“I’m glad I came out after all.”
Lee Choi hesitated for a moment before continuing.
“It’s fun. Ah, this is one of the reasons I like acting. It reminded me of something I’d forgotten.”
Fortunately, Lee Choi seemed to have many good memories related to acting.
She also seemed to genuinely love it.
“That’s a relief.”
“Honestly… I felt pressured too. Like, I have to do well. I have to do well and lead everyone.”
“Ah……”
It was a very understandable burden.
The male lead was notorious for bad acting, and the supporting male lead was a rookie with this as his debut work.
It made sense that Lee Choi, who had more experience and skill, should take the lead.
The production team probably cast her with that in mind.
“But I don’t think I have the skills yet to lead anyone. I’m not good enough, but I carried all this pressure for no reason, and maybe that’s why both my body and mind stiffened.”
“Maybe that’s because you want to do well.”
“Haha, right?”
Lee Choi’s slightly dim face brightened once again.
Seo Sangwoo returned, and they took a short break.
Everyone was hungry, so they ordered sandwiches and toast to fill their stomachs.
Small talk naturally followed.
“Oh, Sangwoo, you were in the Audition Department of Acting at Heukseok University?”
“Yes. I suddenly changed my career path, so it was really tough when I took the entrance exam. But I was lucky to pass on the first try.”
Since both were in their early twenties, their conversation topics were limited.
Where they lived, the schools they graduated from, the universities they currently attended, and how they came to dream of becoming actors.
I deliberately stayed out of their conversation and quietly continued eating.
Both Lee Choi and Seo Sangwoo seemed reluctant to talk much, though occasionally they glanced my way as if wanting to ask questions.
Probably because Yoo Chaemin’s idol activities hadn’t ended well, they were careful.
‘That’s actually a relief for me.’
Even if they asked, I could only vaguely dodge the questions.
I memorized every little detail about Yoo Chaemin—personal info, tidbits from broadcasts and interviews—but I didn’t want to speak as if it was truly my story.
“Oh, right. I want to ask you something, Choi.”
“What is it?”
“You’ve acted in a work with actor Myung Seungho, right?”
Why did that name come up now?
“cough…!”
I almost spit out my coffee at once.
Waving my hand to show I was fine, I wiped the corner of my mouth as the two looked at me with puzzled and concerned expressions.
“Yes, I did. When I was young—how old was I? Anyway, we filmed together. Actor Myung Seungho played my older brother…”
“Yeah, that’s right! He played the fool!”
Seo Sangwoo’s voice rose with excitement.
“Yeah, yeah. But why do you ask about him?”
Lee Choi’s question made Seo Sangwoo hesitate before answering.
His face was full of anticipation and envy.
“So, how was it?”
“Huh?”
“Actually, I’m a big fan of Myung Seungho. He’s basically my role model… I’m curious what it feels like to act with him.”
My appetite suddenly vanished.
Pretending to head to the restroom, I stood up from my seat.
When I told the two where I was going, they quietly nodded.
‘Hurry, hurry…’
But sadly, their conversation moved faster than my steps.
“Now, even if you want to act together, you can’t.”
“Ah… yeah. Because he retired.”
The word “retired” stabbed painfully into my chest.
It was ridiculous.
I quit by my own choice.
I chose the path so I’d never be called actor Myung Seungho again.
I moved as if to escape and reached the restroom.
The rush of water from the sink filled the room.
I washed my hands until my fingertips turned white and then suddenly lifted my head.
In the mirror wasn’t Myung Seungho, but Yoo Chaemin.
“…….”
Turning off the faucet, I looked again at Yoo Chaemin in the mirror.
When I moved my eyes, Yoo Chaemin’s eyes moved too.
When I slightly opened my mouth, so did Yoo Chaemin’s.
Raising my wet hands to touch my cheek, I felt the coldness along with the moisture.
‘I am Yoo Chaemin now.’
I am not Myung Seungho, who gave up acting and abandoned himself.
Yoo Chaemin is…‘I have to shake off the bad actor image and be recognized as a proper actor.’
Only by doing that can I quit this damned company and finally achieve what I want.
‘Yeah. I just have to remember that.’
Exhaling deeply, I tapped both cheeks gently.
Then I gave a faint smile toward Yoo Chaemin in the mirror—as if to say, “Please take care of me.”
‘Myung Seungho is gone.’
Myung Seungho is dead.
A boy entered the empty music room where no class was being held.
Confirming no one was inside, he paced near the door as if hesitant.
After a moment, with a determined expression, he took a step forward.
“Whew…”
His quiet breath betrayed his tension.
Setting down the violin case he’d been holding, Yoon Jihwa glanced around uneasily.
He stood in front of the piano, brushed off an empty desk, and stared intently at his violin case.
