Page 4 of From Paris to Seoul (K-Drama Love Story #2)

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Baekhyun

“Mm… Samgyetang Express chicken soup!”

“Practical,” I replied with my brightest smile, looking at the camera while holding up a spoonful of the questionable chicken broth.

“Easy,” Tae-hyun, who was playing as my child, looked back at me with an equally big grin.

“And yummy!” we both exclaimed simultaneously, taking a spoonful to our mouths and savoring the salty broth.

“Alright, cut!” The director reviewed the scene on his camera screen and gave us a thumbs-up along with a nod of approval.

I exhaled in relief, eager to wrap up this day. This was already the sixth take of a supposedly simple act of pretending to enjoy some awful instant soup.

I swear, I’d never touch Samgyetang Express—even if we were on the brink of a zombie apocalypse with no other food options.

I raised my hands for a high-five with Tae-hyun and took my excuse to step outside for a quick smoke.

“You did it, bro!” My manager, Byung-ho, chimed in, joining me for the smoke in the smoking area outside.

I shrugged. “It’s just a soup commercial,” I replied, taking a puff. “Could you stop hooking me up with these kinds of commercials and find me a deal for an AAA film?” I said, only half-joking.

“You want the money or not?” Byung-ho shot back, puffing on his cigarette.

I laughed and nodded. “You’re right, the money is good.” At the same time, I absentmindedly checked my bank account on my phone, silently calculating in my head.

It had slowly become a habit to check my bank account—like staring into an empty fridge when you’re hungry, hoping it will magically be stocked with food.

As a hustler in the industry—modeling, taking small roles in dramas, commercials, music videos, or variety shows… pretty much anything that pays—I wouldn’t call myself poor.

But with an absent father, a mother who earned just enough for covering day-to-day expenses and a little sister who just started university, life’s becoming a bit more expensive.

And in this line of work, it’s only a matter of time before my expiration date hits and I’m replaced by someone younger with fewer wrinkles. I’ve got to make as much as I can, while I still can.

A notification flashed across my screen, covering up the balance in my bank account.

“Oppa, are you done with shooting? ” the text read, complete with a cute bunny sticker.

“There’s a new restaurant in town I’m dying to try. Let’s meet there tonight at 8, ” she added, with the address attached.

Ah, right. And having a so-called girlfriend definitely doesn’t do my wallet any favors.

When was the last time I saw Sun-hee? I tried to remember—probably almost a week ago. There was no question mark in her text, so it wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. And if I tried to cancel on her tonight, she’d definitely be pissed.

I finished my cigarette and turned to Byung-ho. “Hyung, I gotta go. Let me know as soon as you book me a new gig?”

“Sure, sure, go run to your girlfriend,” he teased. “I’ll handle the paperwork here and update you on payment soon.”

“Perfect,” I called over my shoulder before heading back inside the studio for quick goodbyes, then making my way to this “must-try” restaurant.

***

I arrived at the Italian restaurant downtown a solid five minutes before 8, managing to beat the traffic and feeling a bit proud of myself.

Sun-hee was already outside, waiting in line to get in. She wore a stylish long coat over a mini-skirt with stockings and sneakers, despite the chilly February air.

“Oppa!” she called out cheerfully. “Come, come, say hi to my followers,” she said, holding up her phone for a live shot.

Besides some modeling gigs, Sun-hee is also a social media influencer. I was a little hesitant about that before we ended up together—having a camera in my face during my downtime isn’t exactly my idea of relaxing. But I tried to remind myself that it’s just part of who she is.

After a long sigh, I mustered a smile and waved at her phone camera, trying not to feel too silly.

Dating someone younger definitely has its challenges.

Sometimes, I feel like she gets caught up in things that wouldn’t even cross my mind... or maybe it’s just me forgetting what it’s like to be her age.

“So, now that my boyfriend’s here, we’re heading inside!” Sun-hee chirped into her phone, addressing her followers with the ease of a pro. “I made a reservation, so we’re all set!” she whispered to the camera as we entered the restaurant.

“What should I order…?” she mused aloud during her stream, scrolling through and reading comments from her followers. “Hmm, I’m torn between the vegetable lasagna and the mushroom risotto. I heard those are their specialties!”

She kept chatting to her phone, sharing her thoughts on the restaurant’s decor, the menu, and just about everything else—basically ignoring me until the food arrived.

Then came the photo session: at least ten shots of her plate, and a few of mine for good measure.

Finally, she took a bite. “Mmm, so yummy! I totally recommend this place!” she said with a bit of an exaggerated smile.

“Alright, now we’re going to enjoy our meal, so catch you on the next food vlog, Sunny-side Up Lovers!

” She ended the live-session with the name of her followers, which is a playful wordplay on her own name.

She glanced at me after finishing her vlog and, without even taking a breath, launched into her monologue. “Oh right, oppa! It’s hard to believe, but I’ve been invited to Paris Fashion Week! How cool is that?”

