Page 8 of Public Image, Private Heart (K-Drama Love Story #1)

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Ji-yong

I n the weeks that followed the karaoke extravaganza, it seems I’ve become quite the oddball.

On the surface, it’s business as usual: shooting dramas, juggling interviews, photoshoots, and even attending mandatory piano lessons (because, apparently, every male drama lead needs to be a piano prodigy now).

My schedule borders on drowning me, yet my manager insists on squeezing in a daily hour-long gym session to keep me in top shape.

But when I’m alone with my thoughts, I found myself drifting into absurd fantasies.

Playful banter and laughter with a certain someone dominated my daydreams. During breaks, I’d compulsively check social media, hoping for a glimpse of them.

I’d even caught myself sneaking glances at my phone, waiting for a notification for a message. It was ridiculous.

As a specialist in romantic dramas, shouldn’t I be immune to this? Shouldn’t I know best that all of it is just the magic of the camera, exceptional editing, and romantic ballads? Yet, her image pops into my head every ten minutes.

Yes, we’ve managed to keep it casual and relaxed, exchanging small messages here and there. Sharing articles or videos about video games and cute cats. Nothing that two friends wouldn’t share.

But those texts have somehow become the highlight of my day.

“Ji-yong, you seem distracted. Is everything okay?” Min-hee’s voice snapped me out of my daydream. A former idol, Min-hee stood tall and slender, always impeccably adorned with heavy makeup.

In her late twenties, she continued to navigate her image in the industry. On the outside, she appeared innocent and pure, as society expected, but within her inner circle, she let her guard down and revealed her true self: bubbly, daring and somewhat carefree.

“Yes, sorry about that. Let’s start again,” I apologized, refocusing on our scene.

In my latest drama, Hometown Whispers , the plot revolves around a young, ambitious career woman from South Korea who forms a mysterious connection with a man living in a rural area of Korea from a parallel universe.

Given the romantic genre, there’s plenty of physical closeness planned, and we’re currently in the midst of rehearsing some of those moments.

In the softly lit studio, her touch on my shoulder felt delicate yet purposeful, her eyes locked onto mine with a blend of curiosity and warmth.

I mirrored her intensity, my fingers tracing a gentle path along her jawline as we simulated the pivotal moment between our characters.

With each rehearsal, the lines we whispered to each other promised to ignite the screen with a potent mix of passion and intrigue.

But this isn’t it , I mused to myself, watching the scene unfold. Despite how good it looked on camera, I could sense it in our touch. It didn’t quite evoke the same feeling I had in my latest drama with that particular someone.

“Good, good, you guys are doing great,” the PD shared some words of encouragement while we continued our rehearsal.

“You know, there’s something about this place that makes me feel like anything is possible,” I said to Min-hee’s character, leaning in with a playful smile.

She responded with a teasing tone, “Oh really? Is it the charming countryside or the peaceful views that’s got you feeling this way?”

I leaned closer, maintaining the romantic mood, “Maybe it’s the company,” I added with a wink.

Min-hee’s character chuckled softly, not letting me off easily. “Smooth talker. But don’t think sweet words will get you out of trouble.”

I grinned back at her, my confidence unwavering. “I’m ready whenever you are, Miss Director.”

“Cut! Great work, both of you. Let’s run that one more time, from the top.”

The team of makeup artists and stylists intervened to give some touch-ups to our makeup and outfits before we repeated the lines again, this time for the real shoot.

A few moments later, after wrapping up another long day on set, I stumbled into my apartment, tossed my belongings onto the sofa, and collapsed in exhaustion. It was nearly 9 PM, and I hadn’t even had dinner yet. My body ached from the day’s workouts and shooting schedule.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed, and I saw a bear rolling on the floor animation pop up on my screen, followed by a text: “I’m bored. What are you doing?”

A smile tugged at my lips. Ah, the highlight of my day had arrived.

“Nothing much... at home now,” I replied.

“Alone and bored too.” Usually, I cherish my quiet nights, indulging in brownies and ice cream—a cheat to my usual diet.

But tonight, I don’t feel like being alone.

My apartment suddenly felt too big, too quiet.

You know that feeling when you’ve spent the whole day with so many people, and then when you’re finally alone, you’re just left with. .. silence.

Another bear sticker popped up, this one looking surprised with an exclamation mark.

“Come to my place then,” the text said.

My heart raced a bit at this unusual and bold request. Paying a visit to your attractive ex-co-star’s place alone? Risky. It felt like tiptoeing across an invisible line.

“We could play racing games together,” she added innocently. “And I have some fried chicken left.”

I wasn’t worried about getting caught; a private home was one of the safest places from public curiosity and paparazzi. If I recall correctly, she mentioned that she lived in a studio apartment in the suburbs of Seoul.

With a bit of luck, no one (especially not a journalist) would find out about my visit.

The only other concern was whether I’d be able to drive back home afterward, especially if alcohol was involved.

Oh well, consequences be damned. “Share your address with me again?” I replied.

I grabbed my keys, along with a hoodie and a mask. Punching her address into my phone’s map app, I soon found myself in my car, heading towards her place in Seongdong neighborhood.

“On my way,” I texted her as I pressed down on the pedal.

I soon found myself standing in front of her door. My heart doing a little thump thump as I rang the doorbell.

Yumi greeted me in a loose T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

Her hair was hastily pulled back into a ponytail, and she appeared to be wearing no makeup (or maybe just a very sheer layer).

I gulped as a wave of realization hit me.

