HANA: THE PERFECT EX-GIRLFRIEND (ENGLISH)

HANA: THE PERFECT EX-GIRLFRIEND

Created by Jordi,  Lexi, and Namira

Copyright 2025 by My Naughty Ghost.

All Rights Reserved.

For Rani,

The friend who never let me give up—
who reminded me, over and over, that my words mattered.
Your encouragement echoed louder than doubt ever could.

This book exists because you believed I could write it.
Thank you for always cheering me forward.

Chapter 1: THE FALLOUT

The air in the café felt too thick, pressing down on Hana as if the universe itself were conspiring against her. Siwoo sat across from her, his posture unnervingly rigid, his gaze locked on the tabletop. She noticed how he fiddled with his tie—that tie. Her heart twisted at the sight of it. She had bought it for him just last year, a navy-blue silk tie with subtle diagonal stripes, as a good luck charm when he applied for the very job he now held. It was supposed to symbolize their shared hopes and their future together. Now, that tie was a noose tightening around her chest.

Her breath hitched when he spoke. “We should break up.” The words cut through the noise of the bustling café, severing her from the world around her. She blinked at him, willing herself to believe she had misheard, but the hard line of his jaw told her otherwise.

“What?” she whispered, her voice trembling as the weight of his words began to settle. “What are you saying, Siwoo? Why are you saying this?” Her fingers twisted together in her lap, her whole body trembling with confusion and desperation.

Siwoo shifted uncomfortably, finally meeting her gaze, but there was no warmth in his eyes—only resolve. “Hana,” he said firmly, as though rehearsed. “We’ve talked about this before, so many times. We’re just… too different.”

She stared at him, trying to process the absurdity of it all. Too different? Since when had their differences been a problem? She had loved those differences. His ambition, his drive—it had drawn her to him. And she thought he had admired her for her spontaneity, her ability to find joy in the smallest of things. Had all of that been a lie?

The memory of their arguments resurfaced, haunting her like the Seoul wind now biting at her skin whenever she stepped outside. She could still feel the summer heat from just weeks ago—hot and suffocating, much like their early days of passion. Back then, their love had burned brightly, a relentless fire that consumed them both. But now, like the weather, everything had shifted. The chill of autumn had crept in overnight, freezing the warmth between them until all that was left was cold, empty distance.

“We’re just too different.” She could still hear him saying those words in their past fights. Arguments over their future, over her dreams, over him constantly prioritizing his work over their relationship. He would brush her off, always so focused on getting ahead. “You need to take things more seriously, Hana,” he’d say, shaking his head whenever she talked about her blog or her passion for books and films.

She had gone to college for accounting, not because she wanted to, but because she felt pressured. All her friends had gone into business or finance, and she had been swept along with the current, pretending it was what she wanted. She laughed bitterly at the irony now. Siwoo, too, had nudged her to take that path, his well-intentioned comments disguised as concern. But her parents—they were the ones who had told her to pursue what made her happy. “We just want you to be fulfilled, Hana,” her mother had said so many times. Back then, she couldn’t admit she wasn’t, not even to herself.

It wasn’t until after graduation, while Siwoo was climbing the corporate ladder, that she realized she had been living someone else’s dream. Her heart wasn’t in numbers and spreadsheets. It was in stories. She had always loved losing herself in books, analyzing films, and sharing her thoughts on them with anyone who would listen. That’s when she had started her blog—a small project at first, just a way to vent her creative frustrations.

But no one—least of all Siwoo—had supported her in the beginning. He had shrugged it off like it was some silly hobby. Her friends, too, had been lukewarm at best. “That’s nice,” they’d say with a polite smile, before changing the subject. It stung, more than she wanted to admit, but she kept going. She poured herself into her blog, working on it between her shifts at the bakery, fueled by nothing more than her passion and stubbornness.

And now? Now, she had a decent following. Just last week, she had secured her first sponsor, a small online bookstore. She had been ecstatic, sharing the news with Siwoo. But he had only offered a half-hearted, “That’s great,” before turning back to his work emails. The dismissal still stung, his indifference like a slap in the face.

