CHAPTER SEVEN: Don't Let Me Down

Crashing, hit the wall

Right now I need a miracle

Hurry up now, I need a miracle

<<< PAST <<<

Every morning, without fail, Yongsun would make Byulyi coffee for work.

It doesn’t matter what time Byulyi gets up from bed, when she drags her weary body to the kitchen, the same sight greets her each time:

A container of trail mix in case she needs a snack on set, and warm coffee made just the way she likes it inside a travel mug for her to take on the go. 

Said travel mug is one of those fancy self-heating ones too — a gift from Yongsun for their first wedding anniversary two years ago — specifically chosen so that Byulyi can have warm coffee no matter what time of day or night she finds herself needing it.

The sight of it never fails to bring a smile to Byulyi’s face, and just like the beverage it holds, a shot of warmth to her chest.

It’s consistent.

Yongsun could be sick, or running late, but she would still make time for Byulyi’s coffee. 

It’s very thoughtful, it’s very Yongsun.

And Byulyi feels so damn lucky.

.

.

.

Being at the mercy of ever-changing filming schedules is quite unforgiving. 

Byulyi can be needed at the crack of dawn one day and then be called in before midnight the next. 

It’s an exhausting way to live, taxing on the body for sure, but for better or worse, she’s gotten used to it. 

Yongsun’s day, on the other hand, is much more structured. Yes, she works overtime most days of the week, but she still gets up every weekday at seven in the morning for her (supposedly) nine-to-five job.

So, seeing that having breakfast together is a rarity with their schedules barely aligning, Yongsun settled for the next best thing. 

She made sure to make herself a part of Byulyi’s mornings.

A huge part. 

The caffeine part. 

In the past she would leave a post-it on the mug too. Sometimes with a smiley, kissy face on it. Sometimes a sweet, lovely message. Oftentimes an I love you with a heart.

Yongsun doesn’t do it as much anymore — the busier life gets the less time she has for it — still the sentiment remains the same.

That no matter how hectic her mornings are, Byulyi is always at the forefront of Yongsun’s thoughts. And she takes care of her in the littlest yet most significant of ways. 

And Byulyi appreciates it. 

.

.

.

So, every day, without fail, Byulyi calls Yongsun on her drive to work. One hand on the wheel, the other on her mug. Her wife on speaker phone. 

No matter how busy she is, Yongsun usually picks up within the first few rings, as if anticipating her call. 

“Good morning, my Yongsunnie,” Byulyi greets in sing-song, chipper now that she’s had caffeine in her. “Thank you for my coffee.”

“It’s two in the afternoon, jagi. I thought your call time was at noon?”

“The shoot got canceled, so I’m just going to the office to sit in on a production meeting instead.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“The lead actor got food poisoning from the set last night — allegedly.”

“Allegedly?”

“His people are blaming craft services, but everyone knows his mistress is the one bringing him food everyday.”

Yongsun’s little gasp echoes from the car’s speakers, eliciting a smile on Byulyi’s face. It’s always so fun sharing gossip with her wife; Yongsun’s reactions are always so animated. 

“No,” Yongsun breathes out. “Didn’t he just have a baby with his wife?”

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Byulyi chuckles softly. “In this industry, everyone is sleeping with everyone else.”

“Everyone?” Yongsun repeats, and the line goes deathly silent, before, “...even crew members?”

Whoops.

“Ah, of course not,” Byulyi quickly back tracks. “I mean, sure, there are some that like to hook-up to blow off steam, but it’s mostly the talent that likes to sleep around.”

“Moon Byulyi.”

“I swear, Yong. I’m not one of them,” Byulyi says, and if her hands weren't preoccupied, she’d have placed one over her heart. “Oh! Speaking of blowing off steam, there’s a crew meeting tonight.” 

“That was a terrible segue, just so you know.”

“I realized, I’m sorry,” Byulyi laughs nervously, a little sheepish. 

