By Ji-hoon Nam · Husband

It’s a strange thing to be loved by millions—and still feel lonely at dinner. My wife recently wrote about me here. So I thought I’d return the favour and offer my feelings to the world as well.

Most people only know the version of me lit by soft filters and slow-motion shots. I cry well on camera. I smolder convincingly. I’ve kissed five actresses in the rain and won two newcomer awards. But none of that matters when my wife is sitting across the table, too tired to talk, and I realize I don’t remember the last time I asked how her day was.

This is a love letter. Not to fame—but to the woman who loved me before it.

The Curtain Never Really Falls

When you’re a public figure in Korea, you never truly clock out. Your face becomes a product. Your personality gets curated. Every mistake can be screengrabbed and weaponized. The pressure doesn’t come from just one direction—it’s everywhere: your agency, the fans, the media, your mother who reads the comments.

I used to act because it gave me freedom. Now, I feel like I’m playing myself—24/7—and I’m terrified I’ll get the part wrong.

At home, I try to take the mask off. But sometimes it’s stuck to my skin.

I Live With the Fallout of My Own Fantasy

My wife didn’t sign up for this life. She never asked to be dissected by strangers or judged for how “plain” she looks next to me. But in this industry, the public feels entitled not just to you—but to everyone around you.

There are nights she cries in the bathroom because of something a 19-year-old posted under a blurry paparazzi photo. I want to protect her. But how do you shield someone from a ghost army with Wi-Fi and no consequences?

I sometimes wonder what she thinks when she sees me kiss another woman onscreen. She says it’s part of the job. But I know it wears on her. It wears on us.

Fame Feeds You. Then It Eats You.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful. I know how lucky I am. I get to do what I love. I get to move people.

But every gain has its cost. I miss birthdays. I cancel dinners. I lie about my mood because being sad is “off-brand.” My smile has muscle memory. I’ve taken more selfies with fans than I have with my own wife.

And some days, I look at my own face on a bus stop and feel like a fraud. The real me? I’m bad at texting back. I still forget my lines sometimes. I’m a little jealous when my wife gets too happy without me.

Loving Her Quietly

She tells me she feels invisible. But I see her more clearly than anyone else.

She makes my tea exactly how I like it—with too much honey. She once edited my entire script with Post-its because she thought the character was “underwritten.” She doesn’t care about red carpets or dramas. She cares about whether I’m sleeping enough, eating enough, living enough.

The world may love the actor. But I go home to the only person who remembers the boy underneath.

Final Thought:

There’s a loneliness that comes with being adored by strangers. But there’s also a quiet miracle in being loved without applause. That’s the version of me I want to last.