As his words tumbled out in blunt sentences about promotions and degrees, the ground beneath her seemed to crumble. “I’m working hard to get promoted,” he said, his voice steady. “And you… you don’t even use your degree.” That was the moment her heart truly broke.

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling before she could stop them. How dare he? How dare he reduce her to her failures? He knew how much that degree haunted her—how she had struggled with self-doubt after graduating, how she had poured herself into her blog just to feel like she was doing something worthwhile. He had held her hand through those nights of self-loathing. Or at least, she thought he had.

Her vision blurred as the tears fell faster, hot and unstoppable. She hated herself for crying in public, for giving the strangers around them a front-row seat to her humiliation. Siwoo handed her a napkin, but the gesture felt condescending, almost patronizing. She shoved it away and wiped her face with the back of her hand instead.

“Go,” she choked out, her voice breaking with the effort to sound strong. She could barely get the words out. “Go be your successful money man. I’ll be fine, I promise.” The words felt like poison on her tongue—words meant to free him from guilt, to show him she didn’t need him, even as her heart screamed that she did. She watched his face twist, guilt flickering in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to make him stay.

And that tie… that damned tie. He had the gall to sit there, breaking her heart, while wearing the very thing she had given him to help him succeed. Every thread of that silk tie was soaked with her belief in him, in the life they were supposed to build together. She wanted to grab it, rip it off his neck, and demand he explain why he had the right to keep wearing it when he was throwing her away like an afterthought.

Instead, she sat there, her hands trembling in her lap, her tears falling silently onto the table. She refused to let him see just how completely he had destroyed her. “I’ll be fine,” she repeated, even softer this time, as if trying to convince herself.

He stood then, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. For a moment, she thought he might falter, might reach out to her, might take it all back. But he didn’t. He adjusted that cursed tie, turned, and walked away. The café door jingled shut behind him, and Hana was left alone, a roomful of strangers casting pitying glances her way.

Her chest ached, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The waitress approached tentatively, her hand resting lightly on Hana’s shoulder. “Are you okay, ma’am?” she asked, her voice soft with concern.

Hana forced a smile through her tears. “I’ll be fine,” she said, the lie rolling off her tongue once more. “I just… need some time. And maybe a slice of chocolate cake.”

The waitress hesitated, unsure how to respond, but Hana pressed on. “Actually, make it two. Chocolate and vanilla. And a milkshake. A chocolate one.”

The waitress nodded and hurried away, leaving Hana alone with her shattered thoughts. As she waited for the sweets, Hana stared down at the table, replaying every moment of the breakup, every word Siwoo had said. The pain was unbearable, but deep down, she knew one thing: she had given him everything she had, and he had still decided it wasn’t enough.

When the cake arrived, Hana picked up her fork with trembling hands. She took a bite, the sweetness dulling the sharp edges of her grief, if only for a moment. And as the tears continued to fall, she whispered to herself, “I’ll be fine,” one last time, willing it to be true.

Chapter 1: THE FALLOUT (SIWOO’S PERSPECTIVE)

The café buzzed with the usual noises—glasses clinking, soft laughter, the steady hum of conversation—but to Siwoo, it all sounded distant, like background static in a nightmare. His focus narrowed to the pounding of his heart and the sound of his shallow breathing. His hands, clasped tightly beneath the table, felt clammy. He wanted to steady himself, but nothing could anchor him from the storm brewing inside.

Across from him sat Hana, the woman he had once thought he’d spend the rest of his life with. She gazed at him with her familiar, wide-eyed curiosity, the look that had always made him feel seen. But today, it was unbearable. Her eyes, filled with trust, only made him feel smaller. She didn’t know what was coming. She couldn’t sense that the man she believed in, the man she had supported through every promotion, was about to tear her world apart.

Siwoo dropped his gaze to the table, his eyes tracing the swirling lines in the wood grain. Anything to avoid her face, anything to stop himself from falling apart. His fingers twitched toward the tie around his neck, the one Hana had given him when he applied for his current job. She had been so proud of him back then, believing in him more than he had believed in himself. The tie had once been a symbol of her faith in him, but now it felt like a weight around his neck, a noose tightening with every second he stayed silent.