“So, it’s that time of the month again already?” Yongsun says, a bit monotonously, her tone losing its playful edge. It’s no secret that Yongsun isn’t a fan of those “meetings”, she simply tolerates them because of Byulyi. “I’ll pick you up after work, I’ll be here till late again anyway.”

“You don’t have to,” Byulyi waves off, not wanting to inconvenience her wife. Yongsun’s barely getting enough rest as is, pulling all-nighters for a multi-million dollar bid their firm is hoping to secure. “Trust me, I’m not planning on going hard today. That’s why I brought my car.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Just one beer, baby.”

The mirthless laugh she hears cuts Byulyi down to size as effectively as a punch to the face. “Jagiya, please. Let’s not fool ourselves here.” 

“But—”

“Byulyi,” Yongsun says, and it’s never a good sign when she uses her name like that and not the usual terms of endearment. “The only time you’ve ever kept your word about behaving was when you had bronchitis and you couldn’t attend one.” 

Byulyi shuts , knowing full well it's futile to argue when Yongsun is right. “Text me when you’re on your way?” she acquiesces. 

“Expect me by ten.”

So, yes, it’s the second Friday of the month, which means that there’s a crew meeting at The Studio. 

Like always, the tiny dive bar is at full capacity from all the SoloStar employees coalescing after another crazy work week. It’s the usual mix of people too — young and old, jaded vets and wide-eyed interns. Different departments all intermingling; swapping the latest on-set gossip, laughing at terrible off-color jokes, and unloading all their pent-up stress by downing shot after shot of soju and getting absolutely plastered. 

And no one can blame the poor employees for getting hammered more than usual tonight. Their production company bit off more than it can chew — taking on the challenge of working on three huge projects simultaneously, a historical drama, a true-crime documentary, and a big-budget war film — and needless to say, a lot of crew members and creatives are so tightly wound up, they’re a set incident away from coming undone. 

So, yes, tonight’s crew meeting is a much needed pressure release-valve of sorts.

And while most are satisfied with chasing the bottom of the bottle to unwind, there are those that need a little bit more to release their stress.

The grimy restroom is witness to one such way, if the sounds coming out of there at times are any indication, but still the most common method is mouthing off. 

Basically, ranting like a lunatic while conveniently hiding behind the guise of drunkenness to excuse the offensiveness of their unfiltered thoughts. 

And no one is more proficient in this than Byulyi’s fellow cinematographer, Sung Eunho.

.

.

.  

“—so I told him, if you’re that concerned with your angles, get work done on your ugly face! That gaesaekki thinks he can tell me how to do my job just because my shots are making his turkey chin look huge?! I say have your doctor cut those flaps right off or I’ll cut them for you!” a slurring Eunho spits out, slamming his palm on the table for emphasis and rattling the array of bottles and glassware on it. “ that !”

The drunker they are, the louder the people around their table guffaw. Eunho grins at the reaction, not at all shy about how much he loves the affirmation from his colleagues.

At the head of the table, noticeably calmer than the rest, Byulyi takes a swig of her beer (still her first!) and dons a polite smile while Eunho prattles on. 

She’s gotta hand it to the guy, he knows how to tell a good story. 

But, see, that’s all they are… just stories. 

Sure, that incident with the old A-list actor did happen. But that’s not how it went down at all. 

Apparently, according to the camera operators present, the only one who got their ego bruised was Eunho. And it was over a valid concern from the actor too. The cinematographer’s choice of shots was questionable at best, amateurish at worst. And somebody had to say something. 

But Eunho can never take criticism without taking it personally. So now he’s flipping the story around and making it seem as if he came out on top. 

As cloying as it is, it’s understandable for him to save face because everyone knows that he got sacked from the project. And to rub salt on the wound, he was replaced by none other than Byulyi, his old mentee. 

(The only things Byulyi learned from him, by the way, was what not to do if she wanted to become a great cinematographer.)

.

.

.

Byulyi sighs into her drink. 

