“You guys probably already knew, but originally, the performance club was actually three separate clubs.”
At Park Nayul’s words, everyone nodded.
It was a well-known story.
Performance, lighting arts, and filming.
In the early days, each club struggled to recruit members, so they resorted to a trick—merging all three into one.
Now, it has become the most popular club in the academy.
But if you really thought about it, that was only true for the performance aspect.
Compared to other clubs, the directing section was about average, and the filming section had so few applicants that it barely got approval as an official club.
Looking at it that way, maybe it had been a wise decision.
“So, you can still enter competitions as a team or individually.
That’s up to you.
But you can’t participate in both at the same time.”
Of course, not everyone saw that favorably.
It seemed like there was talk about it from outside as well.
Since a single club was taking multiple competition spots and benefits, it was bound to draw attention.
The quality and quantity of instructors teaching the club were also overwhelmingly superior compared to other clubs.
Still, the club’s history, its track record, and the festival performances had managed to silence most complaints.
That was why the performance club put extra effort into its festival performances.
Seo Yeonhee followed up.
“At the very least, you need to let us know whether you’re competing individually or as a team by midterms.”
While the competitions themselves had a bit of flexibility, considering practice and scheduling, they needed confirmation beforehand.
“There’s a clear difference between competing individually and as a team.
Let me explain using directing as an example.”
They couldn’t practice together—since individual and team training methods were different.
On the surface, they might both involve handling lighting, but…
“Directing and lighting arts are fundamentally different fields.
Directing is about making the protagonist shine, while lighting arts requires you to shine on your own.”
Seo Yeonhee scanned the students as she spoke.
“Someone who lights up others can’t shine themselves.
And someone who shines can’t light up others. It’s a difference in approach.”
It was an important decision.
It felt like they were asking Lee Jian—would she take the lead role, or remain in the background?
And as they all knew…
[Observer’s Perspective Activated.]
Practice was in full swing.
In the vast space of the gymnasium, lights turned on one by one, painting the stage.
I quietly watched the scene unfold.
A stage bathed in dazzling light.
Lee Jian moved her hands swiftly, as if conducting an orchestra.
Light flowed from her fingertips.
The lighting magic rippled in sync with her motions.
Softly, yet with precise trajectories, the lights spread out.
Each movement seemed meticulously calculated.
And within that glow, she looked almost like a star.
The way the lights shimmered—it resembled a galaxy.
But—
She was always one step behind.
The one truly shining on that stage wasn’t Lee Jian, but someone else.
It was Park Nayul.
Her smooth, flowing dance captivated every gaze.
With each graceful gesture, red afterimages bloomed.
It almost felt like the scent of roses was in the air.
Beautiful, but not fragile.
Strong, yet not harsh.
Her perfectly harmonized movements were trailed by the lights Lee Jian created.
Red, blue, and violet hues intertwined, shaping the atmosphere of the stage.
Each of her movements was met with an exact response from the lighting.
From behind the stage, beyond the curtain’s shadows—
The one creating the light, but never standing in it.
I slowly turned my gaze to Lee Jian.
Even as she fine-tuned the stage’s colors with her fingertips, she never stood within those colors herself.
Her face was expressionless.
But the way her fingers paused for a split second before moving again—it was clear she was making constant adjustments.
Minutely, yet relentlessly.
And finally, she looked at Park Nayul.
Without looking away.
For a long time.
I felt like I could understand what emotion lay behind her gaze, yet I couldn’t quite grasp it.
Like an invisible line had been drawn, separating them on the same stage—
Their positions were worlds apart.
[Observer’s Perspective Deactivated.]
The shoot was over.
The photos were taken with perfect composition.
Of course, only Park Nayul appeared in them.
Lee Jian was nowhere to be seen.
Next, it was Yoon Jihoo’s turn.
[Observer’s Perspective Activated.]
Yoon Jihoo’s movements were fluid yet precise, like flowing water.
Each landing sent ripples through the floor, and his form was sharp down to his fingertips.
His sword carved a perfect circle in the air before striking forward in an instant.
Step.
Spin.
Land.
His movements felt less like a performance and more like an actual fight.
The techniques connected seamlessly, like someone who had trained in martial arts for years.
