Page 35 of From Paris to Seoul (K-Drama Love Story #2)

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Seo-yeon

I used to think reinvention was something dramatic—a bold decision, an act of defiance. But in reality, it was quieter, messier—more like fumbling through the dark, searching for a light switch.

It had been weeks since I’d last stood in front of a camera—weeks since I received my dismissal letter, along with a fine from my agency for leaving without notice. No scripts, no rehearsals, no carefully crafted persona to uphold. Just me—free at last.

It should have felt liberating.

Instead, I’m restless.

I’m in a very fortunate situation where I have enough savings to pay the moderate fine, and even though I was let go by my agency, the drama and the fallout were minimal.

But that didn’t change the gnawing sense of aimlessness. With nothing to fill my days, I had too much time to think—to wonder what came next.

“Well, you always loved music,” Yae-rin said one afternoon as we sat in a café inside our family’s company building. She had finally agreed to take a quick break after I had been continuously nagging her about my existential crisis and how unbearably bored I was staying at home.

“Why don’t you do something with that?” she added, slurping her caramel latte.

I stirred my drink absently. “I don’t know. It’s not like I have any experience performing a piano concert.” I sighed. “And I’m too old to go back to school.”

Yae-rin tilted her head, giving me that sharp, older-sister look. “Who said anything about performing or going back to school?” She leaned back, tapping her fingers against her cup. “You could produce your own music, play at soirées or weddings… or even teach piano to kids.”

Teach?

The thought had never even crossed my mind before.

“That’s… not a bad idea,” I admitted slowly.

“You should look into private lessons too—parents in Gangnam pay crazy money for a good teacher.”

I let out a small laugh. “That does sound tempting.”

Yae-rin smiled. “You were always happiest when you played. It doesn’t have to be a big deal—just something for yourself.”

I hesitated, but since we were already on the topic, I asked anyway. “Eonni, why do you work so much? Don’t you ever just want to hire a manager, sit back, relax, and travel the world?”

She gave me a look — not even blinking, like I’d just said the dumbest thing imaginable. After a solid minute, she finally answered.

“Because… that’s just how it is,” she said with a shrug. “And besides, a little stress is good for you. Keeps you sharp.”

I hummed, letting her words sink in.

Then she checked the clock, grabbed her bag, and stood up. “Anyway, I have a meeting in five.” With a quick wave and a wink, she disappeared back into her world of deadlines and conference rooms.

I stayed there for a while, staring at my coffee, her words lingering in my mind.

Just something for yourself.

Maybe that’s what I needed—teaching piano.

I had played since I was a child, spent hours practicing scales, perfecting my touch.

I didn’t have any teaching experience, but if I could go back to my younger years, I would’ve loved a teacher who made music feel less like a rigid routine and more like a language—something expressive, something alive.

Or maybe like a dance—fluid, exciting, and fun.

For the first time in a while, I felt like this could lead to something.

But even as I tried to move forward, there were still pieces of my past that refused to let go.

At home, over dinner, my mother watched me carefully between bites of rice and banchan. I knew what was coming before she even said it.

“You still haven’t called him, have you?”

“Mom.” My tone carried a warning.

She sighed, setting down her chopsticks before carefully placing a piece of vegetable onto her plate. “I’m just saying. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

I felt like an old cow being auctioned off for marriage. But I didn’t say it—I just shook my head.

“You’re making things more difficult for yourself,” she continued, her voice laced with quiet frustration. “You had everything set. A stable future. Do you really think you’ll find something better?”

I took a deep breath. “Mom, please, just let it go.”

She pursed her lips. “Or just tell me if you’re done with him. I can arrange a blind date—I have a lot of connections, and some of them have single sons.”

“Thanks, but I’m okay.” My voice was curt. I knew I couldn’t win against my mom in a conversation like this. “Anyway, I’m full. Thank you for dinner.”

I set down my chopsticks, and before she could say another word, I disappeared into the piano studio.

There, I pulled out my phone and started searching—how to become a piano teacher for kids, whether there was still demand for it (considering anyone could learn anything on YouTube these days), and if I needed any training.

I got lost in my research for the rest of the day.

***

A few days later, suffocated and restless from being cooped up at home with my mom, I escaped for some window shopping with Ji-a.

“Hi, girly!” Ji-a pulled me into a hug before leaning back to study my face. “Oh… you look… um, how do I put this… haggard? Gwenchani ?”