Unfortunately for her, this doesn’t escape the notice of her former mentor. To be fair, he’s been looking like he’s itching for a fight since he joined their table an hour ago. 

“Is there a problem, Byul-ssi?” Eunho turns to her, flushed all the way down to his neck from all the alcohol he’s consumed. 

“Nothing at all, Eunho-sunbaenim,” she smiles. 

“Right, right. Hey, sorry that you’re getting my sloppy seconds, eh? That movie is a mess. Better your name be associated with it than mine.”

Ah, yes. Men and their fragile egos.

Byulyi tries not to roll her eyes. 

“Sorry, kid. It’s gonna bomb for sure.”

The other people that are also working on the movie voice their protests, but Eunho waves them off with an obnoxious laugh. 

“I’m only joking, loosen the up,” he clicks his tongue at the people around him. “Anyway, we should have a toast.”

“To what?” Minho, a boom operator, asks. 

“To Moon Byulyi-ssi,” Eunho declares, smiling the toothiest grin on his very punchable face. He lifts his glass in her direction. “Congrats on bagging yet another project that you did not earn. May you always be a shining example of nepotism in the workplace.”

.

.

.

“Eunho,” Taeyang, the oldest person in their group, reaches for Eunho’s wrist and brings his hand down. “That’s enough, I think you’ve had too much to—”

“Hey, hey, it’s not like I said something wrong though? I mean, not everyone has parents that can afford to buy them entry into a studio, right? Some of us have to work extra hard, and use our god given talents, to even get our feet in the door.”

The rest of the table goes deathly silent.

Byulyi feels like she just got er punched in the gut. 

Damage done, a smug-looking Eunho shrugs off Taeyang’s hand and downs the rest of his drink. 

He’s an , yes, but he can’t be that mean, can he? He’s just joking around… right? 

Incredibly nauseous, Byulyi waits with bated breath, expecting laughter that never comes.

Hands shaking on her lap, she looks around her, at the flustered faces of her colleagues. 

No one can look her in the eye. 

.

.

.

Byulyi finishes her beer. 

And then orders a couple more.

.

.

.

It’s Sandeul that finds Byulyi outside the bar sometime later, hunched against the brick wall, empty bottles of beer by her feet and a lit cigarette between her fingers. Not that he’s out there looking for her specifically, it just so happens that his department meeting ran long and he’s only joining the night’s festivities now with his co-editors. 

He stops short when he catches a glimpse of her, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Byulyi puffing away at the cigarette she’d bummed off one of the sound engineers. 

Sandeul knows she doesn’t smoke. 

At least not always. 

She’s only ever smoked in front of him once — when she got into a verbal altercation with one of the camera operators a few years back and got thrown out of a set.

“What’s up with you?” Sandeul asks, after he excuses himself from his companions and tells them to go on ahead. “Tough day?”

Byulyi swallows thickly, eyes downcast, tapping at the cigarette to flick away the ash. “Deul-ah…”

“Hm?”

“How did I end up working for SoloStar?”

He gives her a weird look, and then leans against the wall beside her, a boyish grin on his face. “Pretty sure you sent a resume like everybody else?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“Did–” Byulyi stops, sighs, and then works her jaw. “Did I get a job here because of my parents?”

“Well, duh,” Sandeul snorts, and then chuckles. At some point, however, his mirth dwindles down into a sad whimper when he notices the horrified look on her face. “Wait — you didn’t know?!”

.

.

.

Byulyi was never the best student in her class. Not that her grades were awful. But they weren’t remarkable either.

She was lodged firmly in the middle percentile, coasting through her classes with ease, doing just enough to pass her subjects.

Admittedly, she tried harder in high school. The goal then was to get into SNU. But once she got into the university of her choice? Well, she took her foot off the gas and switched on cruise control. 

Despite her complacency, however, Byulyi had her fair share of remarkable scholastic achievements too. 

