Chapter 7c The Old Ghost
The Old Ghost
The three blue dots on my phone screen appear and disappear, a tiny, torturous ballet of celebrity indecision. For a full five minutes, I watch them, my heart hammers a rhythm I usually reserve for award show nominations or reading my own reviews—a masochistic habit I’m actively trying to quit.
Finally, a reply from Gigi appears.
Hey… I’m glad you reached out. Where do you want to meet?
Somehow, I feel relieved. It isn’t as cold or indifferent as I had feared. I type back quickly, suggesting her apartment—because, let’s face it, the lives of “glamorous” celebrities in the middle of a scandal like ours are mostly confined to our own self-imposed prisons.
Her apartment is in one of those sleek, high skyscraper towers downtown, not far from mine. About fifteen minutes later, I am there. I toy with the digi-code on the main door, half-expecting it to have changed over the years—but it hasn’t. I text her that I’ve arrived.
She opens the door, jacket pulled tight around her, and waves nervously. Her eyes are tired but alert. For a second there, I remember the girl who used to stay up all night debating which Bin was more handsome—Won Bin or Hyun Bin.
The first few minutes, after she sets two cups of tea on the dining table, are agonizingly awkward.
We circle each other with polite small talk, cautious and completely meaningless—“How’s life?
” “How’s… everything?”—but it’s clear neither of us really knows how to begin dismantling the wall we’ve built.
Finally, I take a deep breath, pushing past the professional veneer. “I… read your interview,” I say. “I didn’t know. I should’ve been a better friend.”
Gigi shifts uncomfortably, glancing at the floor before meeting my eyes.
“I didn’t expect you to see that,” she admits, her voice small.
She rubs her hands together, clearly awkward.
“It’s… weird. Before I knew it, I just ended up saying everything to the journalist. Our PR manager must’ve been horrified.
All those years of media training… for nothing.
” She lets out a dry, rattling laugh. “But at least I didn’t cry in front of them. I mean, I… almost did. But I didn’t.”
She finally meets my eyes, a rueful smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “It must’ve been so hard for you too, Min-hee. With all the mess you’ve been dealing with. I’m sorry… I should’ve—”
I cut her off. I don’t want a “I’m sorry”—“No, I’m sorry” session. Not after everything.
The tight knot in my chest loosens just a little.
“Yeah… it was.” My voice comes out low, hesitant.
“I was in a really dark place. When the police announcement finally cleared my name, I thought I’d feel better.
But I still feel… empty… off, I guess.” I let out a dry laugh.
“Maybe I should retire as a celebrity and start something completely new.”
I shift the conversation back to her, trying to give back the strength I barely have.
“I know it sounds cliché, but I’ve been through…
all that. And even though right now the world seems dark, scary, and meaningless…
it’s temporary. The wheel will turn eventually—but you have to fight for it. You have to want it for yourself, too.”
Gigi nods, a small smile forms. “A wise and mature Min-hee,” she says, and we both pause for a beat before bursting into laughter at the sheer absurdity of that sentence.
Somewhere in the middle of that shared laugh, I realize I am talking to someone who remembers the real me—scandals and all.
“By the way,” I say, steering the conversation to something truly important, “a wise and mature Min-hee has just adopted a dog.”
“Ooh, let me see!” Gigi’s face immediately brightens, excitement bubbles over like always whenever dogs come up.
I reach for my phone. “Okay, brace yourself. He’s… still a work in progress.”
I scroll to a few clips of Hondongi. In one, his little nose peeks out from under my arm, ears twitching nervously after a walk. In another, he freezes mid-step before bolting—well, as much as a scrawny, trembling dog can bolt—straight under the couch.
Gigi bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, he’s tiny and looks exactly like I feel most mornings!”
“Yes,” I admit, smiling genuinely. “And terrified of everything. Cars, people, leaves, his own shadow, his food bowl…”
Gigi’s face softens. “Oh no, poor little guy! But… I love him already. You just wait, he’s going to love you right back. Look at him—he’s scared, but he’s curious. That’s a good sign.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. “Mission successful. You’ve met the chaos.”
She laughs again, the sound lighter than before. “Thank you for sharing him with me,” she says softly. “And thank you for… coming here to see me.”
I smile, realizing that maybe, just maybe, this is how we start to find our way back—not with big, perfectly-worded speeches or flawless timing, but with small, messy steps. Together. Just like me and Hondongi.
