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# Chapter 9: The Moment the Door Opens
When morning sunlight filtered through the small window of the locker room, Minjun realized that the way she looked at him had changed. It wasn’t anger. Anger would have been easier—he could have argued with anger. What floated in her eyes was something far more complicated. Disappointment. And beneath that disappointment, a small, hidden hope. That strange, suffocating feeling when someone reaches into your chest.
“I was there until 1 a.m. In the basement practice room.”
As he heard those words, Minjun felt his breathing shift—shallow, then deep, then shallow again. She had been in the basement practice room until 1 a.m. It wasn’t just a fact. It was a message. I was there with you. You weren’t alone. So why did you reject me?
“Why…”
Minjun opened his mouth. But the next words wouldn’t come. Why? Why what? Was he asking why she’d been there? Or was he explaining why he hadn’t answered the phone? Neither felt clear.
She took another step closer.
“You keep pushing me away. Why?”
Her voice was low, but something vibrated within it. The voice of a musical theater actress. A voice trained for expression. What it was expressing now was unmistakable. Pain.
Minjun really looked at her for the first time. She looked paler than yesterday. The dark circles under her eyes were deeper. Her hair was tied the same way, her black workout clothes the same as before. Which meant she hadn’t gone home last night. She’d spent the night in the locker room or the practice studio. And the moment morning came, she’d waited for him here.
“I apologize. It’s my fault.”
When Minjun said that, her face twisted. As if someone were squeezing her heart. Actors speak with their faces. Especially when they’re hurt.
“Apologize? That’s all you ever say. Hyung, I want something from you. Not an apology. You. Your real heart.”
She sat back down on the bench, as if something had crushed her. Minjun didn’t sit beside her. Instead, he bent down to meet her at eye level. A technique actors use. The way to close distance between people.
“I…”
Minjun opened his mouth again.
“I’m afraid of burdening someone.”
When those words came out, tears welled in her eyes. But she didn’t cry. Musical theater actresses know how to hold back tears. You can let them fall, but you don’t contort your face. You control the emotion. That’s professionalism on stage.
“Burdening?”
“Yes. I’m afraid of relying on someone. Of receiving help.”
Minjun knew how inadequate his words were. But he couldn’t say more. The more he spoke, the more his truth seemed to shatter into pieces. And he didn’t even know what that truth was.
She lifted her head. Her eyes searched his.
“What does it mean to burden me? I want to help you. Is that a burden to you?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I want to help you, but to you, that’s a burden?”
Her logic was clear. But Minjun couldn’t answer it. Because this wasn’t about logic. It was about emotion. And emotion isn’t rational.
The locker room door opened.
Junho walked in. His face was full of worry. The 34-year-old actor seemed unsure how to handle conflict between rookie performers. Like he’d stepped into territory that wasn’t his.
“Minjun, are you okay?”
Junho’s voice was low. But there was genuine concern in it. Not a mentor’s concern—a senior actor’s concern, but something more. A human being’s concern.
Minjun stood up.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Fine? You didn’t answer calls all night and you’re fine?”
Junho grabbed Minjun’s arm. His hand was warm. Minjun felt it—that sensation of a warm hand holding him. It was a memory he’d carried for a long time. His father’s hand. The touch from childhood, before he understood when that hand would finally let go.
“Hyung.”
Minjun spoke.
“I might fail the final audition.”
Junho looked at him. Many emotions floated in his eyes. Surprise. Regret. And something else.
“Why would you think that?”
“Director Lee said I understand the role but don’t own it. She said that’s my weakness.”
When Minjun said that, she stood up from the bench. Her movement was quick. Like dancing.
“That’s a lie.”
She said it.
“You own it. I’ve seen it. From the first day. Last night, you completely owned that role.”
“What did you two do last night?”
Junho asked.
“I watched Minjun act in the basement practice room. And it was… insane.”
Her voice was full of sincerity. But beneath that sincerity was exhaustion too. The exhaustion of staying up all night. And the added exhaustion of not being able to share it with anyone.
Junho looked at Minjun again.
“You put in that much work last night?”
“Yes.”
“And this is what you look like this morning?”
Junho let out a laugh. But it wasn’t mockery. It was the laugh of someone who had understood something. The laugh of one human being understanding another human being’s loneliness.