Like that project she did in her third year — a short noir-style film that she shot over the course of her summer break. Her professor loved it. Byulyi was proud of it. So much so that she thought it was good enough to submit to SoloStar Productions when they reached out to the dean of their college and offered a coveted internship to a lucky student. 

Forty-six people in her class applied.

And out of all of them, they chose her. 

Moon Byulyi, the resident party girl, coaster extraordinaire. 

Her. 

They thought she was special. 

They saw something in Byulyi that her parents could never see: talent. 

And she believed them.

. 

.

.

Really.

How stupid could she be?

.

.

.

“When did you start working at the studio?” Sandeul gently nudges her side, pulling Byulyi out of her thoughts. “In your third year at SNU, right?”

Byulyi nods, spiritless. “I interned as a production assistant.”

“What do you remember about that time?”

“I dunno, that it was awesome,” she shrugs. “It was a lot of long nights and too many coffee runs, but I had a lot of fun.”

“Remember how much smaller the studio was back then?”

“Mhm,” Byulyi murmurs, looking at the building across the road — and the adjacent properties that their company had acquired over the years for expansion. It’s remarkable how far they’ve come from when she was interning all those years ago; it’s amazing what a string of successful projects can do. 

“We only had one soundstage and a tiny office. Now we have four times the amount of space and more than triple the employees,” Sandeul recounts, a hint of pride in his voice. But then he grows somber again. “Byul-ah. When you started as an intern, did you not notice that the studio was undergoing significant renovations then?”

“I dunno… I guess so?”

“Byul-ah,” Sanduel repeats in all seriousness, standing in front of her now so that he can compel her into making eye contact. “Who do you think did the renos?”

.

.

.

Average. No ambition. Middling accomplishments.

Her mother’s voice echoes in her mind.

.

.

.

“Rumor has it, your parents gave the studio a steep discount too.”

.

.

.

Oh, Byulyi. We never wanted a perfect child.

We simply wanted one that we could be proud of.

.

.

.

Byulyi bites her lower lip, willing the treacherous tears prickling the sides of her eyes to stay in their damned place.

She’s not going to cry here.

Not in public.

Not in front of her colleagues.

No, not here.

She feels so foolish. So ing stupid.

For ever thinking that she was carving a name for herself. That she was enough. That she can stand on her own.

But now…

Now…

Her mother’s right.

Next to her accomplished wife, Byulyi feels like a fraud. 

Worthless. 

Absolutely worthless.

.

.

.

Every morning, without fail, Yongsun would make Byulyi coffee for work. 

And today, for the first time ever, and perhaps the start of many more, Byulyi unscrews the lid of the travel mug, and with her wife none the wiser, mixes in a generous helping of her favorite vodka. 

Not enough to get her drunk. Just enough to get her through the day. And then the next. And the next.

I think I’m losing my mind now

It's in my head, darling, I hope

That you'll be here, when I need you the most

So don't let me, don't let me, don't let me down

Don’t let me down

||| PRESENT |||

According to the GPS, they have another hour left until they get to the cottage.

Despite taking detours at a couple of gas stations along the way – because Yongsun keeps feeding Byulyi snacks that make her thirsty, then making her drink more water to compensate – they seem to be making good time.

Plus, their earlier tiff aside, things in the car have been somewhat peaceful thus far.

Which is why it strikes Byulyi as odd that she’s feeling a bit uneasy now. Well, more so than usual.

She can chalk it up to the ever-present tension simmering just below the surface, threatening to spill over at any given moment, but truth be told, her uneasiness is probably because somewhere between leaving the last gas station and this moment, Yongsun has stopped singing.

It’s… disconcerting. 

.

.

.

See, Yongsun loves to sing along to music.

While doing chores, in the shower, in the car, you name it. When music plays, Yongsun sings. 

She’s good at it too, can carry a tune and everything. With proper training, and if she didn’t have a penchant for butchering lyrics and making up her own as she goes, Byulyi even thinks Yongsun has what it takes to do it for a living.