“Gigi,” I begin, my voice quiet and hesitant. “About… everything that’s happening to you now.”
She tilts her head, waiting.
“I know I wasn’t there for you before,” I say, meeting her eyes. “But I get it. I get how lonely it feels when the whole world is watching you fall. So if you need someone—someone who actually understands how insane this world is—call me. Okay?”
Her eyes glisten, and she gives a small, shaky nod, trying to wipe her tears without making a scene. “Of course,” she says, a tiny smile breaks through. “Of course.”
When it is finally time to leave, I stand, feeling the strange mix of relief and ease that only comes from an honest conversation. Gigi walks me to the door, her smile small but genuine.
“Don’t let it be this long again,” she says softly.
“I won’t,” I reply, meaning it this time.
I drive back to my apartment, carrying a soft warmth that settles somewhere deep inside me. Turns out facing the ghost from the past isn’t as scary as I thought. Talking with Gigi feels awkward and messy, but it is real.
Those late-night dorm memories can’t be relived, and we may never be exactly as close as we once were—two different people now—but I’m still looking forward to being part of her life again, to getting to know the woman she has become.
***
Back in my apartment, the caffeine high from my tea with Gigi has completely worn off, leaving behind a raw, scraped-clean feeling in its place.
I check on Hondongi, who, naturally, hears my footsteps and immediately scrambles back under the sofa. I am almost certain I saw him ON the sofa, enjoying a moment of exposed rebellion, when I walked into the room.
But even though he’s well-hidden under the sofa for now, there is a new development. He doesn’t hide for long. After only a few seconds, he gives a terrified peek, the tip of his nose poking out from the fringe.
Once he realizes it’s just my scandal-ridden face looming over him—a surprisingly low bar for safety, apparently—he comes out.
HE COMES OUT!
I nearly scream with the kind of pure, undiluted happiness I haven’t felt since Jellypop won our first music show award, but I choke the sound down. I know it will send him straight back into the shadows for a week.
He even twitches his tail—a tiny, hesitant tremor that barely qualifies as a wag—sniffs my finger, and then tries to jump back onto the sofa.
“That’s my good boy,” I whisper, sinking to the floor beside him. “Hondongi, do you have an old friend too? What was your life like before, in that scary construction site? Did you have a brother? A sister?” Of course, the questions don’t meet with an answer.
Before this, I never understood why people talked to their pets.
I genuinely thought they were a little unhinged.
But now, after an hour of exhausting, emotional honesty with a human, talking to a dog who only offers silent, non-judgmental anxiety feels like a necessary form of emotional CPR. Now, I finally understand why.
The warm, fuzzy feeling of interacting with Hondongi is quickly replaced by dread when I hear my phone buzz on the counter.
Phone buzzes trigger my trauma nowadays, and as I pick it up, I’m right. It’s Yeong-gi. The other ghost from my past. And this one, I’m afraid, is much scarier than the last one.
I answer at the fourth buzz, unable to let it go to voicemail.
“Finally,” Yeong-gi says, his voice flat, heavy with that same old condescension. “I was starting to think you forgot you have a family. Dad’s hospital bills are piling up. Now we’re moving him back to the house. He’s asking for you.”
“He… what? He was in the hospital? When? Why?” My chest tightens, and I press my hand to it as if I can slow the rush of panic. The apartment seems smaller, the walls pressing in.
He exhales sharply. “A few days. He’s stable, but the bills are insane. The hospital said home care is the only other option, and I can’t do it alone. You have to come.”
I grip the counter, knuckles whitening. My stomach twists. Money, obligations, guilt—they tumble over each other, a storm I never invited. I bite my lip. “Home care? That’s rich, Yeong-gi. I sent nearly ten million won two months ago for Dad’s bills. Where did that go?”
He scoffs, as if I’m overreacting. “Are we really doing this now? Dad’s sick. That money was for old debts. This is a new problem. You’re the daughter with the big career—you need to come.”
A familiar, icy dread coils in my gut. My body remembers that night—sixteen, trembling, dialing 119 for our drunk, collapsed father—and it still has power over me.
I can feel it in my chest, that old panic, that old helplessness.
I don’t owe him anything. I know that. And yet… what if I don’t go? What will I find?