God, she was beautiful. Right then and there, I wanted her—just like I’d yearned to deepen our kiss during our on-screen scene, turning fiction into reality.

“Come on in,” she said cheerfully.

I followed her inside, and another wave of realization crashed over me: she was a hoarder.

Her apartment was filled with trinkets and knick-knacks, a stark contrast to my own sparse living space.

Photos adorned the walls, alongside neatly lined-up mini figurines and plushies.

What a geek, I thought, unable to suppress a smile.

“What?” Yumi noticed my grin and arched an eyebrow challengingly, clearly sensing my thoughts.

“Nothing,” I quickly replied. “Is this a limited edition?” I gestured to one of her figurines, trying to observe it closer. I recognized the character—it was from a video game we both played on set.

“Yes! And be careful, I stayed up all night to win this thing in an online auction!” She urged with a protective tone. I chuckled and explored the rest of the knick-knacks.

“Is this your parents? Where do they live?” I remarked upon seeing a photo of a teenager flanked by a man and a woman on the beach.

She formed a small smile, looking a bit wistful as she replied, “Yeah, they were my parents, but they’re no longer here. I lost my mom when I was 23 years old, and my dad not long after.”

A brief silence followed before I said sincerely, “I’m truly sorry for your loss.” I struggled to find the right words, knowing how devastating it must be to lose both parents in such a short span. I felt an overwhelming urge to give her a comforting hug, but I managed to hold it in.

She shrugged. “Well, that’s life.” She didn’t elaborate further and tried to appear cheerful again, as if she were accustomed to discussing such difficult topics.

“Want to eat the fried chicken?”

On cue, my stomach grumbled, prompting laughter from both of us.

We moved to the kitchen area, which featured an open layout with a small dining table that also served as a bar, overlooking the living room.

She dove into her fridge, pulling out leftover fried chicken, some soft drinks, beers, and a bottle of soju.

“You know what, we could also make some cupcakes while waiting for the fried chicken to warm up.” Sparkles danced in her eyes, and in that moment, I had no power to refuse her.

“Okay, but I’m not exactly a pro in the cooking department,” I warned her.

She tossed the fried chicken into the oven somewhat nonchalantly and shrugged again, “Me neither, but I’ve been dying to try baking ever since I bought this cupcake kit on sale.”

She gestured towards the choice of drinks and said, “First things first, choose your fuel.”

I chuckled at her comment. I wasn’t even tipsy yet, but here I was feeling giddy.

“Beer and soju?”

“Beer and soju,” she confirmed with a nod, acknowledging my choice of “fuel”. She then mixed them together in the perfect ratio like an experienced bartender.

As we gulped down the fresh beer and soju, I shared stories of my day with her, and she reciprocated with tales of hers. It felt relaxed and cozy, almost as if we did this every day.

“Could you believe that? The writer sent me a revised script again. It’s the fifth time this week, and it’s driving me crazy!” I grumbled, trying to “participate” in the cupcake-making process, though I honestly had no clue what I was doing.

She whisked four eggs evenly and poured them into the batter, nodding sympathetically.

“Want to practice lines with me?” She suggested kindly.

“Nah, not right now. I need a break from work,” I confessed. All I wanted was to shut off my brain for a bit and unwind.

“Got it,” she replied, then added, “I think we can put the batch into the oven.”

“Together with the fried chicken?”

She nodded, though I sensed a hint of doubt in her eyes. This might be the start of a culinary disaster, I chuckled inwardly. But being as clueless as her, I simply nodded along and hoped for the best.

A few moments later, we were seated on a small two-seat sofa in the cozy living room area, right next to the kitchen.

Each of us clutched a joystick, nibbling on dried squid and still sipping our mixed beer and soju.

We played a racing game for a while, caught up in heated competition, until we heard the oven ding.

We returned to the kitchen, eager to inspect our culinary creation. Surprisingly, everything looked and smelled delightful.

We attacked the fried chicken like starving wolves, enjoying how well it complemented the beer.

“Time for dessert,” I teased, raising my eyebrows as I carefully plucked one of the still-warm cupcakes from the tray.

“You first,” I said, attempting to feed her the cupcake, but she quickly declined with a mischievous grin. “No way, you’re the guest here. You go first.”

“Fine, I’ll go first,” I conceded, a trace of despair in my voice. I took a small bite of the cupcake, only to have undercooked batter ooze out, melting in my mouth and trickling onto my lips and jaw.

“It’s not fully baked!” I exclaimed, trying to shove the cupcake toward her so she could share in my suffering. By this point, she was doubled over in hysterical laughter, clutching her stomach as she dodged my cupcake assault.

I chuckled along with her, unsure of what was so amusing about our situation but finding it all irresistibly hilarious. Surely the beer and soju were playing their part, but everything seemed even funnier with her.

She reached up to open the upper cabinet, revealing a sliver of bare skin on her stomach, I felt a sudden tingle that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

Seizing the opportunity, I playfully tried to offer her the under-cooked cupcake again.

She giggled with laughter and then revealed her discovery from the upper cabinet: some straws. This sent us both into another fit of laughter as she jabbed one of the straws into the undercooked cupcake.

“We should definitely keep acting together,” she managed to say amidst her laughs. “But we should probably be banned from baking together ever again.”

“Definitely,” I replied with a grin. Sure , I thought. All of this was just acting.

Or was it?

The rest of the night became a blur, but I managed to settle a tipsy Yumi onto the sofa before she dozed off. I ended up crashing on a small patch of the floor nearby, grateful for the soft layer of carpet.