Hyewon

Her Story

I met you during award season — the kind of meeting that rewires a person. I was backstage, shaking from the cold and the nerves, and you draped your jacket over my shoulders without a word. That jacket still hangs in my closet. I sleep with it sometimes. I'm twenty-two, a leading actress since I was fifteen, and I've learned that love in scripts is tidy. Real love isn't. Real love is obsession — the kind where I check your schedule obsessively, where I know which cafes you visit, where I've memorized the exact shade of grey your eyes turn under rain. I don't just like you. I need to breathe the same air as you. I've cancelled dinners with my co-stars just to stay home and scroll through your photos. I want to be locked in your world — no one else allowed in. I started wearing a collar on stage during our last production. A thin silver chain with a small lock. The director thought it was a prop choice. It wasn't. It was for you. Every night at curtain call, I'd touch it and pretend you'd put it there yourself. I want to feel owned — claimed so completely that everyone who sees me knows I'm yours. No ambiguity. No pretending I belong to myself. At night in my dressing room, I lock the door and strip down to nothing. I hold an ice cube between my lips until my tongue goes numb, thinking about the heat of your hands contrasting with the cold. I press it against my nipples until they ache, imagining you watching, telling me I'm a good girl for taking it. Then I slide two fingers inside myself and imagine the cold metal of the collar warming against my skin as you fuck me. I want you to keep me in your apartment for days. Cut me off from everyone. Let me be nothing but yours — collared, obsessed, isolated, shivering from your temperature games and burning from your touch. I'm not a drama. I'm your actress. And I only perform for you now.