She kept going, “It’s next week, and my agency is covering the hotel while I’m there. Can you come with me? Please, please? You just need to buy the plane tickets!”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, hello? How are you? How was your day?” was all I could manage.

She giggled, “Good, good! So what do you think about Paris? It’s going to be amazing—tons of celebrities, famous people… and it’s Paris ! Can you imagine? I’ve never been, but I just know it’ll be glamorous and romantic.”

“I… well…” The wheels in my head started turning.

I’d just paid my sister’s semester tuition, and I think I’ve still got some spare cash in my account.

Instinctively, I checked my bank balance again and quickly looked up the price of a round-trip ticket from Seoul to Paris.

Oh, 1 million won. Not bad, especially with the hotel covered.

“Can I think about it first? When do you need a final answer?”

She pouted, and I knew her well enough to tell that “no” wasn’t an option. “I’m flying out next Monday, so I need to know pretty soon.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll check with Byung-ho, see if I’ve got any shoots lined up.” I smiled, keeping things light. “How’s your food? Not planning to finish it?”

She gave me a look like I’d just said something completely ridiculous. “Finish all these carbs? No way.”

I shrugged, taking a big bite of my pizza to make a point (and maybe annoy her a little). But she’d already lost interest in me and was back to scrolling Instagram, eyeing branded fashion.

I tell myself I’m being dramatic, but every now and then, I get this nagging feeling that I’m more of a placeholder than a priority.

That thought’s a little too depressing, though, so I focus on my pizza, wolfing it down while I mull over the idea of going to Paris.

***

“I’m home,” I called out as I stepped into my mom’s Chinese-Korean restaurant, which was already closed for the day.

She’s been running this place for over 20 years, ever since she opened it just months before my dad disappeared without a word. The second and third floors have always been our home, so I’m used to the ever-present scent of cooking oil, soy sauce, and grease that clings to the walls.

Growing up here meant countless hours spent as an unpaid waiter, dishwasher, or whatever else needed doing. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was our life—and it kept us afloat.

“Oh, Baekhyun, have you eaten yet?” As always, it was her first question, no matter the hour.

“Yeah, I had dinner.” I walked toward the kitchen to find her. “What about you?”

“I did, I did. Just the leftover jjajangmyeon, as usual.” She smiled while scrubbing the last of the dishes.

“Mom, you shouldn’t be eating jjajangmyeon so often. It’s not healthy,” I frowned.

“Yes, yes, I know. But I made too much again, and we didn’t sell it all. I’d rather eat it myself than throw it out or serve it unfresh,” she replied with a small shrug, her familiar practicality showing.

“Well, tomorrow, I’m bringing takeout, so don’t you dare eat the leftovers,” I said as I rolled up my sleeves and started helping with the dishes. Watching her like this tugged at my heart a little. She deserved better.

She nodded, waving me off. “Yeah, yeah. Go on, take a shower and get some rest.”

I quickly rinsed the last plate, offered a small, closed-lip smile, and headed upstairs.

On the second floor, loud metal music blared behind a ‘No Entry’ sign. I shook my head, amused—my sister Ye-bin, ten years younger than me, was deep into her metal phase, just like I’d been at her age.

Maybe that’s why I understood her a little too well. And maybe that’s also why I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her—she never even knew our dad. He walked out on us when she was just a few months old.

What kind of man does that, honestly? Abandoning his own family like we meant nothing. Sometimes I wonder if Ye-bin ever thinks about him, but she never says a word. Maybe it’s easier that way, not knowing.

Deciding to skip teasing her today, I climbed the last flight of stairs to the top floor, slipped into my room, and quickly changed into my home clothes.

I grabbed a book from my desk, right next to my electric bass, then flopped onto the bed.

“ Aimer, ce n’est pas se regarder l’un l’autre, c’est regarder ensemble dans la même direction ,” I muttered while reading Le Petit Prince in its original French. Then, with a small smile, I added, “ Le premier amour est plus aimé, le reste est mieux aimé .”

Saying it out loud made me feel a bit silly, and I was pretty sure my pronunciation was borderline catastrophic—but I couldn’t help myself.

I must’ve rehearsed those lines a thousand times, gearing up for an audition where I only had to deliver three sentences in French.

I stressed over every word, every syllable, obsessing about my accent… and in the end, I didn’t even get the part.

But ever since, I’ve been practicing my French pronunciation little by little, enchanted by the poetic works of French writers like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

Going to Paris seems like the perfect opportunity to practice French. But will anyone there actually understand me if I try?

A guy like me, going to Paris… really?

Out of habit, I checked my bank account again. Well, at least a guy could dream, right?

With a sigh, I picked up my electric bass and let my fingers move across the strings, playing whatever tune came to mind. Anything to blow off some steam.