이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
# Chapter 8: Crumbling Boundaries
11:52 PM. Minjun’s phone kept ringing.
The basement practice room of DueStar Entertainment. It had become his home. The practice mirror, the worn wooden bench, the flickering fluorescent light—everything had become routine. His phone vibrated on the table. The name on the screen: Junho.
Minjun didn’t answer. Instead, he remained standing before the mirror. The script in his hand had been read hundreds of times. The paper was worn, marked with underlines in various places. Some scenes were highlighted in neon. Particularly around the line “Who are you?”—circled in red.
His phone stopped ringing. Seconds later, a text came through.
Minjun. Where are you? Checked the locker room. You in the basement studio? Call me.
He read the message. Then he turned off the screen. He raised the script again.
“Who are you?”
This time, he lowered his voice. Like the moment of a sudden realization. The voice of someone betrayed, confronting their perpetrator. What should his face look like? What exactly was this “emotional depth” that Sujin had mentioned?
For four years, he’d lived as an extra. It was his weakness—accurate but shallow. Understanding without owning. She was right. He knew it. There was distance between the actor and the role. Like looking through glass. He’d always been on the outside.
So how do you get in?
He set down the script. Cleared more space before the mirror. This time, he started with movement. What does a betrayer’s body look like? How do they stand? Walk? Move their hands?
He paced the room. Two steps forward, one back, one to the side. Like a bird. A caged bird. A bird trying to escape from a windowless room.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
That line wasn’t in the script. But actors do this sometimes—push their emotions beyond the text. He knew that was acting. Acting wasn’t lies; it was making truth look like fiction.
His phone rang again. This time not a call, but multiple texts.
Pick up your brother’s call. What’s going on?
Is something wrong with Minjun? Your hyung is worried.
Oppa. Please. Just respond.
The last message was from Woori. 12:03 AM.
He turned off his phone again. Returned to the mirror. He studied his face. Whose face was it? Minjun’s, or “Jun’s”? Where was that boundary line?
The next morning, Woori was waiting in the locker room.
She sat on the bench, tapping her fingers against it. A nervous habit. The same one Minjun had. People who spend time together adopt each other’s mannerisms. Especially actors. They were observers by nature.
When Minjun entered, she immediately stood.
“Oppa! Why didn’t you answer yesterday?”
“I apologize.”
“Apologize? Is that really your answer?”
Her voice was sharp, filled with anxiety. She looked like she hadn’t slept. The dark marks under her eyes were deeper than yesterday. Much deeper.
“Is something the matter?”
“What do you mean something’s the matter—oppa, seriously…”
She covered her face with her hand. Like she was trying to hold back tears. But it wasn’t tears. It was frustration. That frustration of not getting what you need from someone.
“You were in the basement studio yesterday, right?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
She lowered her hand. Her eyes searched his. There was something in them—not anger, but something else. Like desperation when you knock on a door that won’t open.
“I was down there until 1 AM. In the basement studio.”
Minjun heard it. And he understood. She’d been there until 1 AM. It wasn’t just a fact. It was a message. “I was with you. You weren’t alone.”
“I understand.”
“Understand? Really? You think it’s normal for musical actors to be in the studio until 1 AM? When I have dance rehearsal tomorrow?”
Her voice was trembling. She wasn’t angry—she was hurt. Like he’d pushed her away.
“I needed to be alone.”
“Why? Why did you need to be alone?”
Minjun couldn’t answer. Because he didn’t know himself. Why didn’t he want to show his insecurity to others? Why did he always keep his distance? Why did help feel like a burden?
It was because of his father. Minjun knew that. His father had shown his weakness to others. And it had destroyed him. Destroyed the family. Destroyed everything, including himself.
“Do you know what I told you yesterday night?”
Woori continued.
“I watched your video six times. What do you think that means? That it was just a good video? No. It was because of you. Because of you as an actor, I stayed up all night. And I started to rethink my own performance.”
She sat back down on the bench. Her movements were lonely.
“What I’m missing. Why I keep falling short. I was letting too many emotions just slip away, like they didn’t matter.”
Minjun sat on a different bench. At a distance from her. Still building walls.
“But what about you? I was trying to help you, and you pushed me away. Said you’d prepare alone. That’s… that’s so lonely.”
When he heard that, something broke in Minjun’s chest. That she felt lonely. That was an outcome he hadn’t anticipated. He’d kept distance to protect her, but it had hurt her instead.