He swallowed, his throat dry. “We should break up,” he finally said, the words leaving his mouth before he had the chance to think them through. The moment they escaped, he felt a hollow ache in his chest. He hadn’t meant for it to sound so cold, so final, but there was no taking it back now. The silence that followed felt suffocating, and he wished, for just a moment, that the world would stop. That time would freeze, and he could be spared from what was about to come.

Hana blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What?” she asked, her voice soft but trembling. “Siwoo, what are you talking about? Why are you saying this?”

Her question hung in the air like a challenge, but Siwoo couldn’t answer right away. He had practiced this moment over and over in his head, rehearsing the words, preparing for how he would explain everything. Yet now, staring into Hana’s confused and tear-filled eyes, every carefully planned word felt cruel and clumsy. He wanted to tell her the truth—that he didn’t deserve her, that she deserved someone better, someone who would support her dreams without judgment. But the words refused to come out.

“We’re too different,” he said instead, repeating the lie he had told himself to justify what he was doing. It sounded pathetic, even to him. It wasn’t the real reason, but it was the only thing he could think to say. He couldn’t explain the guilt that had been gnawing at him for months, the feeling that he had failed her in a way he couldn’t fix.

Hana’s face crumpled, and Siwoo felt his stomach twist into knots. Her pain was palpable, and he knew he was the cause. He had never wanted to hurt her like this. But in trying to avoid the truth for so long, he had made things worse.

“I don’t understand,” Hana said, her voice cracking. “I thought we were okay. I thought we were happy.”

Siwoo’s chest tightened at her words. They had been happy once, hadn’t they? But somewhere along the way, things had changed. It wasn’t Hana’s fault. It was him. He had grown distant, consumed by his job, by the pressure to succeed. He had watched her build something new, something she was passionate about—a blog where she shared her love for books and films. Her excitement was infectious at first, but as she poured herself into it, Siwoo couldn’t help but feel a sense of disconnect.

When Hana had gone to college for accounting, she hadn’t really wanted to. Siwoo knew that. She had told him about how she felt pressured by her friends, how everyone expected her to choose something “practical.” Her parents had been supportive of her decision to leave accounting behind, wanting her to be happy above all else. But her friends, and even Siwoo, hadn’t been as understanding. When Hana announced she was going to start a blog, Siwoo had smiled and nodded, but deep down, he hadn’t taken it seriously. He had thought it was a phase, something she’d get tired of.

But Hana hadn’t stopped. She kept working at it, despite the lack of support from her friends, and even from him. She had pushed forward, determined to make something of her passion. And she had succeeded. She had a decent following now, people who actually cared about what she had to say. She had even landed her first sponsor recently, a milestone she had been so excited about. Siwoo had congratulated her, but part of him still couldn’t fully understand why it mattered so much to her.

And that was the problem. He hadn’t celebrated her successes the way he should have. He had judged her, even if he hadn’t said it out loud. He had seen her as someone who wasn’t living up to her potential, who wasn’t using her degree the way society expected. But Hana wasn’t like him. She didn’t care about climbing the corporate ladder, about promotions or money. She cared about doing what made her happy, and Siwoo had never fully appreciated that.

“I’m working hard to get promoted,” he said, forcing himself to keep going, even though the words felt like knives in his chest. “And you… you don’t even use your degree.”

He immediately regretted it. The moment those words left his mouth, he saw the pain flash across her face. It wasn’t just sadness now. It was betrayal. Her shoulders shook as she tried to hold back her tears, but they fell anyway, streaming down her cheeks. Siwoo reached for a napkin, wanting to help, but she shoved it away.

“Go,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Go be your successful money man. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Her words were a lie, and he knew it. She wouldn’t be fine. She was trying to be strong, trying to put on a brave face, but he could hear the pain beneath her defiance. She had always been so strong, stronger than he ever was. But this time, he had pushed her too far.

Siwoo stood up, adjusting the tie Hana had given him, feeling its weight like a burden he no longer wanted to carry. He couldn’t bear to stay a second longer, to watch the woman he loved break down in front of him. He had made his choice, and now he had to live with it.

As he walked out of the café and into the street, the cold air hit him, but it did nothing to clear the heaviness in his chest. The guilt clung to him like a second skin, impossible to shake. He kept walking, his feet carrying him forward, but his mind was still back in the café with Hana, replaying the scene over and over. Her tears, her trembling voice, the way she had looked at him with such hurt—it was all seared into his memory.

