Page 34 of From Paris to Seoul (K-Drama Love Story #2)

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Baekhyun

“With Hanseong Bank, anything is possible!” I said cheerfully into the camera, holding up the bank’s debit card.

It had been a week since I returned from Paris. Now, back to business as usual, I was in the middle of filming a bank commercial.

“No, no, it’s any -thing, not just a flat ‘anything.’ Put more emphasis on ‘any,’ got it?” The PD checked the monitor and gave me instructions to redo the take.

I nodded, though I rolled my eyes internally. As if stressing ‘any’ would magically convince people to sign up—especially with the bank’s abysmal customer satisfaction ratings.

“Ready?” The PD checked his camera again. “Action!”

“With Hanseong Bank, any -thing is possible!” I repeated the line exactly as instructed, feeling like a well-trained parrot.

The PD glanced at the monitor and gave a thumbs-up. “Perfect! Alright, let’s take a break!”

As the crew scattered from the studio, I stepped outside with my manager, Byung-ho, trailing closely behind.

“That’s good, that’s good,” Byung-ho muttered as he scrolled through the schedule on his phone, already gearing up for the next gig. “Alright, what’s next? A magazine shoot, another ad, and… oh! This one might be a game-changer!”

But I wasn’t really listening. My attention had already drifted elsewhere.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and without thinking, I grabbed it with an immediate sense of urgency.

Could it be…? A message from…?

But my excitement evaporated as quickly as I had yanked my phone out.

It’s just another love declaration from Sun-hee.

“Oppa… how are you? Did you know that when we first met at that BBQ gathering with friends, I already knew you were the guy from the coffee commercial? I had the biggest crush on you for the longest time…”

Her message was followed by a sticker of a giant rabbit shyly tapping its index fingers together.

As usual, I left it on read. I had no interest in continuing the drama with my ex.

Ever since our breakup, Sun-hee texted me a few times a week—sometimes saying she missed me (which I doubted), sometimes asking if we could talk (nope), and sometimes sending messages like this. Confessions that felt… fake.

“Hello? Are you listening or not?” Byung-ho waved a hand in front of my face.

I shoved my phone back into my pocket. “Yeah, yeah, sorry…” I muttered, forcing my attention back to him. “You were saying?”

“I just got an email about an audition opportunity—for the Yoon sisters’ next drama. It’s a second lead and a villain role, but still… if you land it, you’ll be acting alongside Hyun-Bin and other A-listers! This could be huge for you!” He pumped his fist in the air, like we’d just won the lottery.

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 s o? ” 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 has zero sense.

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.

The door swung open, and Ye-bin practically bounced inside, her signature grin in place. “Oppa, annyeong! Got a sec?”

I smirked at her usual energy. “What’s up?”

She flopped onto my bed dramatically, arms stretched over her head. “Just wanted to tell you—we’re planning to visit Auntie soon, maybe next month! Mom and I are staying for a couple of days. You should come too.”

She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on her palm. “It’ll be fun! No cameras, no schedules, just fresh air and homemade food.”

I exhaled. “Tempting, but I’ve got the audition coming up. I have to prepare.”

She pouted. “Ugh, I know it’s not Paris… but still… you should come with us!” she teased. “One of these days, I’m dragging you out of this city whether you like it or not.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “We’ll see about that.”

She sat up abruptly, her face lighting up as if she’d just remembered something important. “Oh! I got a part-time job.”

I gave her a doubtful look. “Where?”

She grabbed a pillow and tossed it at me. “Rude. I’ll have you know I’m now officially employed at a bookstore.”

I caught the pillow and smirked. “Were they in their right mind when they hired you?”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Point is, I get to be around books all day, and I won’t have to mooch off my famous actor big brother forever.”

I snorted. “You never mooched off me, dummy.”

She drummed her fingers against the bedframe. “Still, I wanna start making my own money. Feels kind of nice, you know?”

I didn’t say anything, just looked at her for a second. This is Ye-bin—the same kid who used to beg me for extra ice cream money—talking about financial independence. Weird.

Instead of saying something sappy, I reached over and ruffled her hair roughly. “Well, don’t screw it up.”

She groaned, swatting my hand away. “Ugh, you’re the worst.” Then her eyes flickered to my bass. “Wait—were you playing just now?”

“Yeah, just messing around.”

She gasped dramatically. “Ooooh, is Oppa finally writing his first song?”

I let out a dry chuckle. “Trying to.”

