Page 1 of Tell Me Where It Ends

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Trending Topics

I’m trending again.

Not for a role, obviously. That’d be too easy. Not for an award either, because those apparently require you not to be a walking PR disaster. Not even for a new drama—my last one wrapped six months ago, and my agent has me on a strict “don’t breathe too loudly” schedule until the whole thing blows over.

Nope. Today, I’m trending for the one thing every idol-turned-actress dreads: a scandal.

My thumb freezes mid-scroll. The algorithm, a cruel and efficient beast, is already serving me the highlight reel of my own implosion—a sea of vertical videos, each with a title more creatively brutal than the last.

Yoon Min-hee’s Career Up in Smoke?A Full Breakdown.The thumbnail is a grainy paparazzi shot of me looking startled, a thick, hand-drawn red circle around my face as if it’s evidence at a crime scene.

My HONEST Opinion on Yoon Min-hee. The all-caps HONEST—a nice touch of performative sincerity.

POV: you’re Yoon Min-hee’s last remaining brain cell right now. Complete with a cartoon of an amoeba-like creature dancing. This one, I have to admit, is kind of funny.

My name is already at the top of the “Trending Topics” section, a place I’ve spent years trying to avoid. The videos recycle old GIFs in a sort of greatest hits of my public embarrassments: me bowing too low in interviews, crying during an encore stage with the other girls.

“So fake,”one comment reads, already with two thousand likes.“You can just tell.”

My screen is a nightmare of banner notifications, buzzing impatiently. Like an idiot, I tap one.

Jellypop Group Chat?

The screen lights up with texts from the Jellypop girls.

Duri: “Heyunnie, saw the news… hope you’re holding up okay.”

Gigi: “We know it’s tough right now, but hang in there!”

I see the typing bubbles for the other two, Aerin and Soo-bin, pop up and vanish. A digital disappearing act. They’re being careful. In this industry, reputation is the only currency that matters, and they don’t want to be too close to the fire. It’s safer to watch me burn from a distance. The realization makes my chest tighten.

These are the same girls I’ve shared a dorm with for years, the ones I’ve practiced with until 1 a.m. and traded stage costumes with in sketchy dressing rooms.

We were sisters, once. Our group never officially disbanded, but we’ve just grown less close every day. And now, they’re scared my scandal will cling to them like static. The ache isn’t even anger—it’s just emptiness. Like a space that used to be full and glowing has been quietly gutted.

My mouth tastes like pennies, and my stomach churns. I set the phone face down on the counter, a useless gesture against the world spinning out of control.

On the TV, a grainy clip of me plays on a loop. I’m behind a club, a blurry figure half-hidden in the alley. A cigarette—or something that looks like one—is in my hand. A small green glow flares at the tip like a cursed firefly. Five seconds. That’s all it takes to ruin everything. And this time, for real.

My life has been a series of close calls, almost-cancellations. Like the time fellow idol Kim Suho and I were forced to deny our relationship because fans weren’t happy that their perfect idols might be, you know,dating.

My first love, my first heartbreak—both scrubbed clean for the cameras.

Or the time a blurry photo made the rounds online—me slouched in the back seat, too close to my ex co-star Ryu Ji-yong.

Ji-yong came out fine. I didn’t.

Because women always pay more, don’t we?

Eventually, my PR team pulled off a miracle. I survived the scandal with some strategic downtime, and little by little, the offers came back. I landed anew drama—and with it, a new lease on my precarious existence.

But this time? This is game over for an actress. In South Korea, there’s no coming back from a drug scandal. Bigger names than mine have been canceled. Careers ruined. Lives lost.

I want to throw up, which feels fitting. But my body just sinks, my legs give out until I’m huddled on the cold floor, pressing my back against the fridge until the solid, vibrating metal is the only thing I can feel.

My knees pull up to my chest, and the old, familiar sweatshirt I’m wearing smells of sleep and burnt hair. Each breath is a short, shallow thing, not nearly enough to fill my lungs. My heart is a frantic bird, beating its wings against the cage of my ribs.