The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain from the night before. Myeong trudged along the uneven pavement, her cleaning bag slung over her shoulder, but her thoughts were elsewhere-still tangled in the images of the gallery.
Yena Bann's portrait haunted her. The poise, the confidence, the tiny hint of vulnerability... Myeong couldn't stop replaying that moment. She felt a strange mixture of admiration and fear, as if Yena were a living embodiment of everything Myeong wanted to become, yet feared she could never achieve.
Why does she look so untouchable? Myeong whispered to herself, her footsteps echoing on the empty street. And why does it feel like she's judging me?
Back at her apartment, Myeong sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the notification from the audition website. Her thumb hovered over the "Apply Now" button. Doubts crashed in like waves.
I'm not ready...
I don't have the looks, the skill, the connections...
But then, she thought of the photographs in the gallery-hers, Yena's, the others. Ordinary faces captured in extraordinary light. If they could be seen, truly seen... maybe there was hope for her too.
With a shaky breath, she tapped the screen. The page loaded: audition details, submission requirements, dates. Myeong's hands shook slightly as she filled in the forms, uploading a headshot she had taken hurriedly in the dim light of her apartment.
This is it, she thought. No turning back.
The following day, Myeong arrived early at the audition venue-a large building with glass doors reflecting the bustling city outside. Inside, hopeful faces filled the lobby, chatting nervously, adjusting clothes, rehearsing lines.
Myeong felt invisible, swallowed by the crowd. Everyone seemed polished, confident. Some faces reminded her of Yena Bann's portrait-elegant, untouchable, radiant. Her stomach twisted.
"Next!" a voice called. Myeong flinched as participants were ushered into the audition room one by one.
When her name was called, she walked forward slowly. Her palms were sweaty, her heart thundering in her chest. The room was stark, empty except for a panel of judges and a single camera. She set her feet firmly, straightened her back, and forced herself to breathe.
"Introduce yourself and perform a short monologue," the lead judge said.
Myeong nodded, clearing her throat. The memory of her school plays came rushing back-the applause, the nerves, the thrill. She closed her eyes for a second, imagining the spotlight, imagining someone watching her and believing in her.
When she opened her eyes, she began: her voice trembled at first, but as she continued, it grew stronger, more certain. She poured everything into her performance-the years of doubt, the hidden dreams, the longing to be seen.
When she finished, there was silence. Her chest heaved. The judges exchanged glances, writing notes. Myeong's stomach twisted with anxiety. She had given it her all, but doubt gnawed at her.
Outside, the city was alive with movement. Myeong leaned against a railing, letting out a shaky breath. The autumn wind tousled her hair, carrying the scent of the nearby café.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. Across the street, a tall girl with striking features-long, flowing hair, a commanding presence-walked gracefully through the crowd. Myeong froze.
It was Yena Bann.
Her gaze swept past Myeong, but the moment felt loaded, as though the air itself recognized a silent tension between them. Myeong's hands curled into fists at her sides.
She's... everything I'm not, Myeong thought, a pang of envy and determination twisting inside her.
For the first time, she realized that the journey ahead wouldn't just be about auditions or fame-it would be about proving herself, about stepping out of her own shadow and facing others like Yena, who seemed untouchable, yet human.
Myeong straightened her back, lifted her chin, and whispered to herself:
"I'm going to show them... I'm not inferior."
The wind tugged at her hair as she walked forward, blending into the city crowd-but something had shifted inside her. Something fierce, fragile, and unstoppable at once.

The Irony of My Name
I'm twenty-nine years old, and the harsh winter wind biting at my cheeks is about as subtle as my reality. On my back, I carry the burden of my everyday life; the side gig that keeps the lights on.
I am an unknown actress; a name whispered and immediately forgotten in every casting room I enter. My real job, the one that pays, is that I clean houses.
The most frustrating part is the constant, mocking echo of my own title. My name is Myeong Yu. In Korean, that translates directly to Fame. Every time I state it, the universe delivers a fresh, stinging dose of irony. I am Myeong Yu, the walking contradiction.
