Chapter 20 : One Plus One

Performance is an Art that Directly Conveys Emotion.

Like an actor, a performer expresses emotions through facial expressions, combining gestures and magic to create a story.

The performer becomes part of the stage, engaging directly with the audience.

Tears, laughter, hand movements, body language, magic—these elements visually communicate emotions, allowing the audience to grasp them instantly.

In contrast, lighting art does not directly display emotions.

Instead, it sets the atmosphere, guiding the audience to interpret emotions on their own.

The same scene can feel hopeful under warm golden light, yet evoke loneliness under a cold blue glow.

Light does not explain emotions explicitly.

Lighting leaves clues—hints that the audience must read to find meaning.

If performance declares, “I am sad,”

Lighting art subtly implies, “There is sorrow here.”

The interpretation is left to the audience.

While performance is an art where the actor communicates emotions directly, lighting is an art that conveys meaning through metaphors and suggestion.

If performance moves the audience’s emotions instantly, lighting allows emotions to seep in gradually, like dye soaking into fabric.

“Like Kim Dohyun teased, I had no sense of rhythm.”

I bit my lip slightly and muttered under my breath,

“Jerk.”

The words were so soft they were barely audible.

If he was going to tease me, he could at least stay by my side.

Why did he keep running away?

He was more irritating than I expected.

And yet, what annoyed me even more was how he still managed to occupy my thoughts.

Just when I thought we were getting closer, he widened the distance again.

“Haah.”

I let out a small sigh and shook my head.

“I need to focus.”

I couldn’t follow the rhythm properly, nor was I good at using my body to express emotions.

But lighting—lighting suited me.

Even without direct movement, even with just a single beam of light, emotions could be conveyed.

I always pretended to be cheerful, but it was just a facade.

The more I wanted to hide my true feelings, the more carefully I concealed them.

A smile was a mask that made people shine.

A bright, carefree expression, acting clueless as if nothing could hurt me.

“If I pretend to be numb, then it won’t hurt.”

That was why I liked lighting art, which communicated through subtlety rather than direct expression.

I moved across the dark stage, adjusting lights in various spots.

Spheres of light floated like lanterns, casting shifting shadows as they collided.

A slight change in angle altered the entire mood; adjusting the color alone created a completely different emotion.

I closed my eyes for a moment, envisioning the stage scene.

Like painting a picture, sculpting a moment into existence.

In the end, lighting, too, was a way of storytelling—just different from performance.

I moved my hand like a paintbrush.

The scenery in my heart took form in reality.

The school was quiet—everyone had gone home.

The school at night felt different from the school during the day.

Same place, yet strangely unfamiliar.

Of all days, I had to forget my bag.

No wonder my walk home felt so light.

Clicking my tongue softly, I headed to the gymnasium, hoping it wasn’t locked.

A closed gym door.

A faint sliver of light escaping through the gap.

I quietly pushed the door open and stepped inside.

As soon as the stage lights went out, darkness swallowed everything completely.

In the silence, my senses heightened.

Even the faintest tremor in the air felt vivid.

Then—light slowly emerged.

A soft glow spread across the stage.

She was there.

Golden-blonde hair, pinkish eyes.

Lee Jian.

She seemed different—calmer than usual.

Drenched in sweat, evidence of relentless practice.

I had been avoiding her, yet we ended up face-to-face like this.

I intended to quietly grab my things and leave.

But—

For some reason, I couldn’t look away from the stage.

A silhouette moved within the dim light.

Holding an umbrella, she stepped forward as if walking through rain.

And then—small lights bloomed around her.

Like scattered stardust, hovering, floating, dispersing.

With each step she took, the lights rippled outward like waves.

A fine thread of light traced her fingertips, like a shooting star streaking across the night sky—delicate and fleeting.

At first, I watched indifferently, as if observing a subject through a camera lens.

But at some point, I realized—

My gaze was no longer detached.

This stage was a space where reality and fantasy intertwined.

Her movements, her gestures, her gaze—she was weaving a dream into existence.

The umbrella tilted, and a shaft of light cascaded down, enveloping her.

Like raindrops brushing against her shoulders.

Suddenly, a memory surfaced.

The quiet sound of rain.

The space beneath a single umbrella.

A distance so close, yet unreachable.

Transparent drops of light scattered.

It looked like rain.

But no water seeped through the umbrella.

In the silent stillness, I felt something familiar pressing against my skin.

Glowing orbs floated around her.

Some followed her touch, others drifted aimlessly in midair.

Slowly, yet unmistakably—

Light flowed around her, shaping the space itself.

That wasn’t just lighting.

That was emotion.

A silent language, speaking yet never speaking.

Then—

She slowly opened the umbrella.

And—

She disappeared.

The light scattered, and she vanished into the darkness.

Only the lingering afterglow remained.

I held my breath for a moment, staring at the empty space where she had been.

Then, the umbrella rose again.

And beneath it—she reappeared.

In that instant, light bloomed around her once more.

Like a star emerging through the mist.

Vanishing, only to return again.

The rhythm of it felt like breathing.

She was simply moving, yet everything on stage seemed to flow around her.

That single umbrella—concealing her, revealing her—

Like crossing the boundary between reality and illusion.

The scene she painted, using light like a brush, felt ethereal, almost dreamlike.

It seemed like she would dissolve into it entirely.

This wasn’t a scene from the original story.

