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365 days Under His Skin
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(Yohan Pov)
The whole drive was silent. Nothing new. Not even a single word was spoken by either of us. But the only difference is the stealing of glances from him.
He sat there in the passenger seat, arms resting loosely, head tilted slightly toward the window like he wasn't really watching anything, but his reflection in the glass gave him away. Eyes flicking toward me, just for a moment, then away again, like a whisper someone almost says aloud but swallows instead.
It wasn't tense… Just being cautious. Like the silence was something we were both holding gently between us, afraid it might fall and shatter if either of us touched it too hard. But…what is that? I wasn't able to say it.
We had always been quiet, Taekyung and I. Our conversations, when they happened, were either sharp and precise or dry and reluctant. But this?
This was different.
His shoulders weren't pulled up like they used to be. There was something softer in how he sat today. Something less guarded. Like he was still the same puzzle. But maybe with one corner piece finally missing.
My eyes flicked toward him again when we stopped at a red light. His lashes were lowered, his mouth pressed into a line, and he looked—
Peaceful?
No.
Tired?
Yes.
But not the usual kind of tired. The kind you get when pretending too much for too long. I wanted to say something. Talk about anything. But all that came out was, "How did you even think about the body swap concept?"
He blinked, turning his head toward me slowly, like the sentence had taken a second to reach him. And honestly? I couldn't blame him.
What can I do? I have no idea what to talk about. And even if I try, all that ever comes out is either something about work or something meaningless like "You should rest" or "Don't skip meals," which honestly sounds like I'm reading from a boring health manual.
I didn't even ask that question. It just slipped. Maybe because our new project proposal had mentioned it. Or maybe it's easier to talk about the work rather than any caring, manual words, which he would be careless about.
He didn't answer right away. His brows furrowed just slightly, like he wasn't sure if I was making fun of the idea or actually curious.
"I didn't think about it. It just…made sense somehow," he said finally, turning back to the window.
I glanced at him again. "Make sense? Swapping bodies with someone?" I said with a quiet disbelief that was hiding underneath my resting face. His response piqued my interest because he was not typically drawn to the fantasy genre.
He exhaled softly, almost like a laugh. "You'd be surprised how many people want to disappear and wake up as someone else."
That shut me up. Because…he wasn't wrong.
And I didn't want to admit how often I thought the same thing. Not in the same way, maybe. But sometimes I wished I could just be someone easier to understand. Someone who didn't have to keep everything so neatly buried.
And sometimes I wonder…what it'd be like if we really could live a day as someone else.
But before the thought was put into words, the lights turned green. I shifted gears and pressed my foot onto the accelerator. The car rolled forward, and the moment passed with the change of color like it always did. Timing had never really been my thing.
(Taeha's Pov)
The drive went so quiet after that small talk about the concept of the drama. My mind still reeled from his surprise question. He brought it up so casually: "How did you think of the body swap idea?"—as if it hadn't landed like a pebble thrown into still water.
I know Taekyung would never choose something like fantasy. Believing in unrealistic plots wasn't even his thing. But I do. And maybe that's why it shook me.
Because body swapping isn't just a fantasy concept for me. It's what I'm living in. Every damn day. Pretending to be someone I'm not. Carrying the emotions and responsibilities that aren't mine but are quite similar to mine. Reacting. Speaking and breathing like someone I was never meant to be.
It hasn't been a month yet; it feels like I'm already losing my own self, and a year? Will I even survive? But one thing I'm sure of: the longer I stay in this skin, the more I forget what mine felt like.
Maybe that's why the question hit harder than it should've. No matter how excited I was when I got to know I had to live his life for a year, the same excitement has turned into rot and fear.
Because what if this isn't just borrowing someone's life? What if, little by little,e I start losing mine? What if—
"We are here," Yohan announced, his voice cutting through the storm in my head like a door creaking open to reality. I looked at the surroundings, the eventually habituated parking space, with the most luxurious cars of actors and SUVs that are all lined up like pieces of a chessboard. And in between them were a few modest, less shiny cars. The ones belonging to assistants. Stylists. And small writers. People like me—no, her.