I clutched the paper bag close to my chest. Inside, the Bungeoppang, those sweet, fish-shaped pastries, were still radiating a wonderful, steam-filled warmth. BEEP. BEEP. I was starting up the stairs of Hyeonjae's building, the light growing dim on the landing. The repetitive step, step, step of my climb felt like the slow, grueling pace of my life, but the thought of seeing him was a small comfort. I may have arrived a little earlier today, but I hoped he would be there. Hyeonjae should be home, right?
I could already taste the sweet red bean paste. It'd be nice to eat these while they're still hot.
The Wrong Person at the Door
I reached his apartment door and set the pastries down momentarily. My fingers-slightly red from the cold, slightly chapped from the cleaning solutions-typed in the familiar digital code. BEEP. BEEP. My hand hovered over the scanner, and then I heard the heavy, mechanical WHOOSH as the lock disengaged.
I reached for the handle and pulled the door open.
"...!"
My world stopped. The heat from the apartment spilled out, but all I felt was a sudden, icy shock. The woman standing there wasn't Hyeonjae. She was devastatingly beautiful, dressed in clothes that looked effortless and expensive, illuminated by the soft interior light. My scarf suddenly felt scratchy, my coat too puffy, and the humble bag of snacks in my hand felt utterly ridiculous.
A voice left my lips, barely a breath: "OH MY GOSH!"
She smiled, a perfectly symmetrical, brilliant flash of white teeth that I'd seen on countless billboards. The smile didn't feel kind; it felt like a spotlight turned on my mediocrity.
"I was wondering who it could be," she said, her voice smooth and melodic, like something professionally recorded. She didn't have to wonder; she knew me, or at least, she knew of me. I could feel the heat radiating off her confidence, making me feel smaller, more bundled, and entirely insignificant.
She took a confident step forward, the movement drawing my attention to her clothes, her flawless makeup, the utter lack of the grime of real life on her.
"Myeong! It's been a while."
My heart hammered against my ribs, instantly recognizing the face of my professional-and now apparently, personal-nightmare. The name formed in my mind like a shattering pane of glass, carrying with it a weight of dread and competitive misery that always followed her presence.
"...Yena Ban...?"
The Invasion
The blood drained from my face the moment I spoke her name: "...Yena Ban...?"
She was standing in the doorway of my apartment-the home I shared with my boyfriend, Hyeonjae. She looked like she owned the place, her arms crossed confidently, her radiant celebrity smile completely at odds with the confusion churning in my gut. I was still clutching the package of cooling Bungeoppang, feeling like an utterly pathetic, bundled-up cleaning lady.
Yena Ban gave a bright, tinkling laugh, the sound grating against my shock. "OH! You must have been surprised."
Surprised was an understatement. I was horrified, confused, and suddenly keenly aware of my cheap scarf and the faint smell of house cleaner clinging to my coat. The only thing I could articulate was the burning violation of my personal space.
"...What are you doing in my house?" I managed, the words laced with a tremor of cold indignation.
Before she could answer, the bedroom door opened and Hyeonjae walked out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, wearing only a t-shirt and loose pants. My heart seized up. He looked completely oblivious, utterly comfortable in this impossible situation.
"...Oh, hey babe. You're home?" he greeted me, his voice casual.
The familiarity between them was a punch to the stomach.
The Convenient Excuse
Yena Ban quickly took control of the narrative, her smile never wavering. "I had to discuss something with Assistant Director Woo about our upcoming shoot."
Assistant Director Woo. The Assistant Director of the movie "GIRL," which was receiving early critical acclaim-the movie Yena was starring in. A movie I, a cleaning lady/unknown actress, could only dream of being a part of. The poster flashed in my mind: dark, gritty, featuring the beautiful, bloodied image of Yena Ban.
Hyeonjae stepped forward, putting a casual arm around Yena's shoulder. "Ohh, so that's why you came to our house while I was out. Come on, Myeong!" he chuckled, trying to make light of my visible distress.
I felt a sudden, fierce protectiveness over our small apartment. "Why do you have to do that at our house?" I demanded, looking from him to her.