“What are you doing? Why are you pushing me and Junho away?”
Junho’s question was direct. Not as an actor, but as a human being. It struck straight at the center of Minjun’s heart.
“I…”
Minjun opened his mouth.
“I feel comfortable being alone.”
When those words came out, silence fell over the locker room. As if someone had sucked all the sound from the world. Junho said nothing. She said nothing. They simply looked at him. And in that silence, Minjun could hear his own truth.
“Feeling comfortable being alone means you don’t trust anyone. It means you’re afraid someone will abandon you.”
Junho said it. His voice was low but precise. Like an actor analyzing his character. It was insight born from 32 dramas, from hundreds of characters encountered within them.
Minjun said nothing.
“Am I wrong?”
Junho asked again.
“No.”
When Minjun said that, tears ran down his cheeks. Actors cry. Especially when their truth is exposed. It wasn’t technique. It was complete surrender.
She approached him. Her movements were careful. As if handling fire. She took his hand. That hand was warm. A different warmth than Junho’s. A colleague’s hand. A friend’s hand. And something deeper.
“You’re not alone.”
She said it.
“I’m here. And Hyung is here. We won’t abandon you. I can’t promise forever, but at least now. Right now, the three of us are together.”
Minjun heard those words. And he felt they weren’t a lie. If they were, you’d hear it in the speaker’s voice. But there was no lie in hers. There was exhaustion. There was anxiety. But no lie.
“I…”
Minjun opened his mouth again.
“My father committed suicide.”
Another silence fell over the locker room. A different kind of silence this time. The silence when someone reveals their deepest place. It was a silence of reverence.
“When I was a high school senior. My father was a film production designer. But there was no work. Because of the economic crisis. And he fell into depression. Deep, suffocating depression. I didn’t know it. Or rather, I didn’t want to know. So I didn’t look at him. I didn’t face him.”
Minjun’s voice trembled. But it wasn’t a weak voice. It was the voice of truth. The voice of an actor when he’s not acting.
“One morning, he disappeared. And the police came to the house. After that… I don’t remember what I did. I don’t remember the funeral. There was just a void. A deep void.”
Junho placed his hand on Minjun’s shoulder. She gripped his hand more firmly.
“After that, I… I was afraid to rely on anyone. Because that person might disappear. The only way I could survive was… to endure alone. To think I didn’t need anyone, that no one needed me. Then if someone disappeared, it wouldn’t matter.”
Minjun fell silent. Through the small window of the locker room, morning light illuminated his face. In that light, his face looked transparent. As if made of glass. Transparent, fragile, and everything visible within it.
“I wanted to be an actor. Because my father encouraged it. He had failed, but he wanted me to succeed. So I… I decided to become an actor. But I had both the desire to succeed and the fear of success. Because if I succeed, I might lose myself. Like my father did.”
She didn’t let go of his hand.
“But you’re not your father.”
She said it.
“You’re a different person. You’re not alone. And you won’t fail. You will succeed. And even in that success, you won’t be alone. Because I’m here. And Hyung is here.”
“We’re here.”
Junho repeated those words.
Minjun heard them. And he felt them falling into the center of his heart. Like a stone falling into still water. Ripples formed. They spread slowly. Until they covered his entire heart.
The locker room clock showed 8:47 a.m. There was barely a day and a half left until the final audition. But in this moment, time didn’t matter. What mattered was that a door had opened. The door to Minjun’s heart had finally opened.
“Hyung and…”
Minjun spoke.
“I… thank you.”
It was still formal language. But there was something within that formality. Sincerity. And it was the first time. The first time Minjun had thanked someone with genuine sincerity.
“Don’t say things like that.”
Junho laughed.
“We’re a team now. One team. And teammates don’t thank each other. Instead, we fight together. We win together and lose together.”
“Together.”
She repeated the word.
“We’re together.”
Minjun heard it. And he knew those words would completely change his life. The word together. Doing something with someone. How much power that held. If his father had failed because he was alone, then he could succeed because he wasn’t. It was naive thinking perhaps. But actors need naivety. To completely reveal themselves on stage.
That afternoon, Minjun didn’t go to the basement practice room alone. She and Junho went with him. They watched his acting. The final scenes that needed refinement before the final audition. And they gave advice. Not technical advice, but emotional advice. Actor to actor, friend to friend.