He told himself that this was for the best, that they were too different, that Hana would be happier without him. But deep down, Siwoo knew the truth. He wasn’t breaking up with her because they were incompatible. He was breaking up with her because he didn’t deserve her. He never had. And now, he had lost her for good.

CHAPTER 2: THE BATHROOM CALL

The light filtering through the blinds barely moved. Time had passed—hours, probably—but it didn’t feel like it. Hana had been in bed since she returned from the café, curled up in a bundle of blankets that no longer offered any warmth. The heaviness in her chest hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had thickened like fog in her lungs, making it hard to breathe without thinking of him.

She didn’t cry anymore. Her eyes were sore, dry, and raw, but her heart still ached as though it hadn’t caught up with her body’s exhaustion. Sleep had become a faraway concept—something other people could enjoy. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Siwoo sitting across from her in that café, stiff in the tie she had given him, mouth tight, gaze distant, telling her the one thing she never thought she’d hear.

“We should break up.”

She pulled the blankets tighter around herself, as if she could block the memory from coming back. But it came anyway—over and over, as relentless as the ticking clock on her nightstand.

At some point, she forced herself to get up, not because she wanted to, but because her body demanded it. The floor felt like ice beneath her bare feet as she padded into the bathroom. Her mind was still clouded, dulled by sadness and sleeplessness.

She sat down and closed her eyes, hoping maybe, just maybe, her thoughts would quiet down if she just sat still long enough. But the silence didn’t last.

🎶 dun-dun, DUN DUN… dun-dun, DUN DUN… 🎶

The ridiculous urgency of the Mission: Impossible ringtone echoed off the bathroom tiles. Her phone, balanced on the edge of the sink, buzzed wildly with the energy of someone who didn’t understand heartbreak.

“UGHHH! I’m on the toilet!” she shouted before even thinking.

The words left her mouth and echoed in the room like an embarrassing slap.

She groaned and let her head fall into her hands. “Why did I say that out loud?” she muttered, eyes squinting at the ceiling.

Once she was done, she washed her hands, stared briefly at her reflection—puffy cheeks, dull eyes, hair in a sad mess of a bun—and picked up her phone. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not now. Not when she was still trying to figure out how her life unraveled in the span of a single café visit.

Still, she hit “call back.”

“Yah, noona,” Eun-woo answered almost immediately. “Did you fall in?”

Hana sighed, too tired to respond with her usual sarcasm. “What do you want?”

“It’s Sunday. Did you forget?” he asked, and she could practically hear his smirk through the speaker. “Mom made kimchi pancakes. I told her you’d probably flake again, but she insisted I call.”

Hana blinked. “It’s Sunday?”

“Yes. And family night. You coming or what?”

“I… I don’t know, Eun-woo.”

There was a short pause. He lowered his voice a little, as if he already knew something was wrong. “Noona, you sound like crap.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly.

“Just come. Eat. You don’t even have to talk.”

Hana hesitated. Her first instinct was to say no, to hang up, to go back to bed and wallow in the nothingness. But the thought of seeing her mom… her dad… even her annoying brother… there was comfort in that. Familiarity.

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” she said, already walking toward the closet to throw on a sweater.

---

The smell of sesame oil and scallions hit her as soon as she stepped through the door of her parents’ house. It smelled like safety.

Her mom greeted her with a warm smile and a hand on her cheek. “There’s my girl.”

Hana didn’t say much. She smiled weakly and took her usual seat at the kitchen table. Eun-woo was already shoveling food into his mouth like a starving animal. Nothing had changed.

Dinner passed in a soft blur. Her parents talked mostly to each other, catching up on neighborhood gossip, news stories, and the usual Sunday chatter. Hana barely touched her food. She poked at the kimchi pancake with her chopsticks, unable to bring herself to eat more than a few bites.

Eventually, her mother noticed. “Hana-yah,” she said gently, “where’s Siwoo?”

The words felt like they crashed into the table. Hana lowered her chopsticks. Her throat tightened instantly.

“I…” she whispered, her voice cracking before she could finish.