Yena's smile hardened just slightly, revealing the edge beneath the polish. "I'm sure you're aware that I can't just go around to places like everyone else." The implicit message was clear: I am a star; you are not. I have reasons that supersede your petty convenience.
She continued, spinning her story smoothly: "And Assistant Director Woo said that his place happened to be free. You know this movie's super important to me and Assistant Director Woo. You'll have to understand."
Hyeonjae squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. "You can't get the wrong idea from something like this, you know."
I pulled back from his touch, a hollow, bitter feeling spreading through my chest. 'Wrong idea?' I wanted to scream. The wrong idea is that this is normal. The wrong idea is that you've created a safe space for your famous colleague, one who always makes me feel small, in the one place that was supposed to be mine!
I just managed to give a tight, cold scoff
A Flashback of Disdain
The sight of Yena Ban triggered a painful, long-dormant memory of our time together.
Yena Ban is a colleague who's two years younger than me. We were students together, though our relationship was never close. In college, Yena Ban was usually alone... or at least, she projected an aloof air that kept people away.
I remembered one specific afternoon. I was a student then, timid and uncertain.
I was carrying my backpack when I saw her. A quiet girl approached her, speaking nervously. "H-Hey, Seonbae! What perfume do you use...? It smells nice..." The term Seonbae-a respectful title for a senior colleague or student-felt almost mocking, given her attitude.
Yena had looked at the girl with cool, detached eyes. "Um... I'm not wearing perfume."
She had always kept her distance. Which made what happened next so startling.
...But she approached me first quite proactively.
I didn't recall the exact conversation, only that she had sought me out, offering some form of brittle camaraderie. She was two years younger, yet even then, she possessed a chilling maturity, a focused ambition that felt dangerous. That memory, juxtaposed with her casual presence in my home, filled me with a deeper sense of dread.
This wasn't just a discussion about a movie. This felt like an invasion, a marker staked in my territory, asserting her superior status in both my professional world and, terrifyingly, my private one.
The Ghost of Success
I forced the memory of Yena Ban from my mind, but the sting of her presence-and Hyeonjae's dismissive handling of the situation-lingered like a bruise. The truth was, at first, I was genuinely rooting for her.
There was a time when I still believed in the pure, competitive spirit of acting. I remembered sitting with Hyeonjae on our small couch, watching the awards ceremony on his phone.
The announcer's voice boomed: "ONE YEAR LATER, YENA BAN STARRED IN A FILM BY AN ESTEEMED DIRECTOR... AND WON THE BEST NEW ACTRESS AWARD THAT YEAR."
On the screen, Yena, her hair cut short, stood clutching the trophy. She was sobbing, beautiful and fragile under the blinding lights. "I'd like to dedicate this award to my family in heaven..." she choked out.
Hyeonjae's arm was around me, squeezing me in shared happiness. "I'm so happy for Yena," he said, and I echoed him: "Yeah." CLAP. CLAP. CLAP. We clapped for her, celebrating her victory in our humble, secondhand living room.
Watching my younger colleague succeed, I felt happy for her accomplishments as though they were my own. It was a desperate, hopeful feeling-a belief that if she, someone I knew, could do it, maybe I could too.
I remembered the congratulatory dinner I took her to. I had found the fanciest place my limited budget would allow.
"WOW, this place is really fancy. It must be super expensive!" Yena had exclaimed, laughing, raising her glass. "This one's on me!" I'd insisted. She'd just smiled, a small, knowing upturn of her lips. "It's nothing, really." But in her eyes, I'd sensed that slight, almost imperceptible shift: the gulf between us was already widening.
I thought back to a moment right after the dinner, where she looked at me with a disconcerting intensity. "Oh, and... I can call you Myeong, right?"
"...Huh?" I'd stammered, surprised by the abrupt personal question. I didn't think she'd ever addressed me so informally. For a fleeting second, her guard had dropped, and I saw something strange flicker in her eyes, a vulnerability or perhaps a calculation that I couldn't decipher. "I've never seen her make that face..."
