You weren’t sure if it was unprofessional to wait for his text.

You told yourself it wasn’t waiting—you were just checking your phone more than usual. Keeping the ringer on. Leaving the screen face-up. Telling yourself you were alert for emergencies.

That was the lie you told yourself.

The truth was less clinical. You were hoping he’d fall apart. Because that would mean he trusted you enough to fall apart in your direction.

And two nights later, he did.

It was 2:12 AM when the doorbell rang.

Not your clinic. Your apartment.

Your building had a strict policy about guests after midnight, so you already knew who it was.

You didn’t hesitate. You opened the door.

Seokjin stood there in a black hoodie, the same one he’d worn to the clinic last week. His hands were shoved deep into the front pocket, and his head was bowed slightly, like a child who wasn’t sure if he’d get scolded.

He looked... small.

You stepped aside silently.

He walked in like someone entering a confessional.

You didn’t ask why he was here. You just led him to the kitchen and poured him water, your fingers brushing the rim of the glass to avoid the shake in your hands. He sat on the stool across from you and didn’t speak for a long time.

Then finally, quietly: “I think I’m breaking.”

You turned off the tap.

He didn’t cry. Not exactly. His voice was too even for that. But his hands trembled as they rested on the marble counter.

“I’ve spent the last seven years living in a house of mirrors,” he said. “And I don’t know which reflection is me anymore.”

You sat down. “Tell me what happened.”

He exhaled shakily. “I canceled another shoot. The stylist brought this outfit—this ridiculous designer thing that made me look like a doll. And I looked in the mirror and couldn’t breathe. I thought if I had to pose one more time with that expression, I’d scream.”

You knew the one he meant.

The perfected, camera-ready Seokjin.

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I used to like performing. But now it just feels like erasing. Every time I step in front of a camera, I disappear a little more.”

Your chest ached. “That’s not performing. That’s survival.”

He gave a brittle laugh. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

“No,” you said. “Not when it hurts this much.”

He looked up. And there it was again—that awful, beautiful vulnerability.

“What’s the point of being adored,” he whispered, “if I have to carve pieces off myself to deserve it?”

You didn’t answer.

Because deep down, you weren’t sure either.

You let him sleep on your couch that night.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t have to. You brought him a blanket and folded it over his shoulders while he sat in silence, staring at nothing.

Before you turned out the light, you paused beside him.

“I know this isn’t what you came here for,” you said. “But... if you want to talk, really talk, I’ll listen. No mirrors. No corrections. Just you.”

He turned his head slightly.

And for the first time, his expression wasn’t polished or performed—it was shattered.

“I don’t remember how to be just me,” he said.

You smiled softly. “Then let’s figure it out together.”

You woke the next morning before him, half-expecting to find the couch empty. But he was still there—curled up, hoodie pulled over his head, one arm slung across his eyes like he was hiding from the world even in sleep.

You made coffee and sat across from him, quietly.

Eventually, he stirred.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled, voice hoarse.

“You stayed.”

He blinked at the ceiling. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

You handed him a mug. “This is a good place to start.”

He took it carefully, like it might burn him. “Is this weird? Me being here?”

Yes. It was weird.

But not wrong.

“No,” you said. “It’s honest.”

He sipped the coffee. Winced slightly. “Too bitter.”

You smiled faintly. “You get used to it.”

His eyes lingered on yours. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Later, when he finally left, you found a note on the kitchen counter.

I don’t know if I’m healing, but for the first time, I don’t feel like a product.

Thank you. For letting me exist without being perfect.

You stared at the words longer than you should have.

You should’ve thrown it away. Drawn the boundary. Reminded yourself that he was a client. A public figure. A man you weren’t supposed to feel anything for except professional obligation.

But instead, you folded the note neatly, tucked it behind the card he left last time, and whispered something that sounded suspiciously like his name.

You started to see him outside the clinic.

Not officially. Not through appointments or procedures. Just... small things.

A coffee two blocks from your office. A walk through Hangang Park in sunglasses and baseball caps. Quiet conversations at odd hours, sometimes without even looking at each other.

