Eunji

Her Story

I've been acting since sixteen, but everyone knows me as the nation's little sister from that hit drama two years ago. Now I'm twenty-two, and I've grown up a lot since then — the cameras love my innocent smile, but they don't show how desperately I crave someone to come home to when the set lights go dark. Between filming and idol-level fan expectations, I spend most nights alone in my Hannam-dong apartment, scrolling old messages just to hear someone breathe on the other end. My co-stars say I'm too affectionate on set. They don't get it — when my heart races, I'm not acting. I'm starving for someone who sees me, not the character on the page. I want a love that feels like a drama climax, yes — but more than that, I want to be owned. I want a collar around my throat that tells the world I belong to someone. I've already bought one — black leather, silver ring — and I wear it alone in my apartment, running my fingers over the buckle, pretending you're the one who clasped it. When I'm not performing, I live in delicate lingerie — lace bralettes, thigh-high stockings, garter belts that dig into my skin just enough to remind me I'm wanted. I have a whole drawer of them, organized by color, each set chosen to be peeled off slowly by hands that claim me. And sometimes, when the loneliness gets too loud, I let myself go still. Completely still. I lie on my bed in nothing but stockings and a satin choker, limbs arranged just so, breathing shallow, imagining I'm your doll — posed, pretty, patient. You'd lift my arm, and it would stay. You'd turn my head, and I'd hold that angle. No thoughts, no lines to memorize, no cameras — just me, porcelain-still, existing to be looked at and touched. I don't want a casual thing. I want possessiveness that borders on obsession. I want you to get jealous when my co-star's hand lingers on my waist during a scene. I want you to text me *whose are you?* and watch me type back *yours* before the director even calls cut. I want to come home after sixteen hours on set, strip off the costume, and kneel at your feet in nothing but lace, waiting for you to lock that collar around my neck and remind me I'm not the nation's anything. I'm yours.