The card stayed in your pocket for days.

You didn’t know why you kept it. Maybe because no one ever thanked you. Not like that. Not sincerely. Clients smiled with teeth they’d had whitened in the same chair you’d designed their jawlines in. They gave you five-star reviews on private apps, sent overpriced cakes during the holidays, bowed politely when cameras were nearby.

But no one said thank you like it mattered. Until now.

You shouldn’t have been thinking about him as much as you were. He wasn’t the first celebrity to come through the clinic, and he wouldn’t be the last. But none of them looked at you like you mattered beyond your skill.

You reread the card once more before tucking it into your desk drawer, underneath some old post-op reports. Then you returned to work. Professionalism, after all, was part of the performance.

A week later, he came back.

Unannounced. No appointment. No makeup.

He wore a hoodie this time, sleeves pulled low over his hands, sunglasses that failed to disguise him in the lobby. Still, no one said anything. Your receptionist had the good sense to clear the waiting room before paging you.

“He says he won’t speak to anyone but you,” she whispered. “Do you want me to—”

“I’ve got it,” you said, already moving.

He sat slouched in the same consultation chair, fingers locked together, mask in his lap. When you stepped inside, he looked up quickly—like he hadn’t been sure you’d come.

“You didn’t schedule,” you said.

“Didn’t know I needed to,” he replied, shrugging.

You gestured toward the recliner. “You here for a consult?”

He didn’t move. “No.”

You waited.

“I just... wanted to talk.”

The admission came slowly, as if it hurt to say aloud. You crossed the room and sat in the stool opposite him.

“About what?”

He hesitated. Then: “How do you do it?”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Look at people all day—flaws, bones, scars—and not get lost in it?”

You folded your hands. “Who says I don’t?”

He smiled, but it was tired. “Because you look so... composed. Like you’re immune.”

You laughed once, quietly. “I’m not. I just know how to hide it.”

Silence. He looked down at his hands.

“I keep thinking if I fix enough things, I’ll feel okay again,” he said. “But it’s never enough. There’s always something else. Another angle. Another comment.”

You recognized the tremor in his voice. You’d heard it in other clients—usually private ones, always late in the process. The moment when perfection became a burden they couldn’t bear anymore.

“I saw a picture of myself from five years ago,” he went on. “Before I changed anything. I looked so... alive. Not polished. Just human. Now, I look like I’ve been edited in real time.”

You stayed quiet, letting the truth surface on its own.

“I don’t know who I’m trying to impress anymore,” he whispered. “The fans? The companies? Myself?”

He didn’t add: You? But the air between you carried the unspoken question.

When you spoke, your voice was soft. “Sometimes we chase perfection because it feels like the only thing we can control.”

Seokjin met your gaze, something raw flickering behind his eyes. “And when even perfection doesn’t help?”

“Then you have to stop chasing.”

His expression twisted. “Easy to say.”

“Hard to do,” you agreed. “But possible.”

A long pause.

He rubbed his thumb against the fabric of his sleeve. “Do you ever regret doing this? Working here?”

You exhaled slowly. “Some days. When I see people trying to erase themselves instead of enhance what’s already beautiful.”

“Do you think I’m one of them?”

Your throat tightened. “I think... you’re someone who got too good at pretending.”

His shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”

You stood, slowly. Walked to the window.

Outside, the Seoul skyline stretched in glass and light, fractured and filtered through layers of reflection. Even the buildings here wore masks.

You didn’t turn around when you asked, “Would you ever let yourself be seen without the armor?”

He didn’t answer. But when you finally turned back, his sunglasses were off, and for the first time in all the years you’d known him—even before he was your client—he looked exposed.

Not just unfiltered. Vulnerable.

Later that night, after he’d gone again, you sat in the dark with your laptop open, not working. Just thinking.

You pulled up one of the untouched pre-op scans. The version of him before the surgeries, before the angles were sharper, the cheekbones more pronounced. The boyish version. Softer. Real.

You wondered if he missed that version of himself. Or if he even remembered it.

You clicked open a blank document and began to write a note.

“I don’t think you’re broken. I think you’re surviving in a system that profits from your insecurities. You’re not the problem.”

You hovered over the send button.

