Page 25 of Tell Me Where It Ends

Min-a shows me her favorite puzzles with a focused intensity. Shin hunkers down over his laptop, catching up on work, but even his professional focus feels different here—softer.

Seeing his parents move so naturally through their home, I feel like an outsider peeking into a life I can only imagine.

By evening, the house hums with a gentle energy. His mom bustles in the kitchen, preparingjapchae,bulgogi, and seaweed soup. A small strawberry cream cake with a single, hopeful candle rests on the counter. Min-a wears a crooked paper crown and clutches a new school backpack—Shin’s gift. My own small gift, a cute pencil case, sits quietly next to the table.

The dinner is a warm, loud, happy blur. The table overflows with food and laughter. Shin’sfather tells a story about Min-a trying to teach Mandu, the cat, how to use chopsticks.

His mom keeps sneaking morejapchaeonto my plate, ignoring my polite protests. We all sing “Happy Birthday” loudly and horribly off-key as Min-a, her cheeks flushed pink, makes a serious wish and blows out the candle in one breath.

For a few hours, I am not Yoon Min-hee, the actress caught in a scandal. I am just a guest. The night feels like a fragile bubble of ordinary, perfect life, and I am terrified it might burst.

After dinner, a comfortable quiet settles over the house as his parents turn in early. Min-a, looking sleepy but content, comes over to me in the living room.

“I like you when you’re not doing crazy things,” she says, with total, unfiltered sincerity. Her words, so blunt and honest, take my breath away.

She’s seen the news. She knows.

“Min-a,” Shin begins to warn gently, but I shake my head slightly and give her a small, genuine smile.

“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice a little thick. “Me too.”

She doesn’t reply. She just leans her head lightly against my arm for a moment. That small, wordless gesture feels more validating than any praise I’ve ever received. After a quiet moment, she wanders off to her room, and Shin stands to start gathering the empty dishes.

“Let me help,” I say, rising too.

“You’re a guest,” he protests.

I roll my eyes. “Then let me be the best guest you’ve ever had.”

We do the dishes shoulder to shoulder in the small kitchen, our arms brushing now and then. Side by side, we fall into an easy pattern—simple gestures that feel unexpectedly comforting. He rinses, I dry.

At one point, reaching for the same plate, our hands touch. Time seems to stretch just long enough for the heat of his skin to register. We both pull back a second too late, and the moment cracks with a laugh that sounds a little too forced from both of us.

Back upstairs, I linger in the doorway of his room, suddenly unsure what to do with myself. He turns and hands me a fresh towel and one of his oversized T-shirts to sleep in.

When I come out of the bathroom—hair damp, face bare, swimming in his shirt that smells like him—he is already on the living room floor with a pillow and a thin blanket.

I pad over quietly and give his shoulder a gentle poke.

“Hey,” I whisper.

He looks up.

“Switch with me.”

He frowns, a deep line forming between his brows. “Min-hee.” That single word is a boundary, a gentle protest. And I am about to bulldoze right over it.

“I am not sleeping in your comfortable bed while you suffer on the hardwood floor. Come on.”

He groans into his pillow. “There’s no way I’m letting you sleep on the floor.”

“Then I’ll share the bed with you.”

He rolls over, his face flushing a dark red even in the dim light. “You’re going to drive me insane.”

“Already doing that,” I say, a small, triumphant smile on my face. “I’ll wait in your room. If you’re not in there in five minutes, I’m coming out to drag you.”

With that, I walk into his room and flop dramatically onto the bed. A few minutes of silence pass.