Page 4 of Tell Me Where It Ends

But they don’t.

He’s been my manager for eight years now.

He was there for the indie drama I thought would ruin my career but somehow became a cult hit. He was there when I landed my first luxuryfashion campaign, lingering just beyond the lights—quiet and still—as photographers called my name and the flashes sparked like a storm.

And he was there, waiting downstairs with a bouquet of flowers when I finished my first lead role in a primetime drama. He looked like it was no big deal, but it was. To me, it was everything.

He saw all the highs and the lows. He was there when news of my relationship with Suho leaked, and I ended up crying alone on the rooftop because the internet hated me—as the internet so often does.

He even sat outside my apartment once when I locked myself in and refused to speak to anyone for days. He didn’t knock. Didn’t text. Just waited. When I finally opened the door, I found him asleep in the hallway, leaning against the wall with a cold takeout bowl in one hand. He never once brought it up.

When I had my first real panic attack—backstage at a live awards show, knees buckling and chest caving in—he crouched beside me on the dressing room floor and whispered, “Breathe. Just copy my breath.” He counted slowly, held my shoulders steady, patted my back until thetrembling passed. Then he fixed my earrings, adjusted a stray strand of hair behind my ear, and handed me the mic like nothing had happened.

He’s gone out of his way more times than I can count. Picked uphotteokfrom my favorite street stall when I was too anxious to leave the house. Drove across the city to find that specific peach-flavored water I liked. Sat in hospital lobbies during my therapy sessions, waiting without asking a single question.

Shin doesn’t make grand gestures. He justdoesthings.

He’s a fixture in my life—so constant that sometimes, I forget to see him. And yet, he’s always there.

The first person I see on set in the morning, the last to text good night. Through grueling schedules, national holidays, rain or shine. We’re an accidental package deal: I’m the product, and he’s the warranty. He’s seen every version of me—the polished star, the exhausted mess, the frightened kid—and he’s never once looked away.

“Min-hee, open the door,” he says, his voice measured—but I can hear the undercurrent ofpanic rising beneath it. A louder knock follows. “If you don’t give me a choice, I’m coming in.”

I press my back against the sink, the cool porcelain anchoring me, the bottle of sleeping pills clenched in my hand. I’m frozen, unsure if I should move or stay perfectly still.

The doorknob turns.

Of course I haven’t locked the door.

It swings open hard, hitting the wall with a jarring thud that snaps me back to the moment.

Shin steps in, eyes sweeping the room before landing on me. His face is a perfect mix of exhaustion and alarm, like he’s already played out the worst-case scenario in his head and is now trying to figure out how to solve it.

And then he sees it—the bottle in my hand.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at me—his gaze heavy, unblinking. It’s a look that bypasses the celebrity and goes straight for the source code, cataloging every single one of my messy, terrified parts. He’s the one person my performance has never worked on.

Then, slowly, he steps forward. Reaches out. Not with anger. Not with fear. Just quiet,maddening certainty. He takes the bottle from my fingers—gently, but with finality.

“That’s enough,” he says, soft but firm.

“I wasn’t going to take them,” I whisper. But even as I say it, I’m not sure I believe myself.

“I know,” he replies quietly. “But I’m not going to give you the chance.”

I want to look away. But his hand is still holding mine—warm and solid—after he slips the pill bottle into the inside pocket of his jacket, like it’s something dangerous. Like he’s afraid I’ll try to grab it back if he lets go.

He doesn’t speak as he leads me back to the living room, just places one hand on the small of my back, gently guiding, like he always does when the cameras are too close or the reporters too loud.

We sit down on the couch. He disappears for a moment and returns with a hangover drink—the kind I always keep stocked, even though I can’t remember the last time it actually helped. The bottle with the orange sticker lands on the coffee table with a soft thunk.

I just glare at him. Why does he always have to be so... responsible? So maddeningly calm? So frustratingly here? Can’t he see what a mess I am?Why won’t he just walk away, like everyone else eventually does?

He sits down beside me, elbows on his knees, his voice quiet but steady. “Tell me what happened.” It’s not really a question—more like a lifeline, reaching out through the noise. Something real I can hold onto when everything feels shaky.

I open my mouth. “I… I just smoked a cigarette and I…” But the words collapse before they can take shape. My breath catches, and then it all crumbles.

A sob breaks free before I can stop it—thick and guttural—and suddenly I’m gasping through tears I didn’t know were waiting. The story I mean to tell—the long, complicated series of moments that brought me here—unravels in my throat, and all that escapes are half-formed syllables and broken sounds.