The tears came suddenly and without warning. She didn’t even feel them until her mother was already out of her seat, pulling her into a tight hug. Her mother didn’t ask anything more. She just held her, whispering soothing words into her hair. Eun-woo looked like he wanted to disappear, awkward and unsure for once.Her father stood up without a word and walked out the front door.

Minutes passed. Hana’s sobs quieted. Her mom guided her to the couch, tucked a blanket around her, and turned on a soft drama rerun on TV.

Then the front door opened again.

Her dad came back inside, holding a small white bakery bag. He walked over and set it on her lap.She peeked inside and laughed through her sniffles. Walnut cakes. Still warm.

“You went all the way to the bakery?” she asked.

He shrugged, plopping down beside her. “What? I was craving them.”

“But you hate sweet things.”

“Coincidence,” he said with a wink. “Pure coincidence.”

She leaned against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Thank you.”

He patted her hair awkwardly but didn’t pull away. “You’ll be okay.”

She smiled faintly. “I think I will.”

Later that night, after she washed up and changed into one of her mom’s oversized sleep shirts, she stood by the guest room doorway.

“I’ll go back tomorrow,” she said softly. “I’ll be fine.”

Her mother walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You can stay here as long as you need. I’ll pick up some clothes from your place after work.”

Hana nodded, her throat tight again—but this time not from sadness. From relief.

For the first time in days, she felt like she might survive this after all.

CHAPTER 3: THE EMPTY TIE HOOK

The hallway outside their apartment—no, not their apartment anymore—smelled like burnt rice and stale detergent. It was familiar. Depressingly so. Siwoo stood in front of the door with the dull brown paint, staring at the scuffed metal numbers that once meant “home.”

He hadn’t knocked, even though no one was behind it. He hadn’t tried the key in the lock, though it sat cold and ready in his hand. He’d come back only for essentials. A few suits. Some underwear. Toothpaste.

He didn’t want to see what was left behind.

Did her shampoo still sit in the shower? Was her blue robe still hanging by the bedroom door? Would her books still be stacked next to the bed in uneven towers—some read, most half-finished?

He didn’t want the answers.

Instead, he turned around and walked away without even stepping inside.

---

Min-jun’s apartment was in one of those sleek, modern buildings with fingerprint locks and minimalist furniture. It smelled like cologne and floor cleaner, and Siwoo felt like a guest the moment he stepped in, even though Min-jun had tossed him a spare key and told him to “stay as long as you need.”

It had none of the clutter that defined life with Hana. No plants in teacups, no mystery containers in the fridge labeled with cute sticky notes, no smell of burnt toast in the air because she always forgot to check the setting on the toaster.

Instead, there was a pristine couch. A single framed poster of some action movie. A giant flat-screen TV that looked like it had never been turned off.

Siwoo dropped his bag in the corner and sat down with a sigh, trying not to let the silence get to him.

“You’ll be fine,” Min-jun had said. “Breakups happen. Better now than later.”

---

The next day at work, Siwoo tried to keep his head down. He buried himself in spreadsheets and emails, hoping the glowing monitor would distract him from the weight in his chest. But it followed him everywhere.

At lunch, he finally worked up the nerve to say it out loud.

“I broke up with Hana yesterday.”

They were sitting at a little sandwich shop across the street from the office, the kind with uncomfortable plastic chairs and soggy pickles in every combo meal. Siwoo hadn’t expected a reaction. But still, Min-jun’s response landed with a thud.

“Yeah? Good. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d go through with it.”

Siwoo blinked. “What do you mean, good?”

Min-jun shrugged, unwrapping his sandwich lazily. “Dude, you’ve been stressed for months. Every time we went out, she was texting you about some blog update or her feelings or whatever.”

“She wasn’t nagging, she was just—”

Min-jun held up a hand. “Relax. I’m not trying to trash her. I’m just saying, you two were on different planets. Now you can finally move on. Go after someone who, I dunno, wants the same things you want. Like Nari. She’s cute, laughs at your dumb jokes. She’s way more your type.”

Siwoo bit into his sandwich just to stop himself from speaking. The bread was dry. The lettuce was warm. His stomach turned with every chew.

He didn’t want Nari. Or anyone else.

He just wanted to feel normal again.