“You’re not playing a man who betrayed someone. You’re playing a man who wants to be loved.”
She said it.
“He betrayed his friend, but it was because of love. Because he wanted to be loved, because he wanted someone to see him.”
“And that regret has to be real.”
Junho added.
“Not technical regret, but human regret. You know your father’s regret. Weave that into this character.”
Minjun heard those words. And he understood. More than understood—he felt it. The distance between understanding and emotion was shrinking. As if the glass wall had disappeared. Now there was no barrier between himself and the role.
When night fell, the three of them had dinner in the locker room. Kimbap and ramen from the convenience store. The food actors usually ate. Cheap, fast, passable taste. As Minjun ate, he thought about how long he’d eaten such food alone. Food tastes different when you eat it with someone. The same food, but when eaten together, it tastes twice as good.
“How are you feeling about tomorrow’s audition?”
Junho asked.
“Nervous.”
Minjun answered honestly. That too was a first. Speaking his fear openly to someone.
“You should be nervous.”
Junho laughed.
“If you’re not nervous, you’re not an actor. Nervousness is your body’s signal that it’s preparing itself.”
“And you’ve prepared enough.”
She said it.
“You own that role. I’ve seen it. From day one. You just need to believe in yourself.”
Minjun heard those words. And he thought they might be true. That he might have prepared enough. And that very thought—the thought that it was possible—was something his former self never had.
When the locker room clock showed 11 p.m., the three of them stood up.
“Let’s give our best performance tomorrow.”
Junho said it.
“For us. And for yourself.”
“For all three of us.”
She added.
Minjun looked at them. Fear still lingered in his expression. But beneath that fear was something else. Hope. True hope, felt for the first time. The hope of not being alone.
“Yes. I’ll be there with you.”
Minjun said it.
As he left the locker room, Minjun looked back. The space still looked shabby. Old lockers, worn benches, a small mirror. But now it looked different to him. As if it were his fortress. His stronghold. And within that fortress weren’t just himself, but she and Junho as well. Ready to fight together, to win together, and if necessary, to lose together.
Walking through the night streets, Minjun took out his phone and opened the camera app. He looked at his own face. It looked different from yesterday’s face. No longer the face behind a glass wall. A real face. And the feeling that this reality would shine on stage tomorrow.
Only 18 hours remained until the final audition.
# Breaking Through the Glass Wall
Minjun understood the role. Not mere intellectual understanding. It was a deeper realm of sensation that seeped through his entire being. Like entering someone’s skin and hearing their heartbeat, he could now feel that character’s breath. The distance between understanding and emotion was shrinking.
He sensed the moment it happened. As if a glass wall that had blocked him for so long shattered silently. Or rather, melted away—that seemed more accurate. The wall hadn’t appeared overnight. It had built slowly over years, layer by layer, through daily rejection, dismissal, and doubt. Solid and impenetrable.
But now it was gone. There was no barrier between himself and the role. Minjun didn’t wear the character—he became it. In each moment, the world that character saw entered through his eyes, and the emotions that character felt flowed through his chest. He knew this was the realm actors dreamed of reaching. And the fact that he had arrived there filled him with joy he could barely believe.
When night descended, the three of them returned to the locker room. That small space in the basement of the practice studio now felt like their hideout. Paint peeled from the walls, one fluorescent light flickered, but no one cared.
Junho set out the convenience store food on the bench. One roll of kimbap, three packages of ramen, a few eggs, and canned coffee. The food actors usually ate. Cheap, fast, passable. Nutrition was secondary—the focus was just filling their stomachs. But in this moment, no high-end restaurant could serve anything more delicious.
As Minjun bit into the kimbap, he thought about how long he’d eaten such food alone. Four years since coming to Seoul. Most of those four years alone. Eating kimbap from the convenience store in the morning by himself, cooking ramen alone for lunch, sometimes going without dinner. Eating with someone was a luxury. Spending time with someone was a waste. He had to pour all his time into acting.
But now it was different.
Food eaten with someone really did taste different. The same food, the same ramen, the same kimbap, but eaten together, the flavor multiplied. It wasn’t the food itself—it was the warmth of the people you ate with seeping in. Every moment she laughed, every joke Junho threw out, every time he responded—all of it became part of the meal.