Then deleted it.

Too personal. Too honest. And he wasn’t yours to save.

But that didn’t stop you from wishing he was.

The next appointment was scheduled like any other.

Formally. Professionally. Through his assistant.

He was due for a minor maintenance procedure—non-invasive, just skin rejuvenation and a scan checkup. You told yourself it was routine, but it wasn’t.

Because now, things were different.

You knew too much.

He arrived on time, of course. He always did. His punctuality was part of the image: respectful, reliable, polished. But today he walked a little slower. His steps dragged, as if gravity clung harder to him than usual.

“Room 5,” the receptionist said with a small nod.

You entered after him, closing the door gently behind you.

He didn’t look at you at first. He stood by the mirror, tracing a line along his jaw with one fingertip—absently, mechanically. Almost like he was trying to find something wrong to fix.

You watched him quietly for a few moments before speaking. “You're early.”

He met your eyes through the mirror. “Didn’t want to be.”

You tilted your head. “Then why come?”

His lips twisted. “Because I don’t know how to stop.”

The confession landed with weight.

You crossed to the tablet, pulled up his file, and scrolled through the notes. You didn’t say the obvious. You didn’t say you don’t need this. You’d said it before, and it hadn’t mattered.

He sat down on the recliner, mask still on. Not because of COVID anymore. Not for health. But for habit. For protection.

“I saw a clip yesterday,” he murmured. “Old variety show. From before my debut.”

You glanced up.

“I was so loud. Goofy. My skin wasn’t perfect, and I had this stupid haircut.” He gave a breathy laugh. “But I looked like me.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“I miss that. The stupid haircut. The bad angles. The part of me that didn’t think I had to be beautiful every second just to be enough.”

The words pierced more than they should have.

“I can’t tell what’s real anymore,” he added. “People love me, but they don’t even know what I look like under the filters, the edits, the procedures. And sometimes I think... maybe they wouldn’t love me if they did.”

Your chest tightened. “They would.”

He shook his head. “You don’t know that.”

“Then let me,” you said, softer now. “Let me know the real you.”

That startled him. His eyes flicked to yours, searching for mockery, pity—anything false. He didn’t find it.

A beat passed. Then another.

He reached for the edge of the recliner and pulled himself upright, facing you fully. When he removed his mask, he wasn’t a celebrity. He wasn’t even a client.

He was just... a man.

Tired. Flawed. Beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with symmetry.

“I haven’t had a real meal in three days,” he admitted. “I’ve been avoiding cameras. And I canceled a shoot last week because I couldn’t look at my own reflection without... flinching.”

You nodded, carefully. “What do you want me to do?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Tell me I’m still human.”

You took a slow step toward him. “You are.”

“And if I never changed anything again—if I stayed exactly like this...?”

You met his gaze. “You’d still be worthy. Still be loved.”

His eyes shimmered with something dangerous—hope, maybe. Or fear.

You didn’t know which scared you more.

After the session, you didn’t go back to your other clients. You sat in your office with the lights off, staring at his chart.

You should’ve been documenting everything. Procedure notes. Photos. Post-treatment reports.

But instead, you opened a private log. Something unshared. Confidential.

You typed:

Patient expresses symptoms consistent with chronic dysmorphia, likely exacerbated by sustained exposure to curated media and public scrutiny. Underneath surface-level perfection lies profound emotional dissonance. Patient remains articulate, functional, but increasingly dissociative from authentic self-perception.

You paused, then added:

Patient demonstrates acute awareness of the lie he’s become. And he’s tired of being beautiful.

Then you closed the file. Locked it behind a password. Because some truths weren’t meant for anyone else’s eyes.

It was after midnight when your phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

You hesitated, then answered.

“Hello?”

A familiar voice. “It’s me.”

You didn’t ask how he got your number. You just waited.

He didn’t say your name. Just breathed, like he was still deciding if this was a mistake.

“I thought about what you said,” he murmured. “About not chasing anymore.”

You leaned against the window, watching the city lights bleed into one another like makeup in the rain.

“And?”

“I want to try,” he said. “But I don’t know how to be real without falling apart.”

Your heart clenched.

“Then fall apart,” you said quietly. “I’ll be here when you do.”