If I weren't swapped, I would have been in that second row. In five years, maybe. Parking my secondhand hatchback with a cracked keychain and ruffled copies on the seat.
A chuckle slipped out before I could stop it—dry, bitter, and low. How dramatic, living a dream that wasn't mine to begin with! I thought and reached for the door handle, pausing for a second, feeling Yohan's gaze over my shoulder, the questioning gaze that never asked the question.
I didn't turn to meet it; instead, I stepped out in the dull white light of the parking lot. It was so quiet; only the humming sound of the engine was heard too loudly. I adjusted my coat and shut the door softly behind me.
Yohan joined me a second later, footsteps slow and steady. "You remember right, the shoot starts today?" he said, walking next to me, but his gaze didn't meet mine.
I nodded before replying, "Yeah, I know. I hope you are also satisfied with the script…" I got lost in my thoughts. I was trying not to say "next," but for some reason it slipped. "Are you really willing to direct this concept?"
"I don't have to be; it's not about me." He said that, which made me look at him, but he still wasn't looking my way. His eyes were fixed ahead as we walked.
"It is about you," I said, quieter than I meant to. "You're the one shaping it."
And this time, he looked at me—finally. A sideways glance, and he said, "I'm just doing my job." But his tone wasn't defensive.
It would have been better if he had even replied with a short yes or no, but he chose to say something that sounded like the end of a thought, not the beginning of one. Like he'd already had this conversation with himself a hundred times, and he was tired of repeating it out loud.
The entrance door hissed open ahead of us; a staff member held it, smiling politely. We both gave short nods and walked in. The office hummed with the usual morning chaos—printers whirring, keyboards clacking, and staff running here and there, making arrangements for the starting shoot.
"Ready, Mr. Fantasy Writer?" I turned around to find Junho with his always sunny grin. The kind that made it hard to tell whether he was teasing or genuinely excited. He started to call me that from the time I proposed the script.
I gave him a lopsided smile, smoothing halfway between amusement and exhaustion. "Do I look ready?" I said, 'Definitely not, right?' It is something that doesn't leave my mouth.
"You look like you time-traveled here in your sleep," Junho said, nudging my shoulder lightly. "But hey, your fashion sense is getting high day by day," he teased, poking my cheek.
I laughed under my breath, shaking my head. He is such a booster for his best friend; no matter how distant Taekyung acts, he always has him by his side.
At least someone knew how to keep things light, unlike someone next to me standing quite like a dummy. Not out of awkwardness, but because he never really chimed in when Junho spoke to me. Like he didn't want to interrupt a language that wasn't his.
"Oh, Director-nim~" Junho sang with his mouth forming a big "O" when he noticed Yohan making him sigh audibly this time. He didn't reply, just gave him a glance that screamed thousands of silent "Please, not now." But Junho, being Junho, only grinned wider, like Yohan's sigh was a green light instead of a stop sign.
"Can't you stop calling me that?" Yohan said, not even bothering to mask the irritation.
"What? That's your job title? And what could I do?" Junho replied innocently, tilting his head like he wasn't enjoying every second of this.
Yohan rolled his eyes, not even hesitating at the energetic production manager. "Maintain that same energy when Siwoo arrives," he said, which made Junho's teasing smile immediately disappear, replacing it with a grimace. Junho scoffed. Loudly.
Junho would probably throw himself off a building before acting sunny in front of Siwoo. And honestly, the rest of us could practically see the spark every time they shared a room. It always made me wonder why their dynamic felt oddly familiar, like a déjà vu I couldn't place.
"Oh, please, don't even bring him up like that. I can't stand in front of him for even a second. All I ever do when he's around is glare, bicker, block, or get annoyed watching him cling to Taekyung like we don't see it."
I held back a smile. The way Junho said "cling" had enough venom to be its own genre. And still…still… I couldn't help but think, why did Siwoo's fixation on Taekyung bother Junho this much? Or rather… Why did Siwoo even have that kind of closeness with Taekyung?
"Oh, taekyung-shii.~~."