Minjun glanced at her sitting beside him. She seemed lost in thought as she sipped her ramen. Was she thinking about tomorrow’s audition too? Junho was still eating with a bright expression. How could he always be like that? It must be an actor’s skill—the ability to move freely between despair and hope.
“How are you feeling about tomorrow’s audition?”
Junho asked. His voice held both curiosity and encouragement.
Minjun paused for a moment. He thought about how he should answer such a question. He could have lied. I’m fine. I’m confident. I’m ready. An actor should be able to deliver such lies smoothly. But in front of these people, in this moment, he couldn’t.
“Nervous.”
Minjun answered honestly. The moment the words came out, he was surprised at himself. Speaking his fear openly to someone. It was truly his first time. How many people had he met in his years here? How many of them had he shared his true heart with? You could count them on one hand and have fingers left over.
Junho laughed. But it wasn’t mocking. It was warm, understanding.
“You should be nervous.”
Junho said, his eyes becoming serious.
“If you’re not nervous, you’re not an actor. Nervousness is your body signaling that it’s preparing itself. It’s not fear—it’s energy. Our job is to channel that energy onto the stage.”
Junho took another sip of ramen and continued.
“And you’ve prepared enough.”
This time she spoke. Her voice was quiet, but it carried certainty.
“You own that role. I’ve seen it. From day one. You just have to believe in yourself.”
Minjun heard those words. He heard them not just with his ears but with his entire being. It was as if they were seeping into his body. And foolishly, impossibly, he thought it might be true. That he might have prepared enough. That he might truly own this role.
And that thought itself—the mere thought that it was possible—was something his former self never possessed. The old Minjun was always lacking. Always thinking he needed to do more. How could he ever be enough? How could he ever be perfect? But now, in this moment, the thought came to him that he might be enough. And that alone was enough.
Time passed quickly. When the clock on the locker room wall reached 11 p.m., the three of them stood. How much time was left? 18 hours? 17? Minjun decided to stop counting. Counting would only make him more nervous.
Junho stood first. As he cleaned up the kimbap wrapper, he spoke.
“Let’s give our best performance tomorrow.”
His voice carried resolve.
“For us. And for yourself.”
“For all three of us.”
She added. The three voices echoed off the worn walls of the locker room. It was like a vow. Not a vow to someone else, but to themselves.
Minjun looked at them. Junho’s bright face, her quiet but certain expression. They already seemed to be on stage. Their eyes were different. The eyes of an actor.
His own face still held fear. His fingers trembled, his chest ached. But beneath that fear was something else. Hope. True hope, felt for the first time. The hope of not being alone. Not the thought that he had to leave someone behind to move forward, but the hope of moving forward together with someone.
“Yes. I’ll do this with you.”
Minjun said it. His voice trembled, but it wasn’t the tremor of fear. It was the tremor of determination.
As he left the locker room, Minjun looked back. The space still looked shabby. Old lockers, peeling paint, worn benches, a small mirror. One fluorescent light still flickered.
But now the space looked different.
It felt like his fortress. His stronghold, like those the medieval knights once defended. And within that fortress weren’t just himself, but she and Junho as well. Ready to fight together, to win together, and if necessary, to lose together. A space more precious than any king’s palace.
When he stepped into the night streets, cold wind struck his face. Seoul’s night was cold and dark. But now that cold and darkness felt welcome. This is the night an actor walks through, he thought. This is the night of someone moving toward a dream.
Minjun took out his phone and opened the camera app. Beneath a street lamp, he looked at his own face. The face on the screen looked different from yesterday. No longer the face behind a glass wall. A real face. A face that existed in these night streets. And the feeling that this reality would shine on stage tomorrow.
Minjun lowered the phone and checked the time.
11:47 p.m.
Only 18 hours remained until the final audition.
He read that number again. Eighteen hours. It could be long or short. But now he didn’t fear that time. Because during those hours, he wouldn’t be alone.
Walking through Seoul’s night streets, Minjun imagined tomorrow. Himself standing on stage. Himself expressing that role perfectly. And Junho and her watching from the audience. Their eyes. Their support.
That imagination alone was enough.
In 18 hours, everything would change.