---

That night, he let Min-jun drag him to a bar downtown. A place with purple lighting and pounding music, where people shouted over the bass and pretended to have meaningful conversations.

Siwoo didn’t want to go, but he had no better ideas. Staying in meant sitting alone in the dark, staring at the empty side of a couch that wasn’t his.

So he let Min-jun shove a drink into his hand. Let himself be pulled into laughter he didn’t feel. Let himself pretend, just for a while, that he hadn’t ripped his own life in half less than 48 hours ago.

They found a corner booth. Min-jun started flirting with two women who were clearly younger than both of them, barely out of grad school, maybe. One of them had a high-pitched laugh like glass clinking.

Siwoo drank steadily. Whiskey first. Then beer. Then something green and sour that he didn’t question. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to be numb.

But someone did talk to him.

She was tall, poised, dressed in a way that suggested confidence. She wore a silk top and had rings on nearly every finger. Her hair was curled just right. She leaned in close and said something about how “sad guys are the most interesting ones.”

He didn’t laugh, but he nodded. She smiled. She asked his name. He gave it. She entered her number into his phone without asking, taking a selfie and setting it as her contact photo.

“You’ll thank me tomorrow,” she said, tapping the screen with a manicured finger.

Then she kissed him on the cheek.

It was light. Just a brush of her lips. Quick. Playful.

But it hit him like a punch.

---

Later that night, alone in Min-jun’s spare bedroom, Siwoo sat on the edge of the mattress and stared at the duffel bag he hadn’t unpacked. His suit jacket hung on a hook near the door. The tie Hana had given him—the one she bought when he was nervous for his first big job interview—was still looped loosely around the hanger.

He hadn’t worn it today. He couldn’t.

His hand hovered over the fabric. He thought about the way she had smiled as she helped him straighten it the first time. How proud she had been of him.

How she used to call him “Mr. CEO” whenever he wore it, even though he was just a junior analyst back then.

He sat back down and rested his head in his hands.

The truth was, he hadn’t broken up with her because of their differences. He had broken up with her because he couldn’t stand the feeling that he was holding her back. Because she was growing—building something real with her blog, finding her voice—and he wasn’t ready to grow with her. He was afraid. Afraid of becoming small next to her light. Afraid that someday she would wake up and realize she deserved someone better.

So he made the decision for her.

He told himself he had done the right thing. That it was clean, adult, mature.

But sitting in a borrowed room, next to a borrowed bed, with another woman’s lipstick faintly smudged on his cheek and his tie still folded like a memory—Siwoo realized he hadn’t gained freedom.

He had just traded love for silence.

And in the dark, silence was the loudest thing of all.

CHAPTER 4: FINDING HER VOICE

The laptop screen glowed in the dim light of her bedroom, casting blue shadows across Hana’s face as she adjusted the camera angle for the third time. Her hands trembled slightly as she smoothed down her hair and checked her reflection in the small preview window. She looked tired—her eyes still carried the weight of sleepless nights—but there was something else there too. A spark of determination that hadn’t been there a week ago.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself, taking a deep breath. “You can do this.”

She had been planning this livestream for days, ever since she’d decided she was tired of hiding behind carefully edited blog posts and scheduled content. She wanted to try something real, something immediate. Something that felt like her own voice instead of the polished version she thought everyone expected.

Her finger hovered over the “Go Live” button. The title she’d chosen sat at the top of the screen: “Late Night Book Chat: When Stories Save You.” It felt vulnerable, maybe too vulnerable, but she pressed the button anyway.

The viewer count started at zero. Then one. Then three.

“Hi, everyone,” she said, her voice softer than she’d intended. “I’m Hana, and this is… well, this is my first time going live. I usually just write my reviews, but tonight felt different. Tonight I wanted to talk.”

The comments section remained empty for a moment, then slowly began to fill.

BookLover92: First! Love your blog! NightOwl_Seoul: You look nervous, it’s cute ReadingWithTea: What book are you reviewing tonight?

Hana felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. “Thank you for being here with me. I know it’s late, but sometimes the best conversations happen when the rest of the world is sleeping, right?”

The viewer count climbed. Twenty. Forty. Sixty.

