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I smiled at his excitement, but I couldn’t quite mirror it. “Send me the details. I’ll go.”

My mind was elsewhere. Almost unconsciously, I checked my phone again—just in case. Just maybe…

Seo-yeon.

I hadn’t stopped thinking about her since Paris. Was she still with her agency? How was she handling her family? Was she counting calories again? Had she started chasing her dream of working in music? Had that jerk of an ex tried to crawl back into her life?

More than anything, I just hope she’s not sad. I hope she’s doing well.

I lost count of how many times I hovered over my phone’s keyboard, typing out messages only to delete them before hitting send.

In the end, this was how it had to be. We had an agreement. The days we spent together in Paris—they were just that. A moment. A dream. A scene from a movie. Not reality.

In reality, we weren’t meant to be. I had nothing to offer her, especially not with the life of comfort she came from.

“What’s up with you, huh?” Byung-ho took a drag from his cigarette, eyeing me closely. “You’ve been looking a little down since you returned from Paris. Something happened over there?”

I shook my head.

It was just a beautiful dream,I reminded myself.

“Nothing… I was just thinking,” I murmured. “I wonder if I could still change my career—do something more musical instead of acting or modeling.”

Byung-ho’s jaw practically dropped. He stared at me for a solid five seconds before blurting out, “Wait… are you saying you want to be an idol or something?”

I let out a dry laugh. “No, it’s way too late for that.”

I paused before adding, “I mean something like becoming a musician or a producer. You know I already perform solo at that jazz café once a week. They don’t pay me much, but I love doing it. I just… want to do more of that.”

Byung-ho nodded, considering my words. “Oh… well, do you have any experience in producing music? Have you ever written a song or anything?”

“Hmm… no, not yet,” I admitted. “But maybe it’s time to start.”

“Yeah, I bet it’s not that hard. Just take anything around you and write it down,” he said, eyeing his cigarette. “Like, for example, I could write this:Oh, cigarette, cigarette, you burn my wallet and my lungs, but oh, how I love you so?”He sang his newly invented song in a tone-deaf voice.

Byung-ho is the most practical person I know, and I love him as my manager—but when it comes to anything artistic, he haszerosense.

I burst out laughing. One could always count on Byung-ho to lighten the mood.

We kept talking—about the commercials, the audition, and the opportunities ahead. Before long, we called it a day.

***

In the next few days, between photo shoots, gym sessions, performing at the jazz café, and preparing for my audition, my mind kept circling back to one thing—music.

What kind of artist did I want to be? Should I focus on playing an instrument? Producing? Singing? A little bit of everything? Stick with jazz or venture into classical? What kind of sound would define me?

No matter how much I thought about it, I wasn’t making any real progress. Frustration gnawed at me as I stared at my notebook, still blank, as if mocking me.

I sighed, recalling Byung-ho’s words.I bet it’s not that hard. Just look around you and write.

Right. Simple advice. So why was it so damn difficult?

Determined to at least start, I picked up my bass. Fingers on the fretboard, I plucked out a melody—something slow, something thoughtful. A tune that carried the weight of unspoken emotions.

On the second run of the song, I heard a soft knock on my door.

“Come in,” I called, setting my bass aside.