Page 17 of Public Image, Private Heart (K-Drama Love Story #1)

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Ji-yong

I woke up early that day, feeling refreshed and ready to face the day. Yumi had already left for her studio; her shooting schedule always started earlier than mine.

After a quick shower, I made a light breakfast and enjoyed a peaceful moment on my patio.

The morning sun felt warm on my skin, and a gentle breeze carried the promise of a beautiful day.

It was so relaxing, I almost felt like a cat.

In fact, I smiled to myself, thinking it might be time to get a cat, just like Yumi suggested.

She is definitely special, I thought, recalling our conversation at the karaoke place about cat. Most girls, especially those from showbiz and glamorous backgrounds, would expect at least a luxurious hotel stay or an expensive dinner at this stage.

But Yumi never suggested any of that.

Now that I think about it, she doesn’t seem like the materialistic kind; she rarely wore designer brands and led a simple, low-key life, finding joy in the small things.

Just thinking about her put me in a great mood, so I sent her a good luck message with a few playful bear stickers. Then, before heading out, I reviewed my lines for the day’s shoot, feeling confident about the scenes we had planned.

The drive to the set was pleasant, and I even found myself humming a tune. We managed to shoot the first few scenes without any major hiccups.

It was during a break, as I was getting ready for the next scene, when my phone started ringing nonstop. That was a bit weird. These days, it’s unusual for someone to call so persistently. We usually just text, and a call like that usually means something urgent.

Seeing my mother’s name on the caller ID, a wave of worry washed over me. Was something wrong?

The moment I heard her voice, trembling with emotion, my heart sank. The peaceful morning I had enjoyed was shattered by the devastating news of my grandmother’s heart attack.

“She didn’t make it,” my mother sobbed. “Please come to the hospital as soon as you can.”

I informed the film crew of the emergency and rushed to the hospital. When I arrived, I found my mother, aunt, and uncle looking devastated in the hallway. My father was there too, his face a mask of sorrow.

Still wearing my mask as a disguise, I tried to take a deep breath to control my emotions, tears welling up in my eyes. My heart pounded in my chest as I sat down outside the room, bracing myself for what I was about to see.

How could this have happened? Just the other day, she seemed so full of life. I had promised to return her food container soon. Couldn’t she have waited for me?

My brother arrived shortly after, still in his military uniform, which seemed out of place. Accompanied by his wife and my young nephew Ji-ho, we entered the room together. There, she lay, looking peaceful.

A profound sense of loss washed over me as I said my final goodbye. Soon after, the room was hushed as the white sheet was gently pulled into place.

The days following my grandmother’s passing were a blur of somber tasks.

Her home, once vibrant with her presence, now felt like a hollow shell.

It was unsettling to be surrounded by her belongings, untouched and frozen in time.

The mountain of food containers, the half-drunk coffee on the table, and the dress she had prepared for Sunday mass, all left undisturbed, seemed to amplify the stark reality of her absence.

Among the stack of newspapers, I found a collection of clippings from magazines that she had saved about me. It was both touching and disconcerting. Her meticulous curation of my public life revealed a depth of pride and interest that I hadn’t fully appreciated before.

Yumi was a steadfast companion during those difficult weeks. Her presence was comforting, yet she respected the need for solitude and family closeness. At the funeral, she offered her condolences as a friend and colleague, while honoring the family’s need for privacy.

I’d lived a relatively charmed life, largely untouched by profound loss. Yumi, on the other hand, had weathered storms I couldn’t fathom.

At the funeral, surrounded by grieving relatives, I felt a disconnect, as if observing my own life from a distance. The expected outpouring of emotion didn’t come naturally; instead, I experienced a strange detachment.

Then a few days after the funeral, the tears began—unexpected and solitary, often falling at night.

Not wanting to wake Yumi, I sometimes sought refuge in the bathroom, grappling with the enormity of my loss.

Yumi would often find me there, curled into a ball with my sobs muffled by my hands.

She’d sit beside me, her presence a gentle warmth in the cold expanse.

“Your grandma seemed like a wonderful woman,” she said, her voice filled with genuine warmth. “I wish I’d had the chance to meet her. I wanted to thank her for all the food.”

I chuckled softly. But her words prompted a question that had been lingering. “Do you think it gets easier over time?”

She shook her head sadly. “I don’t think it does. After all, grief is just love without a place to go.”

Sitting on the cold bathroom floor, surrounded by sterile white tiles, I suddenly realized how much our relationship had developed since half a year ago, when I first met her.

“Do you miss your parents sometimes?” I asked.

She nodded, a melancholic look on her face. “Always...”

“Tell me about them,” I requested.

She took a deep breath. “Well... My mom was a nurse. But it’s ironic that when she got sick, even her colleagues couldn’t help her.” Her eyes moistened with tears. “I was very close to my mom, but not so much with my dad. I miss her a lot. I worry that one day I might forget her face.”

I nodded, understanding her pain. “What do you miss the most about her?”

There was a brief pause before she replied, “I miss nearly everything... Her voice, the way she called my name, her scent. I miss her cooking and even the quiet moments we shared during drives. I remember a special trip we took together to Danyang, just the two of us. It was wonderful.” A wistful smile touched her lips as she recalled those memories.

“I went on holiday just with my mom since my dad was busy with his work. He was a pilot, you see, so he was abroad quite often.” Yumi sighed and looked up at the ceiling, as if recalling the memories.

“But you know what’s really messed up about it? Sometimes, I’m afraid to tell people that my parents have passed away. I hate seeing the look in their eyes when they offer the obligatory, ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ or things like that... as if I’m a broken person, a poor orphan.”

I held her close, trying to offer whatever comfort I could. “You’re incredibly strong,” I said, my voice rough. “You’re not broken.”

A wave of protectiveness washed over me, and I felt an intense need to shield her from my own pain. Yet, I knew grief was a solitary journey. Involving someone else felt like an imposition.

Still, having Yumi by my side eased the burden, her presence a comforting anchor. We stayed in a bathroom some more time before she lead me into my bedroom, falling asleep in each other’s arms.