A ‘singularity’—a deviation from the expected flow of events.

Every time I encountered these changes, unease followed.

The story shifting because of my intervention.

The unpredictability of what might unfold.

The possibility of unforeseen consequences.

I was always struggling against that uncertainty.

But right now—

For a brief moment, the weight of that unease lifted.

Not gone entirely—I could still feel it lingering in my chest.

But I knew—

It would return again.

After this moment ends, I will return to my usual place.

It felt like holding my breath underwater.

In the fleeting stillness, I had the sensation of rising to the surface.

I knew I would sink again, but for now, it didn’t matter.

For this moment, watching her stand on that stage,

I felt like I could forget all my worries.

The scene before me, this emotion—

It wrapped around me.

Like an umbrella unfolding in the rain.

Someday, I would be drenched again,

But for now, at this moment, it was okay.

I lifted my camera.

I wanted to capture this fleeting instant.

I wanted to hold onto this brief moment.

Through the lens, I looked at her.

A silhouette standing in the light.

At that moment, she existed so vividly.

I tightened my grip on the camera.

I didn’t want to forget this moment, this feeling.

Even though I knew this moment would end—

I wanted to look just a little longer, just a little deeper,

Through the lens, into that world.

Click.

The moment became eternal.

The darkened gym swallowed me whole.

A faint glow from the emergency light above cast dim shadows on the floor.

I stood still, closing and reopening my eyes.

Only my quiet breathing remained in this space.

The silence after all the practice had ended, after everyone had left.

The warmth of my sweat cools, leaving behind a slight chill.

The dampness of my clothes settled into a cold, sharp sensation.

I exhaled slowly.

And yet, something in my chest still felt suffocating.

Today, again—

I heard the same criticism.

“Too faint.”

“Overall, it feels blurry.

It might get overshadowed by stronger performances.”

“It’s calm.

Not bad, but… it’s ambiguous.”

If it were a technical issue, that would have been easier to fix.

But this—this was a matter of feeling.

No one could explain how to change it, and I didn’t know what to do.

It wasn’t just about adjusting my movements—it was about creating a feeling.

Every time, I got stuck at the same point.

Every time, I heard the same critiques.

Every time, I felt the same frustration.

Was this really the right path for me?

Maybe choosing lighting art was just an excuse.

Because I lacked too much.

My movements were always clumsy.

Expressing emotions was never my strong suit.

Then what about lighting?

Lighting wouldn’t reveal my emotions directly.

Controlling light and color was something I was at least somewhat familiar with.

“That’s not true.”

The words slipped out without thinking.

I was always like this—never honest, always lying to myself.

“It was just jealousy.”

I wanted to shine like Nayul sunbae.

I didn’t want to be just a supporting role—I wanted to be the main character.

I wanted to be the sun, not the moon.

I wanted someone to look at me, too.

That was why I chose this.

But—

Was that wrong?

Everything has its place, its role.

Then where do I belong?

I instinctively glanced toward the back of the stage.

Slowly, I clenched my fists.

My nails dug into my palm.

I bit my lip hard.

I didn’t even notice the pain.

Did I really have the right to stand on this stage?

When they pointed out a lack of feeling, it meant my work didn’t move the audience.

That was my greatest fear.

Even though I used light, even though I created colors, even though I adjusted and refined everything—

It still didn’t reach anyone.

I was afraid.

Afraid that I had chosen the wrong path.

If I kept leaving this vague impression, in the end, I would become nothing more than ‘a lighting design without character.’

And without emotion, lighting was nothing but background.

I didn’t want to just be background.

The thought made my chest even tighter.

I couldn’t even unclench my fists as I looked around the empty gym.

I stood there, my fingertips trembling.

The unlit gym loomed over me like a vast mouth ready to swallow me whole.

The deeper the silence, the deeper my anxiety.

I had to do better. I had to be perfect. I had to improve.

Otherwise—

I wouldn’t survive on this stage.

I closed my eyes.

And then—

I noticed something on the bench in the corner of the gym.

A single small can.

Without thinking, I stepped forward.

I picked it up.

Barley soda.

I stared blankly at the can.

There was no name.

No note.

But I didn’t need to check. I already knew.

Who had left it.

I let out a soft chuckle.

So typically him.

Leaving things without making it obvious, pretending it was just a coincidence.

I quietly opened the can.

On stage, I had to shine alone, but offstage—

There was someone watching me.

Tssst.

The quiet fizz of carbonation filled the silent gym.

Tiny bubbles burst, shifting gently inside the can.

I brought it to my lips.

The cold metal brushed against my skin.

And then, slowly—

A sip.

The moment the carbonation touched my tongue, that familiar bitter taste spread through my mouth.

And at the same time, a faint sweetness followed, trailing smoothly down my throat.

Like swallowing unspoken encouragement.

…So this is what it feels like?

It was just a simple drink.

Yet it didn’t just quench my thirst—

It felt like it filled something deeper inside me.

One sip, then another.

With every tilt of the can, the quiet fizz of bubbles breaking apart,

The anxiety inside me seemed to chip away ever so slightly.

As the cold carbonation brushed against my tongue, something inside me popped.

Small, subtle—but unmistakably there.

And now, I understand.

This was what comfort felt like.

I looked down at the can.

And I laughed.

“One plus one, my ass…”

What an excuse.

Did they think I was an idiot?

“Then why is there always only one in your hands?”