“I apologize.”
“Again with the apologies? Seriously…”
She laughed—a laugh that was almost a sob.
“Why do you always do that? Why do you always keep yourself so far away?”
Minjun couldn’t answer. Because that question was one he asked himself.
“Come a little closer to me. Please. I want to see you. Really. Not the actor Minjun, but the person Minjun.”
When he heard that, Minjun felt himself crumbling. All the walls he’d built, all the boundaries, were collapsing.
2 PM. Junho called.
“Minjun. Can you come to the café?”
His voice was quiet, but there was something urgent beneath it. Minjun left immediately.
The café was a ten-minute walk from the DueStar building. Hidden in a small alley in Gangnam. A place actors frequented. It was quiet, and people respected privacy there.
Junho was already there. Sitting by the window, tapping the rim of his americano with his finger. A nervous habit. Minjun had it too. So did Woori. Everyone was anxious.
“Sit down,” Junho said. His voice was calm, but there was something underneath. Minjun sat.
“The Netflix casting results came back.”
Minjun’s heart stopped.
“Who?”
“Sungjun.”
When he heard that, Minjun felt like he’d lost something. But at the same time, relief. The competition was over. His path was set. Now he could think about other things.
“What role?”
“The main character’s older brother—’Junho.’ And they gave some feedback.”
Junho pulled out his phone. An email from Netflix’s production team was displayed on screen.
“They said Sungjun is technically perfect. Accurate, clean, professional. But that’s all. No emotional depth.”
Junho lowered his phone. His eyes met Minjun’s.
“And they had feedback about you too. You were a finalist, but you didn’t make it. The reason was… you’re also technically perfect like Sungjun, accurate, but you didn’t make the role your own.”
Minjun heard it. It was the same thing Sujin had said.
“But there’s one more thing. They said you have potential. Unlike Sungjun, you’re an actor who can grow. So they made a proposal.”
“What is it?”
“The next project. Apparently there’s a different drama in the same universe coming next season. They want you to try for the lead there. And after this season ends, they’ll reconsider your casting.”
It took Minjun time to process. He’d failed. But at the same time, he’d been given a chance. It was hope. Small hope, but hope.
“Thank you, hyung.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for you. You can do better than this.”
Junho’s voice was sincere. But underneath was his own anxiety. He still wasn’t playing leads. He was still the second male lead. He was apologizing to someone too.
“You’ll get your lead role soon, hyung.”
“…Do you think so?”
Junho drank his americano. The coffee was probably cold by now.
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’ll prepare harder.”
“That’s not it. You need to prepare to crumble. Break away from accurate acting. Show your weaknesses. Fill the role with those weaknesses. That’s how actors grow.”
Junho gave his final advice.
“You’ve endured for four years. That’s impressive. But now you need to move beyond endurance. Move toward expression.”
Minjun heard it. And he remembered what Woori had said last night. “Come a little closer to me. I want to see you.”
When Minjun left the café, he knew he was broken.
No—not broken. His wall had crumbled. That wall he’d spent four years building. The accurate actor. The actor who didn’t show emotion. The actor who maintained safe distance. That wall had fallen.
And beyond that wall was something. Things he’d hidden for four years. Fear. Loneliness. Longing. And his father.
Walking down the street, Minjun felt his hands trembling. Like someone with a fever. Like his body didn’t belong to him anymore.
That moment, his phone rang.
A text. From Woori.
Oppa. Let’s meet tonight. In the basement studio. I’ll help you. Really.
He read the message. And replied.
This time, not in polite formal speech.
Yeah. Thanks.
That was all. But that was everything. The first crack in his wall.
Basement studio. 8 PM.
Woori had already arrived. This time, no towel around her neck. She wasn’t here to practice. She was here to wait for someone.
When Minjun entered, she saw him. And she noticed he was falling apart. Red eyes, slumped shoulders, slow movements. Like someone had taken a part of him.
“Oppa,” she said. It was a question and a declaration at once.
Minjun looked at her. And he said:
“I… I don’t think I can act.”
It was the first time. The first time showing his weakness to someone. Speaking his fear out loud. Breaking his wall.
Woori walked to him. And took his hand.
“Then let’s start together.”
When he heard that, tears formed in Minjun’s eyes. But they weren’t tears of sadness. They were tears of release. The tears of finally letting go of everything he’d hidden for four years.
The boundary line crumbled. And in that broken place, something new began.