What a nice way to say I looked terrible. I scoffed—leave it to Ji-a to say whatever was on her mind without a filter.

“I’m… okay. There’s just a lot on my mind lately.”

I clutched her arm as we crossed the zebra crossing near Konkuk University.

“Not enjoying your new unemployed life?”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” I let out a dry laugh. “But I think it’s in our nature as Koreans to feel restless when we’re not working. I mean… I’m lucky—I don’t have to pay rent, and I still have some savings, so unemployment isn’t the end of the world for me.”

We stepped into a cosmetics store. A few people glanced in my direction, curiosity flickering in their eyes, but nothing more. Ah, the perks of being a minor actress.

“Yeah, and you’re from a chaebol family. You don’t need to earn a salary like us normal people,” Ji-a said offhandedly, swiping a lip gloss across the back of her hand. “What do you think of this color?”

I shook my head—both at the shade and at her comment about my family.

Yes, we lived comfortably, but our wealth is nothing compared to other conglomerate families. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder… would they cut me off if I chose to be with Baekhyun?

Just like they did with Uncle Suk-jin?

Baekhyun.

His name had basically become He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in my mind—the one thing I kept telling myself not to think about, which, of course, only made me think about him even more.

It had been a few weeks, and he still hadn’t contacted me. At first, there was still hope. But now? I just felt hopeless.

So… this is it, right? Game over?

I should just move on. Bury our memories. Pretend it never happened.

But my brain refused to cooperate. I still found myself wondering what he was doing. If he was okay. If he ever thought about me, too.

“By the way… I haven’t told you everything about Paris,” I murmured, running my fingers over a row of blush compacts, desperately trying to bring him back into the conversation.

Ji-a turned to me, intrigued.

I hesitated, unsure if this was the right place for it—but honestly, I just needed to say his name out loud. “Do you remember Yang Baekhyun from Princess of Cosmos ?”

She frowned, caught off guard by the random mention. “Yeah?”

“Well… we met in Paris. Completely by chance. And… I ended up spending some time with him.”

Ji-a’s eyes widened, almost cartoonishly round. “Wait, you mean like… coffee-and-casual-small-talk spending time? Or…?”

I gave a small nod, confirming what she wasn’t saying. “Yeah. Or .”

She clapped a hand over her mouth—whether in panic or excitement, I wasn’t sure—before smacking my arm with a series of small punches. “What?! How?! And you’ve waited this long to tell me?!”

I rolled my eyes, grabbing her wrist and pulling her out of the cosmetics store. “Come on, let’s go somewhere less crowded.”

Once we were seated at a small café, I stirred my drink, debating how much to say. A part of me wanted to relive every moment with Baekhyun, to spill everything. But another part wondered—was there even a point?

“Yeah, so… he originally went to Paris with his girlfriend. By pure chance, we ran into each other at Opéra de Paris. Then they broke up,” I shrugged. “And… yeah.” I trailed off, unsure how much more I should say.

Ji-a squealed, hitting my arm again, unable to contain herself. “So?! What happened next? Where is he now?”

I brushed my arms, pretty sure I’d have bruises by now, but before I could get a word in, Ji-a was already diving into another round of interrogation.

“Oh, I always liked him… You two had such great chemistry on set! And I got the feeling he’s not just a pretty boy—though, let’s be real, that face .

” She fanned herself dramatically. “The thick brows, the sharp jawline… Sure, he’s a model, but there’s something else about him.

Something… different.” Then, with a frown, she added, “And he’s so much better than that jerk ex of yours. ”

Her words came like tiny pinches, each one poking at something I was trying to ignore.

“He is,” I admitted with a small smile. “But… we decided that what happened in Paris should stay in Paris. So… we’re not in contact anymore.”

Ji-a’s face fell. “Oh, but why ?! Do you like him?”

I nodded.

“Do you get butterflies when you’re with him? Do you have a lot in common? Do you never run out of things to talk about?”

Three more nods.

“Then why?” she protested, her voice a little too loud. I quickly hushed her, glancing around to make sure we weren’t drawing attention.

But I couldn’t answer right away.

Because, honestly? I was embarrassed by the real reason. That my family wouldn’t approve. That they were shallow and materialistic. That I was too afraid to fight them on it.

Ji-a studied me, then softened her voice. “Did he make you happy? Even if it was just for a few days?”

I exhaled, my fingers tightening around my cup.