By So-yeon Kim · Wife

The first time I saw my husband on a billboard, I laughed so hard I dropped my groceries.

There he was—ten feet tall, in a cream suit, eyes misty with longing, backlit by cherry blossoms and K-pop ballads. Strangers were taking selfies with him. I was holding a leaking bag of tofu and wilting scallions.

That’s the thing no one tells you about being married to a rising K-drama star: while the world turns him into a fantasy, you’re still the one unclogging the sink at midnight.

The Price of Falling for a Fantasy

I met Ji-hoon in grad school, before his jawline had fan pages and his name had hashtags. He was awkward. Sweet. Always borrowing my notes. Back then, he talked about theater with the intensity of someone who loved the craft more than the applause.

Now, five years and three major dramas later, that boy is gone. Or rather, he still exists—but I share him with 2.6 million people.

He belongs to fan edits, airport paparazzi, and dramas where he’s always saving someone prettier than me. Meanwhile, I live in the blurry edges of his schedule—waiting for him to come home after 16-hour shoots, smiling politely when fans approach us on “date nights,” and fielding DMs from girls who call me ugly and beg me to divorce him.

The Industry Is a Machine. You Have to Be a Brand.

The entertainment world here isn’t just demanding. It’s dehumanizing. You become a brand—or you disappear. That’s true for actors, but it’s also true for their partners.

There are unspoken rules: don’t post too much, don’t show your face, don’t be too successful (it threatens his image), don’t be too plain (it makes fans angry). One girl once wrote on a forum that I “look like a tax accountant,” and I still think about it when I get dressed.

I used to be a teacher. Now I do freelance translation online because it’s quiet, anonymous, and flexible. I say that like it’s a choice. But the truth is, it’s what’s left.

Parasocial Love Feels Real. That’s the Point.

I get it—really. I’ve cried over K-dramas too. The illusion is powerful. The longing is safe.

But what no one tells these fans is that their fantasy of love lives inside someone else’s real life. Sometimes I’ll scroll through comments calling him their “boyfriend” or “husband,” and it feels like a slow erasure. Not just of me—but of the person he is when the cameras stop.

He’s not always perfect. He forgets to do laundry. He stress-eats ramen at 3 a.m. He has bad skin days and existential meltdowns. I love that man. But I don’t get to love him loudly.

Holding On to Myself

There’s a quiet violence in being constantly invisible beside someone famous. You begin to doubt the value of your own ordinary life. Is it enough to just be someone’s anchor? Someone’s secret?

I’ve started painting again. I see a therapist. I take weekend trips to Tongyeong alone. I keep a private journal where I don’t censor my anger, or my joy.

And sometimes, I just look at him—sleeping, unshaven, vulnerable—and I remember: I don’t need the world to see me. He sees me. That has to be enough.

Final Thought:

Loving someone beloved by millions means letting go of ownership. But it doesn’t mean letting go of yourself. I may not be the main character in his drama—but in my story, I am.