Page 62 of Tell Me Where It Ends

Oh well.One small step at a time.

I glance at my phone. Gigi’s face stares back at me from the screen, frozen in a glossy press photo. Memories flickered—us both getting yelled at by the dance coach (we were always the worst), sneaking out of the practice room for late-nightsnacks at the convenience store, swapping pajamas and screaming at each other over nothing, then making up in front of some sappy K-dramas.

And now, here we are. A friend I have failed. And, in some ways, a friend who has failed me.

I scroll to Gigi’s number. My thumb hovers over it, my chest tight with guilt, anxiety, and longing. I take a slow breath, then begin to type:I read the article. I’m so sorry. Can we talk?

7c

The Old Ghost

The three blue dots on my phone screen appear and disappear, a tiny, torturous ballet of celebrity indecision. For a full five minutes, I watch them, my heart hammers a rhythm I usually reserve for award show nominations or reading my own reviews—a masochistic habit I’m actively trying to quit.

Finally, a reply from Gigi appears.

Hey… I’m glad you reached out. Where do you want to meet?

Somehow, I feel relieved. It isn’t as cold or indifferent as I had feared. I type back quickly, suggesting her apartment—because, let’s face it, the lives of “glamorous” celebrities in the middle of ascandal like ours are mostly confined to our own self-imposed prisons.

Her apartment is in one of those sleek, high skyscraper towers downtown, not far from mine. About fifteen minutes later, I am there. I toy with the digi-code on the main door, half-expecting it to have changed over the years—but it hasn’t. I text her that I’ve arrived.

She opens the door, jacket pulled tight around her, and waves nervously. Her eyes are tired but alert. For a second there, I remember the girl who used to stay up all night debating which Bin was more handsome—Won Bin or Hyun Bin.

The first few minutes, after she sets two cups of tea on the dining table, are agonizingly awkward. We circle each other with polite small talk, cautious and completely meaningless—“How’s life?” “How’s… everything?”—but it’s clear neither of us really knows how to begin dismantling the wall we’ve built.

Finally, I take a deep breath, pushing past the professional veneer. “I… read your interview,” I say. “I didn’t know. I should’ve been a better friend.”

Gigi shifts uncomfortably, glancing at the floor before meeting my eyes. “I didn’t expect you to see that,” she admits, her voice small. She rubs her hands together, clearly awkward. “It’s… weird. Before I knew it, I just ended up saying everything to the journalist. Our PR manager must’ve been horrified. All those years of media training… for nothing.” She lets out a dry, rattling laugh. “But at least I didn’t cry in front of them. I mean, I… almost did. But I didn’t.”

She finally meets my eyes, a rueful smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “It must’ve been so hard for you too, Min-hee. With all the mess you’ve been dealing with. I’m sorry… I should’ve—”

I cut her off. I don’t want a“I’m sorry”—“No, I’m sorry”session. Not after everything.

The tight knot in my chest loosens just a little. “Yeah… it was.” My voice comes out low, hesitant. “I was in a really dark place. When the police announcement finally cleared my name, I thought I’d feel better. But I still feel… empty… off, I guess.” I let out a dry laugh. “Maybe I should retire as a celebrity and start something completely new.”

I shift the conversation back to her, trying to give back the strength I barely have. “I know itsounds cliché, but I’ve been through… all that. And even though right now the world seems dark, scary, and meaningless… it’s temporary. The wheel will turn eventually—but you have to fight for it. You have to want it for yourself, too.”

Gigi nods, a small smile forms. “A wise and mature Min-hee,” she says, and we both pause for a beat before bursting into laughter at the sheer absurdity of that sentence.

Somewhere in the middle of that shared laugh, I realize I am talking to someone who remembers the real me—scandals and all.

“By the way,” I say, steering the conversation to something truly important, “a wise and mature Min-hee has just adopted a dog.”

“Ooh, let me see!” Gigi’s face immediately brightens, excitement bubbles over like always whenever dogs come up.

I reach for my phone. “Okay, brace yourself. He’s… still a work in progress.”

I scroll to a few clips of Hondongi. In one, his little nose peeks out from under my arm, ears twitching nervously after a walk. In another, he freezes mid-step before bolting—well, as much asa scrawny, trembling dog can bolt—straight under the couch.

Gigi bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, he’s tiny and looks exactly like I feel most mornings!”

“Yes,” I admit, smiling genuinely. “And terrified of everything. Cars, people, leaves, his own shadow, his food bowl…”

Gigi’s face softens. “Oh no, poor little guy! But… I love him already. You just wait, he’s going to love you right back. Look at him—he’s scared, but he’s curious. That’s a good sign.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. “Mission successful. You’ve met the chaos.”

She laughs again, the sound lighter than before. “Thank you for sharing him with me,” she says softly. “And thank you for… coming here to see me.”