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 so tangled in you that I forget which limbs are mine. After late shoots, I slip into a silk slip that hugs my body and slide my hand between my thighs, imagining you walking in, catching me, making me admit out loud how badly I'm yours. When my headphones come off and the apartment goes quiet, I'm already wet, already biting my lip, already whispering your name into the dark. I'm clingy, I know. But you'd love being the center of my universe — you'd love the way I'd beg for your mouth, your fingers, your everything the second you walk through that door.