"Sure..." I managed, my voice thin. "Sure... of course."
The Final Blow
But the goodwill died a quick, brutal death.
BUT...
The screen changed, pulling me violently out of the past and into the harsh present. I was back in the apartment, sitting across from Hyeonjae now, the earlier tension still thick in the air. He didn't look at me as he spoke, his voice heavy with professional disappointment, not romantic concern.
He delivered the final, devastating blow: "Yena's going to be the lead in Muse."
My whole body recoiled as if slapped. I hadn't been expecting that. The words burst out of me, raw and desperate: "WHAT?! I THOUGHT THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MY ROLE!"
Muse. The project I had been tirelessly working toward. The role I had pinned my hopes on for months. The one I truly believed was mine.
Hyeonjae sighed, his hands running through his hair, the gesture of someone resigned to failure. He looked at me then, but with pity, not partnership.
"Her people must have gotten there first," he muttered, offering the bland, cutting truth of the industry.
The words were simple, yet they encapsulated my entire career struggle: the real talent and hard work meant nothing when stacked against the connections and power of "her people." The famous, the recognized, the successful.
Yena Ban had taken my house, stolen my boyfriend's attention, and now, she had effortlessly snatched the last sliver of my professional hope. The irony of my name, Myeong (Fame), had never felt more like a curse. I was truly starting to hate her.
"WHAT?! I THOUGHT THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MY ROLE!" The words ripped from my throat, raw and desperate. My carefully constructed composure, already fractured by Yena Ban's sudden appearance, crumbled entirely. The betrayal was like a physical blow.
Hyeonjae, however, merely sighed, a heavy, frustrated sound that grated on my ears. He ran a hand through his hair, avoiding my gaze, and the distance in his eyes was palpable. "Her people must have gotten there first," he repeated, as if this were a simple, unavoidable fact of life.
"That's not fair. So that means I'm out?" My voice was thin, trembling with a mix of fury and despair. This wasn't just a role; it was the role. The one I had poured my heart into, the one I had meticulously prepared for, the one I had allowed myself to dream about.
Hyeonjae finally looked at me, his expression softening into a practiced pity that made my skin crawl. He reached out, his hand gently touching my shoulder. "I'm sorry, baby." But even as he said it, his eyes held no real remorse, only a weariness. It was the weariness of someone explaining an inconvenient truth.
He pulled me into a perfunctory hug, his arms feeling more like a cage than a comfort. "It wasn't like you officially had the part..." he began, his voice taking on that calm, rational tone he used when he wanted to shut down my emotions. "...and it was the director's decision, so I don't have much of a say..."
The excuses piled up like stones, each one heavier than the last. He continued, as if I were a child who simply didn't understand the adult world. "You know this movie's super important to me and Assistant Director Woo. They said they loved the script and really wanted the part. Said they'd match the acting fee and everything." His voice grew softer, almost pleading. "A small film studio like ours should be grateful to cast someone like Yena Ban."
Grateful. The word echoed in my head. Grateful that my dreams were being trampled by a celebrity who didn't even need the role.
"You'll have to understand," he said, pulling back slightly to meet my eyes, which were now brimming with unshed tears. "There will be more opportunities."
More opportunities. The hollow promise of every struggling actor. The empty consolation of someone who didn't understand what this one, specific opportunity meant.
"But still!" I protested, my voice cracking, the tears finally overflowing and streaming down my face. My hands flew to my face, trying to hide the pathetic display. "You know I really wanted this role...!" The sobs wracked my chest, ugly and uncontrolled. I hated that he was seeing me like this. I hated that I was even feeling this much.
Hyeonjae held me tighter again, his chin resting on my head. "Still..." he murmured, his voice laced with resignation. After a moment, I felt his gentle squeeze. "I shouldn't have said anything."
But it was too late. The words were out, the truth laid bare. Yena Ban, the symbol of effortless fame, had taken what little I had left. And Hyeonjae, my partner, had been her accomplice. In that moment, surrounded by the remnants of my broken dream, a cold, hard resolve began to form within me. The pain was still fresh, but underneath it, a different kind of fire was kindling. A fire born of humiliation, and a desperate, burning desire for my own, real fame.