“Tonight I want to talk about a book that completely wrecked me this week. It’s called ‘The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo,’ and I know I’m probably years late to this party, but…” She held up the worn paperback, its pages marked with colorful sticky tabs. “This book reminded me that sometimes the stories we tell ourselves about our own lives are the most dangerous ones.”

MovieBuff_K: OMG yes! That book destroyed me Anonymous457: why are you so ugly lol BookishGirl: Ignore the trolls, you’re beautiful! Anonymous457: would totally bang tho

Hana’s stomach clenched at the cruel comments, but she forced herself to keep talking. When she was with Siwoo, his dismissive reactions to her passion had made her feel small, like her thoughts didn’t matter. But here, even with the trolls, she could see that her words were reaching people. Real people who cared about the same things she did.

“The main character, Evelyn, spends most of her life performing for other people,” Hana continued, her voice growing stronger. “She becomes what she thinks they want her to be, and in the process, she almost loses who she really is. And I think… I think we all do that sometimes.”

ReaderInSeoul: Are you okay? You sound sad NightOwl_Seoul: We’re here for you BookLover92: This is why I love your reviews, they’re so honest

The viewer count had reached over a hundred. Hana’s heart raced, but it wasn’t fear anymore—it was excitement.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about authenticity lately,” she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “About the difference between being loved for who you are and being loved for who you pretend to be. And I realize now that I spent a long time trying to be someone else’s idea of perfect.”

Anonymous890: show us your tits BookishGirl: Report that guy ReadingWithTea: You’re perfect just as you are

For the first time in months, maybe years, Hana felt truly heard. Not judged, not dismissed—heard. Even the trolls seemed insignificant compared to the warmth flowing through the comments from people who understood her.

She talked for another hour, discussing plot points and character development, sharing personal anecdotes that she’d never had the courage to put in her written reviews. When she finally ended the stream, she felt lighter than she had in weeks.

The next morning, she woke up to dozens of new followers and comments full of gratitude from people who said her stream had helped them feel less alone.

For the first time since the breakup, Hana smiled and meant it.

---

Later that week, Hana stood in her tiny apartment, staring at the growing pile of laundry that had been taunting her from the corner of her bedroom. Her mom had offered to pick it up again, the way she’d been doing since Hana had come home that first terrible Sunday, but something inside her rebelled against the idea.

She needed to do this herself.

The turtle-themed laundry bag she’d bought on impulse the month before sat folded in her closet, still with the tags on. It was bright green with a smiling cartoon turtle on the front, and when she’d first seen it, it had made her laugh. Siwoo had rolled his eyes at the purchase.

“It’s childish,” he’d said. “Why can’t you just use a normal bag?”

Now, as she stuffed her clothes into the turtle’s fabric shell, she remembered why she’d loved it. It was cheerful and silly and unapologetically cute—everything Siwoo had tried to discourage her from being.

The laundromat was a ten-minute walk from her apartment, nestled between a convenience store and a small restaurant that always smelled like garlic and sesame oil. She’d passed it countless times but never been inside.

The smell hit her first—warm and clean, with undertones of fabric softener and something indefinably comforting. The machines hummed and churned in rhythmic cycles, and fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. It wasn’t beautiful, but it felt real in a way that her sterile apartment didn’t.

Hana loaded her clothes into one of the larger machines, fumbling with the unfamiliar controls. An ahjumma at the folding table nearby watched her struggle and finally came over to help.

“First time?” the woman asked kindly, adjusting the settings with practiced ease.

“Is it that obvious?” Hana laughed, embarrassed.

“We all start somewhere, dear. The secret is the right amount of detergent and patience.”

As her clothes tumbled and sloshed, Hana settled into one of the plastic chairs lining the wall. She reached for her phone to put in her headphones, then realized she’d forgotten them at home. Her first instinct was frustration—how would she pass the time without a podcast or music?

But as she sat there, surrounded by the domestic symphony of washing machines and the gentle chatter of other customers, she found herself relaxing in a way she hadn’t expected. The ahjummas gossiped softly about their children and the rising price of vegetables. A college student in the corner was hand-washing delicate items, humming under her breath. The whole scene felt peacefully mundane.

