Counting

2026 | Seoul

The elevator hummed softly, a steady, descending note in the brushed-steel silence. The floor numbers ticked down—6, 5, 4—their glow reflected in the polished doors. Seri, already scrolling her tablet, recited the day’s schedule with the efficient cadence of a metronome.

“So, today is light. Kwon wants you for the Episode 9 editing session at 10. After that, there’s a brief call with the network promotion team at 2, and ELLE magazine writer wants thirty minutes for a profile piece at 4. Nothing major. I left your evening free.”

Jisoo watched the numbers fall. She felt it, a sensation so foreign it took a moment to name: lightness. Not just the absence of fatigue, but the profound, physical relief of a weight redistributed. Last night—his night—she had told him. She had laid the shape of the burden in his hands, and he had not flinched. He had chosen to shoulder his share. The secret, which had lived like a second skeleton inside her, constricting her breath and bowing her posture, had softened. It was no longer hers alone to carry.

The 2026 world, which for months had felt like a high-resolution waiting room—sleek, lonely, a place to endure between visits to the real life—seemed to shift its dimensions. The elevator walls were just walls. Her reflection was just her face: Kim Jisoo, 31, in a simple denim dress, her hair falling in a clean line, her makeup minimal. She looked like a woman present in her own skin, not a celebrity performing endurance.

4… 3… 2…

“Unnie.”

“Mm?” Seri didn’t look up.

“Can I have the day off?”

The scrolling stopped. Seri lifted her gaze, her expression shifting into the carefully neutral mask of a manager running a threat assessment. “The day off.”

“The whole day. Starting now.” Jisoo’s voice was light, almost playful—a tone Seri hadn’t heard in so long it sounded like a memory. “Kwon can handle the editing session without me. He’s been directing for twenty years. If he needs my approval on a cut, he can call. The network promotion call can be tomorrow. The magazine writer can wait.”

“Jisoo-ya, the editing session—”

“He doesn’t need me looking over his shoulder for Episode 9. He needs me rested and present for the remaining shoots and the award season push. And right now, the best way for me to be rested and present is to take a day.”

Seri studied her. The assessment was swift, clinical: the relaxed set of Jisoo’s shoulders, the ease in her stance, the particular brightness in her eyes that had been absent since… Seri couldn’t pinpoint when it had vanished. It was the difference between a held breath and a released one. This was not a crisis. This was a correction.

The elevator chimed. The doors opened onto the underground parking garage, cool and dim, smelling of concrete and exhaust. The company sedan idled by the elevator bank, the driver standing sentinel by the open rear door.

Seri made her decision. She tucked the tablet under her arm. “Okay. Day off. I’ll handle Kwon—he’ll understand. I’ll push the calls to next week. Your evening was already clear.”

“Thank you, unnie.”

“What are you going to do?”

Jisoo was already walking—not toward the sedan, but across the vast, echoing garage toward her personal parking spot. Her Lamborghini Urus, custom-wrapped in a soft, matte light purple, sat under a fine layer of dust. It had been weeks since she’d driven herself anywhere.

She turned back, key fob in hand, and gave Seri a smile that was pure, undiluted Kim Jisoo—the 4D mischief that had been buried under cosmic weight. “I’m going to visit my life.”

The engine awoke with a low, confident growl that reverberated off the concrete pillars. Seri watched the purple SUV pull away, then turned to the driver. “Change of plans,” she said, a small, private smile touching her lips. “Just me today.”

Seoul unfurled around her. She rolled down the window, letting the warm, petrol-scented air of late spring rush in. It was a cacophony of sensation after the insulated silence of chauffeur-driven cars: the rumble of buses, the shrill of scooter horns, the chatter of pedestrians bleeding in at stoplights. She felt the vibration of the engine through the steering wheel, the familiar grip of leather under her palms. She was piloting her own vessel again.

She called Jiyoon.

Her sister answered on the third ring, her voice a masterpiece of affectionate accusation. “Kim Jisoo. Kim. Ji. Soo. Do you know how long it’s been? I counted. I actually counted. Over a month. Your mother has been asking if you were abducted. I told her you’re just famous and busy, but she’s not convinced. She’s started lighting candles at the temple.”

“Unnie, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t ‘unnie’ me, you ghost. Where are you right now?”

“In my car. Driving. I have the whole day off. Do you have time for lunch?”

A pause. The outrage melted into surprise. “You have a day off? You? Kim Jisoo, CEO of BLISSOO, holder of the nation’s tear ducts? A whole one?”

“A whole one.”

“I’ll believe it when I see you in person. The usual place?”

“The usual place. I’m twenty minutes away.”

“I’m already leaving the house. Don’t you dare cancel. If you cancel, I’m telling Mom about the time you broke her favorite vase and blamed the dog.”

“Unnie! You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, I would. See you in twenty.”

The restaurant was a small, serene Japanese place tucked away in Hannam-dong, a relic from her trainee days. The owner, a woman with elegant silver hair and a perpetually calm demeanor, simply nodded and led Jisoo to the corner table without a word. Jiyoon was already there, sipping barley tea, looking effortlessly relaxed in a cream-colored sweater and wide-leg trousers. She stood as Jisoo approached, and the hug was immediate, tight, and prolonged—a silent communication of I missed you and I’m annoyed and I’m so glad you’re here.

They ordered: grilled mackerel for Jiyoon, a sashimi bowl for Jisoo. The conversation slipped into the easy, meandering current of family.

“Mom watches your drama every week,” Jiyoon said, picking at a side of spinach. “She calls me after each episode, crying, then lectures me about how ‘our Jisoo’s acting makes me feel things I didn’t know I still had.’ She’s a one-woman fan club. She texts her friends screenshots.”

Jisoo smiled, picturing it. “And Dad?”

“He asked about it once. He said, ‘That shop owner seems like a good man.’ From Dad, that’s a standing ovation.”

They laughed. Jiyoon updated her on Sua, her daughter, who was in a militant dinosaur phase. “She’s renamed everything. The cat is ‘T-Rex.’ The cat is deeply resentful.” On their grandmother in Gunpo: “She asks about you every time I call. Every. Single. Time. ‘When is Jisoo coming? Is she eating?’ She’s made tteok three times this month. She’s stress-baking over you.”

Jisoo listened, fully present. She asked for details about Sua’s favorite dinosaur (currently a tie between Triceratops and “the one with the long neck that eats leaves”), offered sympathy for the beleaguered cat, and promised to visit Gunpo soon. The normalcy of it was a balm.

Then Jiyoon set down her chopsticks. The big-sister assessment face appeared—the same one from their shared childhood bedroom. “Okay. Out with it.”

“Out with what?”

“You look different. Good different. There was this… tightness around your eyes for months. Like you were always doing math behind whatever face you were showing. Today, it’s gone. What happened?”

Jisoo shrugged, chasing a piece of tuna through soy sauce. “I’ve been sleeping better.”

“Mm-hmm.” Jiyoon took a slow sip of water, her eyes never leaving Jisoo’s face. “You know what I think it is?”

“What?”

“I think you’re in love.”

The chopsticks paused mid-air. A single, suspended beat. Then Jisoo resumed eating, her casualness a little too studied. “What makes you say that?”

“The whole country thinks so, Jisoo-ya. Have you read the internet? Your drama has the most realistic love story anyone’s ever seen. Every review says it’s too real to be fiction. The way you look at Hajin…” She leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “So let me ask directly. Is it him? Seo Hajin?”