The Irony of My Name
I'm twenty-nine years old, and the irony of my existence cuts deeper every day. My name is Myeong Yu, which literally means Fame, yet I'm an unknown actress... who cleans houses as a side gig.
I clutched the paper bag close, the warmth of the Bungeoppang fading with every step. I may have arrived a little earlier today... Hyeonjae should be home, right? It'd be nice to eat these while they're still hot.
BEEP. BEEP. The code went in. WHOOSH. The lock opened, and my entire world fractured.
"...!"
Standing in my doorway, looking effortlessly glamorous, was the top actress, Yena Ban.
"Myeong! It's been a while," she greeted me with a polished smile. The words were familiar, but the sight was paralyzing. "I was wondering who it could be."
"...Yena Ban...?"
I was mortified, pulling my scarf higher. OH MY GOSH! My shock quickly turned to indignation. "What are you doing in my house?"
Before she could answer, Hyeonjae appeared, casual and oblivious. "Oh, hey babe. You're home?"
Yena spun a quick excuse about discussing the upcoming shoot for the movie, "GIRL," with Assistant Director Woo. "You know this movie's super important to me and Assistant Director Woo. You'll have to understand."
But all I could feel was a crushing sense of violation. "Now when I look at her... I feel... uneasy."
"Get out," I whispered, the words barely audible but loaded with absolute finality. "Can you not come to my house when I'm not around? OR ELSE I MIGHT GET THE WRONG F*CKING IDEA."
Yena's perfect smile vanished. Her eyes widened, a look of genuine surprise I had never seen on her face. "...What? A-are you mad...?"
Hyeonjae stepped between us, his face tight with stress, directing his anger at me. "YENA!!!" he yelled. "WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM?! OUR SHOOT'S TOMORROW!"
I stared at him, my heart breaking. "MY ACTOR"...? he'd called her. "Hyeonjae, I'm your girlfriend. Why can't you think about how I feel? What if this throws off my actor's condition and ruins the shoot tomorrow?"
The Price of Fame
His priority was crystal clear. He pulled me aside, the cold, practical reality of the industry washing away any illusion of partnership.
"Yena's going to be the lead in Muse."
"WHAT?! I THOUGHT THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MY ROLE!"
"That's not fair. So that means I'm out?" I demanded, tears burning my eyes.
Hyeonjae's hands went to my shoulders. "I'm sorry, baby." He sighed. "It wasn't like you officially had the part... and it was the director's decision, so I don't have much of a say..."
"You know this movie's super important to me and Assistant Director Woo... A small film studio like ours should be grateful to cast someone like Yena Ban." His arguments were purely professional, cold and logical, yet they tore through my personal dignity. "There will be more opportunities."
"BUT STILL! You know I really wanted this role...!" The despair was too much. The sobs broke free, ugly and uncontrollable. I buried my face in my hands, gasping for air. SOB. SNIFFLE. SOB.
Hyeonjae held me, his hug a poor attempt at damage control. "This is so sudden... You know what this industry's like, baby." He murmured into my hair, his voice softening slightly with pity.
"Still... I shouldn't have said anything."
I pulled away, my vision blurred by tears, but my face hardened. "Can you not come to my house when I'm not around?" I repeated, the edge in my voice razor-sharp. I knew then that my sorrow was transforming into something else: a cold, focused resolve. My name was Fame, and I was done being the punchline.
I picked up the box of cold pastries I had dropped. "...I... just... Sorry," I choked out, a final, defeated gesture before pulling the door SHUT on both of them, and walking out into the cold.
The Argument
"It's not like I cheated," Hyeonjae spat, throwing his hands up in a gesture of frustrated defense that only fueled my anger. "Why are you being overly sensitive over something so petty?"
Petty. He had reduced the theft of my dream role and the violation of my personal space to a trivial melodrama. His words were a knife twisting in the wound.