Hana got up to buy a snack from the vending machine—beef jerky and a can of Coca-Cola, an odd combination that somehow felt perfect for the moment. The jerky was salty and satisfying, and the cola was cold and sweet. She savored both slowly, watching her clothes spin through the glass door of the machine.

When was the last time she’d just sat somewhere without consuming content, without trying to be productive? She couldn’t remember. With Siwoo, every moment had felt like it needed to be optimized, improved, and made more efficient. Even their dates had become exercises in checking boxes rather than simply being together.

Here, in this humble laundromat with its cracked linoleum and mismatched chairs, she felt more at peace than she had in their expensive apartment with its careful decorating and constant sense that she wasn’t quite living up to its standards.

The washing machine chimed, and Hana moved her clothes to the dryer. She bought another Coca-Cola and settled back into her chair, this time pulling out a small notebook she always carried. Words began to flow onto the page—not a blog post, not content for anyone else, just thoughts and observations about this ordinary Thursday evening that felt anything but ordinary.

By the time her clothes were dry and folded, she had filled six pages and felt like she’d found a piece of herself she’d forgotten existed.

---

Thursday morning found Hana standing in the produce section of the grocery store, staring at the same frozen dinner she’d been buying for the past two weeks. Beef bulgogi with rice, convenient and familiar. She reached for it automatically, then stopped.

Her hand hovered over the plastic container as she thought about the livestream, about the laundromat, about all the small ways she’d been rediscovering herself since the breakup. When was the last time she’d actually cooked something? Really cooked, not just reheated or assembled?

Before Siwoo, she experimented in the kitchen. Nothing fancy, but she’d enjoyed the process of combining flavors, the satisfaction of creating something from scratch. Siwoo had preferred ordering takeout or going to restaurants. “More efficient,” he’d say. “Why spend time cooking when we could be doing something productive?”

She put the frozen dinner back and grabbed a shopping cart.

The vegetable section overwhelmed her with possibilities. Bright orange carrots with their green tops still attached. Enormous daikon radishes, white and smooth. Bundles of fresh herbs that smelled like sunshine when she held them to her nose. She selected things almost at random—whatever looked interesting, whatever called to her.

At the fish counter, she pointed to a piece of mackerel that looked particularly fresh, its skin still bright and clear. The ajusshi behind the counter wrapped it carefully and offered cooking advice she only half understood but nodded at enthusiastically.

In the grain aisle, she bypassed the familiar instant rice for something more substantial—short-grain rice that would require actual attention, actual care. She added beans, sesame oil, gochujang, garlic, ginger. Her cart was filled with ingredients that had no predetermined destiny, no recipe they were meant to fulfill.

At home, she spread everything out on her small kitchen counter and felt a flutter of panic. What had she been thinking? She had no plan, no recipe, no idea what any of this would become. But then she remembered the livestream, the way vulnerability had felt like strength rather than weakness.

She picked up her phone and opened her streaming app, then set it down again. Not yet. First, she wanted to think.

That night, she lay in bed reading a novel she’d picked up months ago but never finished—a romance about two chefs who fall in love while competing for the same job. She’d dismissed it at first as too fluffy, too unrealistic. But now, as she read about their passion for creating something beautiful and nourishing, about the way they found each other through their shared love of food, she found herself deeply moved.

The female protagonist reminded her of herself in some ways—creative but insecure, talented but afraid to take risks. The male lead was nothing like Siwoo, though. He celebrated the woman’s ambition, encouraged her experimentation, and found her passion attractive rather than inconvenient.

As she turned the pages, an idea began to form. Tomorrow was Friday. She had all those beautiful ingredients waiting in her refrigerator. She had a story she wanted to share, thoughts about love and nourishment and the courage to create something new.

She reached for her phone and typed a quick post on her social media:

“Tomorrow night at 8 PM: Cooking something I’ve never made before while talking about a book that made me cry (in the best way). Come hang out with me in the kitchen? I promise it’ll be messy and probably a disaster, but maybe that’s the point. See you there! 🐢💚”

She added the turtle emoji without thinking, then smiled when she realized what she’d done. The turtle bag, the turtle emoji—maybe she was becoming someone who wasn’t afraid to be a little silly, a little imperfect.

Maybe that was exactly who she was meant to be.