You both pretended it was nothing.

But it was everything.

Because with each interaction, the space between you and the lie—the polished, clinical version of your relationship—shrunk just a little more.

The second time he came to your apartment, he brought wine.

“I figured if I was going to show up in the middle of the night like a crisis, I might as well occasionally bring something.”

You raised a brow. “Bribing your doctor?”

He smirked. “I’m bribing the human underneath the coat.”

You accepted the bottle.

This time, he stayed longer. He sat on the floor, his back against your couch, legs stretched out like he had nowhere better to be. He scrolled through his phone and showed you a photo from a recent fan event—smiling, immaculate, dressed in a designer suit.

“Guess how long I stood in front of the mirror before this was taken.”

You looked at it carefully. “Two hours.”

“Three,” he corrected.

His voice was light, but the confession wasn’t.

“I had a panic attack before the stylist arrived. Couldn’t stop checking my side profile.”

You looked away. “And now?”

He shrugged. “Now I just hate the entire photo. My smile looks wrong. My left eye is smaller. My neck looks weirdly strained.”

You gently reached across and took the phone from his hand, placing it screen-down on the floor.

“You look like someone trying very hard to survive.”

He blinked. “Is that a compliment or a diagnosis?”

“Both.”

For a moment, the silence between you stretched like glass. Fragile. Tense. Charged.

Then he leaned his head back against the couch, eyes closed.

“I don’t think I ever wanted to be perfect,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know how to be anything else.”

You watched him in that moment—not as a patient, not as a celebrity, but as someone desperately searching for an exit from his own reflection.

At the clinic, things became complicated.

Your staff began to notice the frequency of his visits.

“He seems... attached,” one of the junior aestheticians mentioned offhandedly.

You brushed it off. “Some clients just prefer consistency.”

You didn’t mention the way he texted you after every session. How he’d started sending you photos not for evaluation, but for reassurance.

Does my skin look inflamed here or is that just my face again?

Is it normal to hate your reflection on the days people love it the most?

Would it be easier to stop caring if I just stopped existing as a person altogether?

You always answered.

But it was getting harder.

Harder to be objective. Harder to keep your own walls intact.

Harder to pretend this was just about beauty.

He came into the clinic late one evening for a facial peel—something minor, something unnecessary. You tried to talk him out of it.

“I can’t keep performing these for you if your skin hasn’t recovered from the last one.”

He looked at you. Really looked.

“Then don’t perform.”

You froze.

“You’re allowed to say no,” he added. “You’re the only one who ever does.”

You swallowed. “I’m also the only one you expect to fix you.”

His smile faltered. “Because I thought you saw past the mask.”

“I do,” you said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not behind one, too.”

He didn’t speak after that.

Just nodded, once. Quietly.

You canceled the procedure.

And for the first time, he didn’t argue.

That night, your supervisor called.

“About the Kim Seokjin file,” she said, her voice clipped. “Why hasn’t it been updated in three sessions?”

You hesitated. “He hasn’t undergone any surgical changes. Only surface treatments.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” she said. “You know how closely his image is tied to our brand. If you’re handling his case personally, I need documented follow-ups. Scans. Logs. Notes.”

You stared at your screen. At the blank digital space where your last three notes should have been.

“I’ll send it by morning,” you lied.

After she hung up, you sat in the dark for a long time.

Your cursor blinked in the empty file.

And for the first time since you started this job, you weren’t sure who you were protecting—him, or yourself.

The next time he showed up at your apartment, he didn’t knock.

You found him sitting on the floor outside your door, hoodie pulled over his face, shoulders hunched like he could fold himself out of existence.

You crouched beside him slowly.

“Hey,” you whispered.

“I don’t want to be famous anymore,” he mumbled, not lifting his head. “I want to disappear. Just for a while.”

Your hand hovered over his back.

“You don’t have to disappear,” you said. “You just need to be seen. Really seen. As you are.”

He laughed quietly. “You say that. But you haven’t seen the worst of me.”

You met his gaze.

“Try me.”