"All I did was talk about the film with Yena," he continued, trying to sound reasonable, which only made him sound cold. "Can we please keep work separate from our personal lives?"
He missed the point entirely. He was the one who dragged his work-and his professional admiration for Yena-right into our home.
Then came the accusation, the one that stung the most: "Just because your career's not working out... doesn't mean you have to take it out on a girl just doing her best!" He was defending her, the successful star, against me, the girlfriend who cleans houses.
My breath hitched. My entire body felt heavy with the injustice of it all. "You could have let me know that Yena was going to be here while I was out. Just because it's work, my feelings don't matter?" I wanted him to see me, to acknowledge my pain as valid, but his gaze was locked on his own frustration.
The Realization
I stared at him, my tears having dried into a hot, brittle mask. "All I wanted... was a little bit of courtesy," I thought. Courtesy as a girlfriend... as an actor. I wanted him to fight for me, but he saw me as a liability and Yena as an asset.
I couldn't argue back. I couldn't scream at him, "The reason I couldn't say anything... was because of a social hierarchy that had formed within us." He was on one rung of the ladder-my rung-but he was constantly looking up at Yena's success, and he was ready to push me down to climb higher.
He didn't see the love, only the obstacle. He didn't see me; he saw an insecure girlfriend whose "career's not working out."
The silence stretched, thick and painful. I looked down at the paper bag I was still clutching. "The Bungeoppang's all soggy now," I thought, the damp, lukewarm paper mirroring my utter deflation. It was a tiny, inconsequential tragedy, but it felt like the final period on a terrible day.
I couldn't stay. I didn't have the energy to fight him or this invisible force he was serving. I just turned my back on the apartment and on him. "Or argue back against my boyfriend's attitude," I thought, walking away, leaving him to the celebrity he valued more than me.
This is a novel expansion based only on the images you provided, detailing the protagonist's walk away from her apartment and her subsequent encounter. The narrative is written in the first-person perspective of Myeong Yu.
The Walk of Defeat
The door closed behind me with a sickening SHUT. I didn't wait to hear another word from Hyeonjae or Yena Ban. I just walked.
Each step down the stairs was heavy, burdened by the realization that my life, both personal and professional, had just been declared insignificant.
I looked down at my phone. The screen was still displaying the words from the article-the brutal proof of Yena's conquest: The Best New Actress Award that year. I had been happy for her then, I thought, the memory of my past sincerity twisting the knife.
I walked without purpose, the cold air stinging my exposed skin. I kept my face down, hidden by my scarf. I was just an unknown actress who had just lost her biggest dream to a privileged colleague and lost her support system to her boyfriend's professional ambition.
Suddenly, a voice cut through my despair. "Excuse me."
I flinched, instinctively pulling my scarf tighter, not wanting to be seen, not wanting to interact with anyone. I kept walking, assuming the person was talking to someone else.
"You're Myeong Yu, right?" the voice insisted, closer this time, and I stopped dead.
I slowly lifted my head, my eyes narrowed with suspicion. Standing there was a man with stark white hair, wearing a perfectly tailored suit. He had an unnerving intensity in his gaze that seemed to pierce through my tired facade. His face was sharp, almost handsome, and completely unknown to me. He held a small photo album in his hands.
"You were in the Secret Exhibition," he stated, not as a question, but as a fact. "I work for a large company-"
The words barely registered.
All I could focus on was the small album he was presenting. My face was on the cover. It was one of the photos from the controversial exhibit-the one by the renowned, late photographer, Secret-the photos that had briefly thrown me into the media spotlight before the industry shut me out again.
I stared at the album, then back at the man, who was watching me with unnerving focus. My mind screamed at me to run, but my feet were rooted to the pavement.
"...I'm sorry, but who are you?" I asked, my voice barely a croak.
He didn't offer a name, only a title and a statement that felt like a threat and a promise rolled into one: "My name isn't important. I just want to work with you."
His words hung in the cold air, a bizarre, abrupt offer of opportunity emerging from the ashes of my humiliation. The path I had just fled now seemed infinitely less frightening than the one this stranger was laying out before me.