Compared to the first time I saw him, his awkwardness had significantly decreased.
Yoon Jihoo took a steady breath and lowered his sword.
Park Nayul clapped, smiling brightly.
“Nice, nice!
But try to make your final landing a bit more stable.”
“Understood!”
“The landing is the last impression you leave.
If it’s sloppy, it makes the whole thing feel incomplete.”
“Got it!”
“Why are you acting so disciplined all of a sudden?”
Poke, poke.
Park Nayul’s finger lightly jabbed Yoon Jihoo’s side.
He flinched, as if ticklish, but it was obvious he was trying to act like it was nothing.
A lighthearted atmosphere, filled with chatter, laughter, and the unspoken understanding shared only by those who truly knew each other.
Watching that scene from a step behind was Lee Jian.
She stood at the edge of the stage, arms crossed.
The position of a director—one who oversees the stage.
She worked with the performers to create the stage, yet she could never be its star.
Not someone who chased the light, but someone who cast it.
And—
I was one step further behind, quietly taking in the entire scene.
Like a camera lens, my eyes captured everything.
Yoon Jihoo’s movements, Park Nayul’s smile, Lee Jian’s observant gaze.
All of it overlapped, coming together in a single frame.
I silently watched.
As always, from the perspective of an observer.
Not someone who chased the light, nor someone who cast it.
Just someone who recorded it all.
[Observer’s Perspective Deactivated.]
After receiving feedback from the seniors, Lee Jian walked toward me.
It always amazed me—how did she find me so quickly every time?
Even yesterday, the automatic door wouldn’t even open for me.
It must have been broken, with the sensor failing to detect me.
I had to wait for someone else to come out before I could go in.
“How was it?”
Lee Jian dusted off her hands lightly as she asked.
The corners of her lips slightly curled up.
That ever-present mischievous glint in her eyes.
“I don’t even know how to judge these things.”
“But you can still give me an opinion, right?”
I stared at the stage for a long moment before opening my mouth.
“…What?”
“…It was like the moon.”
She narrowed her eyes at my words.
“The moon?”
“Why the moon?”
I slowly looked at her.
“Because you weren’t shining on your own like the sun—you were reflecting someone else’s light.”
Her fingertips stilled.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“…That’s so cringy.”
She pulled her hand back, feigning disgust.
“Do you, by any chance, have any interest in becoming the sun?”
At my playful remark, Lee Jian let out a quiet chuckle.
Then she answered.
“No thanks.
I like my role.
At least for now.”
She gave my shoulder a light tap as she passed by.
But her steps weren’t as light as they seemed.
I quietly watched her back.
For just a moment, her pace slowed—then, as if nothing happened, it returned to normal.
And I didn’t say anything.
Because if she was going to act like it was nothing, then so should I.
But the moment her fingertips stopped—however brief—had undeniably existed.
And for some reason, it bothered me.
Was this the anomaly in the original story?
Did this mean she could end up with Yoon Jihoo?
That thought irritated me for no reason.
To hide my discomfort, I forced a playful smile and spoke up.
“But you know…”
“…Yeah?”
“I saw you dancing behind the gym that time.
It was pretty nice.”
“…What?”
For a brief moment, Lee Jian’s shoulders twitched.
I took a slow step closer.
“And you sang, too.”
“……”
Her expression instantly twisted in horror.
“You were tone-deaf and completely off-beat, yet somehow, your dancing still looked good…”
Then, in a quiet voice, I added one more thing.
“…Must’ve been the magic.”
That was the moment—
“Hey, Kim Dohyun!!”
Lee Jian came charging at me, her face burning red.
“I will kill you for this!!”
“Huh?
But I’m right.”
“Shut up!!”
She swung her arms wildly through the air.
I easily sidestepped her attacks.
“KIM DOHYUN!!!”
“I’m just stating facts, though?”
“Erase it from your memory!!
Right now!!”
“You mean, the memory of you being tone-deaf?”
“AAAAHHHHH!!!”
And so, the trip down memory lane behind the gym ended with my small revenge.
Of course, the price of that revenge was—
“You’re dead.
Just wait and see.”
—Lee Jian’s relentless poking at my back.
Huh.
Cheaper than I expected.
With a quiet chuckle, I kept walking forward.