic. “She’ll be so thrilled I met you.”
And that’s it. No mention of the scandal. No knowing looks. Just a simple, kind statement that feels like a lifesaver.
I smile at her. “Really? Do you want me to sign something for her? Or take a picture together?”
“Oh! My daughter would be so happy!” Mi-young quickly tears a blank page from her notebook, hands me a pen, and readies her phone. Somehow it makes me happy too—that there’s still someone out there who’s glad to see me.
I stay there a while longer, sitting as a quiet, non-threatening presence in front of Hondongi’s cage.
He still watches me with those saucer eyes, his small body trembling.
Then, finally, he uncurls—just a fraction.
He takes a single, tentative step forward, nose twitching, his big, scared eyes fixed on me.
All ribs and fear and desperate need for love—his heart, I realize, mirrors my own.
My voice breaks into a whisper meant only for him. “Are you alone and lost like me, too?”
Bora leans in the doorway, hands on her hips, smiling like she’s watching a soap opera. “Well… congratulations. You’ve officially adopted the chaos.”
I laugh. “Yes. Chaos, meet me. Me, meet Chaos.”
***
The first night with Hondongi is awkward. He spends the entire time hiding under my sofa, refusing to eat, refusing to drink, refusing to even look at me. It feels less like I’ve adopted a dog and more like I’ve acquired a small, furry, and deeply judgmental ghost.
By the second day, he’s still hiding under the sofa and hasn’t touched anything in his bowl. Panic starts creeping in. I call Bora.
“Have you tried giving him wet food or snacks?” she says. “Usually they prefer those over kibbles.”
After a frantic, desperate plea for help, she shows up at my apartment with an armful of supplies—packs of wet food, more kibble, a leash and collar, and a fluffy rabbit squeaky toy.
“Just put the food in front of the sofa and leave the room,” she instructs. “No noise, no sudden moves. Check if it’s gone the next morning.”
I nod, feeling both ridiculous and relieved.
“You’ll be fine,” she says. “Call me if there’s… another development.”
As she’s stepping out, she turns back. “Oh, right. Shin asked about you. Are you guys… fighting or something?”
I shake my head. “No… but you know how overprotective he is. I just… need a little space to breathe.”
Bora smirks, folding her arms. “Overprotective? That man treats you like a glass sculpture on a cliff. Honestly, it’s kind of sweet—but also, yeah, I get it… it can be too much.”
I laugh under my breath. “Exactly.”
She softens, glancing toward the sofa. “Just don’t shut him out completely, okay? He worries in twelve dimensions at once.”
I nod, thank her, and slip back into my room—trying not to disturb the ‘ghost’ hiding under my sofa in the living room.
***
By the third day, I’m practically living in my room, letting the entire living room become a sort of shrine for the ghost under the sofa.
I’ve placed a bowl of kibble and his rabbit squeaky toy just beyond the sofa, and I keep my bedroom door cracked—just a sliver, like a slightly desperate spy cam—to monitor for any signs of movement.
Taking care of Hondongi, even when he refuses my care, gives my days a fragile structure. I wake up and fill his water bowl. I sit on the floor and talk to him in a low voice while I drink my coffee.
“It’s okay, little guy,” I whisper. “You’re safe here.
I won’t hurt you.” My voice feels ridiculous, lonely, echoing in the apartment’s dead silence.
I keep narrating my mundane activities—pouring water, straightening a cushion, telling him what happens outside the window.
The act is less therapy for the dog and more a bizarre, self-soothing ritual for me.
Hours pass, stretching out the silence. The sofa doesn’t budge. Nothing moves. I start to suspect I’ve been scammed into adopting a very dusty, very bony piece of minimalist sculpture.
Then, late in the evening, a soft shuffle of uncertainty. One tentative, scruffy paw peeks out from under the sofa’s fringe. I freeze.
My breathing hitched—I’m pretty sure my lungs have gone on strike—and my heart starts doing that familiar, frantic celebrity-scandal rhythm against my ribs.
A twitching nose follows, sniffing the air, assessing the threat.
Two more paws, a careful step. Hondongi’s wide, wary eyes finally meet mine across the carpet.
I remain perfectly still, a statue of patient, desperate hope. “Hi,” I manage, my voice a barely-there breath. “It’s me. I won’t hurt you. Promise.”