Page 63 of Tell Me Where It Ends

I smile, realizing that maybe, just maybe, this is how we start to find our way back—not with big, perfectly-worded speeches or flawless timing, but with small, messy steps. Together. Just like me and Hondongi.

“Gigi,” I begin, my voice quiet and hesitant. “About… everything that’s happening to you now.”

She tilts her head, waiting.

“I know I wasn’t there for you before,” I say, meeting her eyes. “But I get it. I get how lonely it feels when the whole world is watching you fall. So if you need someone—someone who actually understands how insane this world is—call me. Okay?”

Her eyes glisten, and she gives a small, shaky nod, trying to wipe her tears without making a scene. “Of course,” she says, a tiny smile breaks through. “Of course.”

When it is finally time to leave, I stand, feeling the strange mix of relief and ease that only comes from an honest conversation. Gigi walks me to the door, her smile small but genuine.

“Don’t let it be this long again,” she says softly.

“I won’t,” I reply, meaning it this time.

I drive back to my apartment, carrying a soft warmth that settles somewhere deep inside me. Turns out facing the ghost from the past isn’t as scary as I thought. Talking with Gigi feels awkward and messy, but it is real.

Those late-night dorm memories can’t be relived, and we may never be exactly as close as we once were—two different people now—but I’m still looking forward to being part of her life again, to getting to know the woman she has become.

***

Back in my apartment, the caffeine high from my tea with Gigi has completely worn off, leaving behind a raw, scraped-clean feeling in its place.

I check on Hondongi, who, naturally, hears my footsteps and immediately scrambles back under the sofa. I am almost certain I saw him ON the sofa, enjoying a moment of exposed rebellion, when I walked into the room.

But even though he’s well-hidden under the sofa for now, there is a new development. He doesn’t hide for long. After only a few seconds, he gives a terrified peek, the tip of his nose poking out from the fringe.

Once he realizes it’s just my scandal-ridden face looming over him—a surprisingly low bar for safety, apparently—he comes out.

HE COMES OUT!

I nearly scream with the kind of pure, undiluted happiness I haven’t felt since Jellypop won our first music show award, but I choke the sound down. I know it will send him straight back into the shadows for a week.

He even twitches his tail—a tiny, hesitant tremor that barely qualifies as a wag—sniffs my finger, and then tries to jump back onto the sofa.

“That’s my good boy,” I whisper, sinking to the floor beside him. “Hondongi, do you have an old friend too? What was your life like before, in that scary construction site? Did you have a brother? A sister?” Of course, the questions don’t meet with an answer.

Before this, I never understood why people talked to their pets. I genuinely thought they were a little unhinged. But now, after an hour of exhausting, emotional honesty with a human, talking to a dog who only offers silent, non-judgmental anxiety feels like a necessary form of emotional CPR. Now, I finally understand why.

The warm, fuzzy feeling of interacting with Hondongi is quickly replaced by dread when I hear my phone buzz on the counter.

Phone buzzes trigger my trauma nowadays, and as I pick it up, I’m right. It’s Yeong-gi. The other ghost from my past. And this one, I’m afraid, is much scarier than the last one.

I answer at the fourth buzz, unable to let it go to voicemail.

“Finally,” Yeong-gi says, his voice flat, heavy with that same old condescension. “I was starting to think you forgot you have a family. Dad’s hospital bills are piling up. Now we’re moving him back to the house. He’s asking for you.”

“He… what? He was in the hospital?When? Why?” My chest tightens, and I press my hand to it as if I can slow the rush of panic. The apartment seems smaller, the walls pressing in.

He exhales sharply. “A few days. He’s stable, but the bills are insane. The hospital said home care is the only other option, and I can’t do it alone. You have to come.”

I grip the counter, knuckles whitening. My stomach twists. Money, obligations, guilt—they tumble over each other, a storm I never invited. I bite my lip. “Home care? That’s rich, Yeong-gi. I sent nearly ten million won two months ago for Dad’s bills. Where did that go?”

He scoffs, as if I’m overreacting. “Are we really doing this now? Dad’s sick. That money was for old debts. This is a new problem. You’re the daughter with the big career—you need to come.”

A familiar, icy dread coils in my gut. My body remembers that night—sixteen, trembling, dialing 119 for our drunk, collapsed father—and it still has power over me. I can feel it in my chest, that old panic, that old helplessness. I don’t owe him anything. I know that. And yet… what if I don’t go? What will I find?

I shake my head and exhale sharply. “Fine.” The word tastes bitter, clipped between my teeth. “I’ll be there this evening.” My hand shakes as I hang up.