Speak of the devil
The sing-song voice floated through the hallway like a perfume—sweet, showy, and very charming. I didn't even need to turn around to know who it was.
Junho stiffened beside me. I swear I heard him whisper a curse underneath his breath before plastering on a grin so fake it deserves an award. And me? I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, bracing myself to be broken by his soft, overly affectionate hug.
Only…it never came. I blinked and turned, just to see Yohan's arm stretched out in front of me like a line between my body and Swioo's already wide arms mid-hug.
"Why don't you keep it low, Actor Choi?" Yohan said coolly, his tone as sharp in the quiet way only he had mastered. The kind of sharp that didn't draw blood but made you flinch anyway.
It was the tone I'd only heard when he was low-key annoyed, usually during script readings when Siwoo got too loud or too extra for the room. Siwoo froze, arms still slightly open, caught mid-affection. He lowered them slowly, blinking like a puppy being told "no" for the first time.
"Oh, come on, Yohan, I knew you were moody, but you sound like this one," he said with a pout, pointing at Junho dramatically.
Junho's smile dropped like a curtain yanked too fast. "Excuse me?" he deadpanned, arms crossing, as if he was trying not to throw them at Siwoo.
Yohan didn't even blink. He stepped aside, not bothering to entertain the scene, and mumbled beneath his breath, "I should've stayed in the car," which I heard.
I watched the scene unfold like someone caught in the wrong dream, where I was expected to know what role to play, how to react, what joke to laugh at, and what side to take. I stayed quiet.
Siwoo's eyes finally landed on me again, a playful glint returning in them. "Taekyung-shii, you didn't miss me, did you? You didn't even say hi."
I gave a tight smile and said, "Hi," with a flat voice but polite tone. It wasn't cold enough to be rude, but it was distant enough to keep the line drawn in chalk.
He laughed like I had told a joke. "Aw, you're still shy around me. So cute."
Shy? If only he knew.
He continued to laugh, throwing his head back and running his hand through his fluffy orange hair—wait, when did he even change his hair color to the black one? I must say he looked more handsome than angelic in this natural one.
Junho clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes so hard that he screamed like a whole package of irritation he was holding onto. "Can you just go bother the stylist team or someone who's paid to deal with you?"
Grabbing the actor's attention was a slow, lazy smirk carved on his beautiful, cherry lips; now the actor's full attention was on the ash-brown-haired manager.
"Hmm…maybe if you weren't as mean as you are, Junho-ssi," he said, stepping close enough to Junho. And Junho didn't back away.
He never did. But the flicker in his eyes said he wanted to. Or maybe he wanted to do the opposite. His jaw clenched, the faint blush on his tanned skin betraying him even as his lips pulled into a deeper frown.
"You're unbelievable," Junhoo muttered, barely above a breath, looking anywhere but at the actor's cherry-tinted smirk. "And seriously back off."
But Siwoo only tilted his head, being entertained more. "Why? Is it bothering you?" he said in an almost faint whisper that could give tickles to your stomach even just by hearing it.
"You wish," Junho shot back, turning on his heel before his face gave too much away.
I stood there, the quiet viewer again, watching a tension that had more layers than the script I had proposed. And I had read that thing a hundred times.
Yohan, who had been unusually silent, finally cleared his throat loud enough to snap the moment like a twig. "We're behind schedule, Siwoo; your stylist has been waiting." He said, which was so close to a command, and turned to Junho and continued, "Junho, the wardrobe team needs a final sign-off."
Siwoo sighed, but it was more performative than sincere. It was like he was being dragged away from his favorite game. He turned brushing a hand through his darkened hair into a habit. I noticed he did it more when Junho was around. Almost like he knew the effect. Almost like he wanted it.
Junho didn't say a word. He didn't have to. His walk was faster and stiffer. I could already hear his low curses under his breath that no one else would hear as he headed toward the costume department.
And me? I was left alone with Yohan again, as he didn't say anything but glanced at me as if I could understand all his silent words or commands, like Taekyung.
I exhaled, letting out a long and deep breath, stuffing my hand in my coat pockets to hide the clench of my fist. One month in. Eleven to go…
And already, I am exhausted.
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