I shake my head and exhale sharply. “Fine.” The word tastes bitter, clipped between my teeth. “I’ll be there this evening.” My hand shakes as I hang up.
***
I gather Hondongi, who cries miserably the entire car ride, his anxiety mirroring my own. When I pull up to the old house, I park around the corner. I don’t want the neighbors—or the paparazzi—to see my car here.
The smell of the house, a noxious mix of stale tobacco and neglect, hits me first.
My father is in the living room, propped up on the couch, looking alarmingly pale and frail. The sight breaks my heart, triggering that rush of sixteen-year-old fear and helplessness, despite the decades of resentment I have built up.
“Min-hee-ah?” he tries to speak, his voice rasps.
“Appa,” I say, my voice quiet. “Yeong-gi told me everything.”
“He’s a good boy. He’s worried about me.”
“He’s a gambler, Dad. And he’s a liar.” The words are blunt, but I’m done softening the truth. “And I can’t do this anymore.”
“What… what are you saying?”
I don’t have the mental bandwidth to answer him right now. I retreat to my childhood room before I start to cry—from seeing him in that state and knowing Yeong-gi will keep benefiting from this situation, regardless of whether Dad lives or dies.
My room looks exactly as I left it when I debuted: a time capsule of a girl who dreamt of anything but this life. Faded Sailor Moon posters still cling precariously to the yellowed wallpaper. My favorite has always been Sailor Jupiter, the strong and courageous one.
I sigh at the sight of Hondongi, who has found a new hiding place: under my bed. I dread the dust and grime I’ll have to clean from his fur later, realizing I haven’t cleaned this room since I moved to the dorm with the other Jellypop girls at seventeen.
I continue my walk to the small wooden desk, where I used to keep my diary, daydreaming about becoming a K-pop idol and quitting school.
I did it. But at what cost…?
Then I pull open the shallow center drawer, looking for some old paperwork. Tucked deep in the back corner, where the drawer meets the wood, is a folded, heavy cream envelope. It definitely wasn’t there before.
My blood freezes. It is addressed simply to: Min-hee.
My hands begin to shake. I recognize the handwriting instantly. It’s Mom’s.
I pull the envelope from the drawer, fingers trembling slightly. The cream-colored paper feels heavier than it should. I unfold it carefully, and the scrawling handwriting, the signature of my Mom, spreads across the page:
Min-hee,
I don’t know where to start, or if these words will ever reach you the way I hope.
I am so sorry—for leaving, for being selfish, for not fighting harder to keep our family together.
I tried, I really did, but the darkness around us feels too heavy, and I can’t manage it anymore.
I hope you can understand that it is never about you. It is about me failing.
You are already strong, darling, even now, still just a girl. I know you will become someone truly remarkable—someone who will escape this house and find the light. I believe in the woman you will become.
If one day you can forgive me, and if you want to find me after you’ve made your own way, I will be waiting in Jeju, and it will bring me joy to see you again.
With all my love,
Mom
The edges of the letter press cold against my fingers, and I feel a quiet shift inside me.
The tears flow automatically from my eyes, but I don’t sob.
The words hang in the room, filling the space I thought had long been empty.
Years of unanswered questions, frustration, and anger suddenly feel…
lighter, softer, somehow held in her words.
Yeong-gi shuffles past the doorway. I hold the letter tightly, my voice low but steady. “This… why did I only just find this now?”
Yeong-gi stops, and his eyes dart nervously to the letter, then back to me. He shrugs, playing dumb. “Oh… that. Yeah, I might have packed it with Mom’s stuff when she ran away. Remember? You weren’t here either then. I thought it was just another documents, she didn’t leave me anything anyway.”
The final sentence hangs in the air, thick with unspoken resentment and raw jealousy. It wasn’t an accident; he stashed it, ensuring Mom’s last message never reached me.
The fury that erupts in me is cleansing.
I am done.
That evening, I arrange everything. I don’t wait until the next morning. I call a private nurse agency and the top facility in Seoul. I transfer my father to the hospital myself, ensuring all necessary funds go directly to the administration.
I leave Yeong-gi a note: I’m done helping you. Find your own way. Then I block his number on my phone.
I drive back to my apartment with Hondongi, not wanting to stay another night in that haunted house. The last vestige of family obligation falls away.
I grab my laptop and purchase a one-way ticket to Jeju. It is for two: one actress, and one extremely anxious dog.