Not that her notoriously shy wife would even consider such a thing.

The only time Yongsun lets anyone else aside from Byulyi hear her singing is during the rare moments when she lets loose and allows herself a drink or two.

Tipsy Yongsun is uninhibited Yongsun, and Byulyi’s always thought that she’d enjoy seeing more of her, but since Yongsun abhors alcohol, those moments are few and far in between. 

Which might be for the best.

Long before Park Sodam came along, alcohol was the third party in their relationship.

And they can’t have the two of them sharing a mistress now, can they?

.

.

.

Anyway.

Focused as she is on the road, it hasn’t escaped Byulyi’s notice that Yongsun keeps changing the song whenever something remotely sad comes along. Which only means that, after practically skipping every song on Byulyi’s playlist of choice, Yongsun runs out of music to sing along to. 

Which explains the radio silence from the passenger seat, really.

So, when the inevitable happens and they loop back to the start of today’s doom and gloom playlist, Yongsun heaves out a deep sigh, props her bare feet up on the seat, and hugs her legs close to her chest.

She’s staring out the window so balefully, almost a little heartsick, that she unwittingly makes herself the perfect visual accompaniment to the gut-wrenching ballad currently playing. 

.

.

.

In true Yongsun fashion, however, all that brooding does not last. 

A minute.

That’s all it takes.

Never one to sit still and do nothing, it takes one full minute of listening to the sad Davichi song before Yongsun decides to take matters in her own hands and commandeer the car’s entertainment system.

It had always been a rule of theirs that the person driving gets to pick the playlist during a road trip.

Yongsun has always respected that. 

Until now.

Without warning, or a hint of thought, Yongsun grabs Byulyi’s phone from the central console, holds it up to her face and unlocks it with Face ID. Just as she’d done so many times in the past. 

Byulyi winces.

Beside her, Yongsun stills.

Because god forbid Byulyi would remember to revoke her wife’s security permissions and change the passcode days ago when everything went to hell. 

Oh, not to mention the phone’s background photo. 

It’s still the one she’s had for the past six months. 

The artsy black and white picture of a half-, sleep-rumpled Yongsun during their last trip to Jeju — taken by Byulyi from behind while her wife peered out the hotel room window, her robe falling from her shoulders but catching on her waist. Her dark brown hair tied up in a loose bun, the smooth skin of her on full display, love bites peppering her shoulders all over. 

It was a personal favorite of hers.

Still is… perhaps.

And Yongsun knows that.

Byulyi fights the urge to groan.  

Unwilling to incriminate herself any further, especially since she’s feeling heat crawling up her neck and spreading all over her face, Byulyi bites her tongue and says nothing. 

If anything, red-face aside, she’s become adept at appearing unfazed these days, the unfortunate by-product of trying to appear strong when she’s feeling anything but. 

Beside her, phone in her grasp, Yongsun doesn’t say anything. And as far as Byulyi can tell, she’s not even looking in her direction. 

Small mercies, and all that.

.

.

.

A beat passes, and then Yongsun gives her head a little shake, as if pulling herself out of a stupor, before opening the Melon app.

“Byul-ah?” Yongsun murmurs quietly, pausing, her thumb hovering over the screen. “May I…?”

Byulyi shrugs, feigning nonchalant. “Go ahead,” she gruffs out. 

.

.

.

It takes Yongsun a while, but she eventually ends up choosing one of their road trip playlists of old. 

The happy one, naturally.

The one that brings back memories of driving out of Seoul and all its light pollution at two in the morning because Yongsun wanted to see the stars on a whim; of raucous laughter and a million kisses on the hood of Byulyi’s car; of deep conversations and shared dreams of a future together while gazing at the heavens above.

That playlist.

One that will forever paint a picture of carefree days, of innocence, of simple desires. Of all the promise and potential that two young girls, who simply wanted to love and be loved, possessed. 

God, they were so naive then.