Ye-bin jumped to her feet and pressed down on a few random frets. “Well, don’t overthink it! Inspiration’s everywhere, you know?”

I groaned. “Not you too.”

She grinned. “What can I say? I spit wisdom. Anyway, don’t fry your brain over it.”

She skipped out of the room, humming some death-metal tune under her breath. I shook my head with a smirk. Ye-bin’s mind must be a terrifying place—like an Energizer Bunny trapped in a mosh pit.

I looked down at my bass, fingers itching to play again.

Maybe Ye-bin was right. Maybe I was overthinking things.

Taking a deep breath, I plucked the first note.

And this time, I let the music lead.

***

“Baekhyun-ssi, you’re up,” the assistant called.

The day of the audition had arrived before I knew it.

I’d read the script a hundred times, practiced my lines until they were second nature, and studied how some of the best actors in the industry carried themselves. Yet, as I stood outside the audition room, gripping the script, my heart still pounded.

I took a steady breath. No matter the outcome, I reminded myself that I’d walk away knowing I gave it my best.

Inside, a long table of casting directors, producers, and even the Yoon sisters themselves sat waiting.

I took my place in front of them. The role was a villain—quiet, calculating, the kind of presence that made people uneasy.

For a split second, I almost laughed. Why does it feel like this role was made for me?

The cameras rolled. I became him.

Every line came smoothly, every movement deliberate. I kept my tone sharp but restrained, letting the weight of each word settle. The tension in the room shifted—whether it was from them or from me, I couldn’t tell.

When I finished delivering my last line, a brief silence filled the room.

Then, one of the directors gave a small nod. “That was… impressive.”

I bowed. “Thank you.”

Stepping outside, I let out a slow breath, feeling the tension finally leave my body. My palms were damp with sweat—I hadn’t even realized how nervous I was. Inside that room, I had shut everything else out, losing myself completely in the character.

But it didn’t matter anymore. I had done what I could. Now, all I could do was wait.

***

A week later, the call came.

“You got the role,” Byung-ho’s voice practically exploded through the phone. “You got the role!! Baekhyun, this is huge! The Yoon sisters don’t just cast anyone. You’re going to be acting alongside A-listers!”

I sat on my bed, staring at the floor. “That’s… wow.”

“‘Wow’?! That’s all you have to say? This could change your career forever!”

“I know,” I muttered.

A brief pause. Then, Byung-ho’s tone sharpened. “But…?”

I hesitated. “They’re filming in Japan for most of the scenes…”

Byung-ho snorted. “So? You spent months whining about wanting to be cast in a AAA project. Well, congratulations—this is it.”

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “I know. It’s just…”

I couldn’t say it.

What if Seo-yeon reached out to me?

It was stupid. Irrational. She probably had no intention of ever seeing me again.

But the thought lingered, refusing to let go. What if she came looking for me… and I wasn’t here?

And then there was something else.

The more I thought about it, the more I wasn’t sure if I wanted to spend the next several months just acting.

Ever since I got back from Paris, I had felt restless.

The jazz café performances weren’t enough—I wanted to create.

I wanted to make music, and I think I might be close to finishing a song.

But now, I had a chance at a role most actors would kill for.

“Hello?” Byung-ho’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. “Are you seriously hesitating right now?”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Hyung… You know I’ve been thinking about music more seriously. Not just performing—I want to produce.”

There was a pause. Then—

“Yeah, you’ve told me… but what about The Man from Seoul ? I kind of told them you’re in.” His frustration was obvious.

I exhaled. “I know, but if I take this, I won’t have time for music at all.”

He let out a long breath. “I might know someone,” he said reluctantly. “A friend of mine runs a music studio. He uploads songs to streaming platforms—makes good money from it.”

That caught my interest. “Really?”

“Yeah. He’s always looking for new songwriters. I can ask. You don’t have to be an idol or anything—just put the music out there, and if people like it, you get paid.”

I leaned back in my seat, intrigued. That… actually doesn’t sound impossible.

“Look,” Byung-ho added, “why not just film the drama first? It’s only a few months. Then you can focus on music. Or even work on it while you’re there. We’ll send over your guitar, tambourine, whatever.”

He let the offer hang in the air before adding, “So? Deal?”

I sighed. “Let me think about it.”

A groan came from his end, but I hung up before he could argue.

I stared at my phone.

Japan or music? Acting or creating?

I need to decide.