Many emotions flickered in his eyes when he looked at the old violin case.
Hesitation, fear, nervousness, doubt… ending inevitably in resignation.
But this moment was different.
‘I liked your violin playing.’
‘If you don’t hate it… how about trying again? Just once.’
A girl’s voice echoed in the boy’s mind.
Thinking of her, the boy smiled reflexively.
Just remembering the voice that gave him courage filled him with strength.
Though the fear remained in his eyes, his gaze grew steadier.
Yoon Jihwa slowly stepped forward.
He touched the violin case he’d almost left behind.
Caressing the smooth surface, he carefully took the violin out.
Swallowing hard, he examined the violin.
Then, cautiously, he lifted it onto his shoulder and fixed it under his chin.
As Yoon Jihwa raised the bow, his chest rose and fell deeply.
He exhaled fully before drawing the bow carefully across the strings.
The violin trembled and emitted a somber note—smooth yet precise.
Yoon Jihwa’s eyes sparkled.
The violin had responded.
Joy swelled within him as he moved the bow along the music that came to mind.
Delicate and beautiful, the music echoed through the room—just like the boy himself.
When the performance ended, Yoon Jihwa gently lowered the bow from the strings.
At that moment, tears burst from his eyes.
As the tears wet his face, the boy pressed his bow-holding hand tightly against his eyes.
His attempt to hold back the tears only triggered more, overwhelming Yoon Jihwa.
For the first time in a long while, the boy cried like a child.
“Cut! Okay!”
Director Choi Younghwan barely restrained a smile creeping to his lips.
“Tears dripping like honey. Are they really that beautiful?”
The cinematographer, who was working alongside him, clicked his tongue in disbelief.
“But it did come out well. Maybe because it’s a scene with almost no lines? Or maybe because he’s good-looking.”
“His eyes and expression.”
Director Choi’s firm words made the cinematographer shake his head.
“That kid’s a real pain. How can someone’s acting be so inconsistent?”
“The sneaker scene was important. He practiced it like crazy.”
The sneaker scene.
After filming that scene, the staff’s opinion of Yoo Chaemin shifted drastically.
How to describe that day’s acting?
Director Choi honestly thought Yoo Chaemin was possessed that day.
You know in novels or comics, sometimes the spirit of a dead Go prodigy inhabits a clueless boy and makes him the Go champion?
Even thinking it was ridiculous, Director Choi couldn’t shake the feeling.
Most people thought the same way.
“Is acting something you can master just by practicing like crazy…?”
The cinematographer muttered quietly.
Director Choi nodded involuntarily but then stopped himself.
It was unbelievable, but there was no other way to explain it.
Possession and all that wasn’t possible in reality.
“But he definitely improved. He’s doing well.”
“That’s true. I wondered if they were crazy casting him at first, but it seems they made the right call.”
Director Choi gave the cinematographer a sly smile.
Views toward Yoo Chaemin were gradually changing.
As the heat intensified, so did the fervor on set.
Though a critical problem had occurred early on, filming went smoothly as if it had never happened.
Lee Choi still found it difficult to come to set and was confused up until filming started, but talking with me and Seo Sangwoo calmed her down.
Gradually, she began to let go of the burden that she had to lead the drama and be the best actor.
She started to find her original rhythm.
“Ugh, it’s too hot! This won’t do. Instead of Vietnam, I need to go somewhere cooler.”
As time passed, her determination to secretly travel somewhere after filming without her mother knowing seemed to grow stronger.
Blinking, I realized the calendar was nearing September.
The heat that had felt endless was finally fading.
A lukewarm breeze brushed through my hair.
Focusing on the blurred vision, the scenery before me came into sharp view.
The school’s athletic field.
Around us, students were watching.
And in front of me stood Lee Hyuk, his face darkened with anger.
His eyes sharply raised.
The red under his eyes trembled.
Meeting those eyes full of betrayal and rage made my chest ache.
Was it guilt? Remorse? Or simply the familiar pain born from Yoon Jihwa’s habit of always yielding?
“Yoon Jihwa. What are you doing?”
Lee Hyuk’s low voice asked.
It was probably a warning, but for some reason, it also sounded scared.
An emotion I had never felt from Lee Hyuk, the perpetual predator, was beginning to show.
Realizing this, I laughed strangely.
I let out the laughter without restraint.
That was something the original Yoon Jihwa never would have done—thinking and acting exactly as the author wrote.
But not now.
“Hyuk, stop. Yeoreum said she doesn’t want this.”
The words I always wanted to say finally slipped out.
It felt like a huge weight had been lifted.
I wondered why it had been so hard before.
Change had begun.
Whether others accepted it or not, it would never stop.
“What…?”
A crack appeared on Lee Hyuk’s face.
It felt like the sharp sound of breaking glass echoed somewhere.