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# Chapter 10: If You Don’t Let Go
Junho’s hand gripped Minjun’s arm. A warm hand. Yet even that warmth felt like too much for Minjun to bear. He slowly pulled his arm away. Junho watched it happen. He understood the rejection, but his face didn’t show it. The professionalism of a 34-year-old actor.
“Let’s not show our emotions in the locker room. The other actors are watching.”
Junho said it, but the words sounded less like advice for Minjun and more like something he was telling himself. As if trying to convince his own heart.
She stood up. She didn’t wipe her eyes. Musical theater actors don’t cry, she’d said. But the tears had already fallen. She left them there, just looking at Minjun.
“I’m going to practice.”
Her voice sounded like it might shatter. But she didn’t shatter. Actors learn how to crumble on stage. How to fall apart while remaining frozen in place.
When she left the locker room, she met Minjun’s eyes one last time. What was in those eyes? Rejection? Or something else hidden behind that rejection?
The locker room door closed.
Junho sat down on the bench. He gestured to the seat beside him. But Minjun didn’t sit. Standing felt easier. It meant he could avoid someone’s gaze. It meant he could dodge someone’s questions.
“How many days until the Netflix audition?”
“Two days, sir.”
“Two days. And you’re in this state?”
Junho sighed. A deep sigh. The kind of sigh that sounds like setting down someone else’s weight.
“Minjun. Why do you keep trying to do everything alone?”
Minjun didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at Junho’s face. The 34-year-old actor still had a “good face”—the kind that could be cast in any role in a drama. A husband, a friend, a rival. But beneath that face, something was flowing downward. Like a dam about to break.
“I did the same thing. Everything alone. At first, I thought that was strength. Not showing weakness was strength. But now I know. It’s not strength. It’s just… loneliness.”
Junho’s voice remained low. But within that low tone, something resonated. Like someone plucking a string.
“I’ve spent eight years alone. Ever since I joined this company. Sometimes I seem close to other actors, but that was all acting. The difference between the stage and off-stage. And now I realize—what were those eight years for? What did I gain? Playing the second lead in a drama twice? A film award nomination? Things like that?”
Junho raised his hand. It was trembling. Minjun saw it. The hand of a 34-year-old actor trembling. What did that mean?
“Tomorrow the Netflix audition results will come out, and honestly, I’m more terrified now. I might get the lead role, or I might fail. Either way, I feel… alone. Like I won’t be able to share that joy with anyone. Like I won’t be able to share that pain with anyone.”
As Minjun listened, he began to understand what he’d been missing. Junho wasn’t a mentor. He was just another actor. A human being carrying the same loneliness.
“Hyung…”
Minjun opened his mouth.
“You’re more than enough. Many more people have seen you. They’ve felt your acting. I… I haven’t reached that point yet.”
“So?”
“So I still have to prove myself. But…”
Minjun’s words stopped. He knew what came next, but he couldn’t say it.
“But what?”
“But I can’t hurt other people in the process of proving myself. Yet I already have.”
Junho stood up. He moved closer to Minjun. But this time, he didn’t grab his arm. Instead, he placed his hand on Minjun’s shoulder. The shoulder, not the arm.
“Minjun. You’re enough. You already are. The very fact that you think you’re not enough—that’s the mark of a good actor. But try to believe you’re enough now. At least in front of those two people.”
Junho left the locker room. Before closing the door, Minjun saw his back. The shoulders of a 34-year-old actor looked heavy. As if carrying the weight of countless roles all at once.
Only Minjun remained in the locker room.
He walked to the mirror. He looked at his own face. A 27-year-old actor’s face. A face that could still begin something. But within that face was only fear.
His phone rang. An unknown number. Minjun answered almost reflexively.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Minjun from Thestar Entertainment?”
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Lee Junyoung, a production manager at Netflix. I’m calling to change the schedule for your final audition.”
Minjun’s heart sank. A schedule change? What did that mean? Was it cancelled? Or changed to a different role?
“Yes… what is it?”
“We originally scheduled it for tomorrow at 3 PM, but we’d like to move it up to today at 6 PM. Would that be possible?”
Today. 6 PM. That left less than five hours.
“Yes, that’s possible.”
“Thank you. One more thing—do you have your own interpretation or perspective on this role? Not just following the script, but who do you think this character is?”
As Minjun heard the question, he thought back to last night. What he’d repeated alone in the basement practice room. The movements of someone who’d betrayed. The voice of someone who’d betrayed. The heartbeat of someone who’d betrayed.
“I think… that character is someone trying to save himself.”
“Save himself?”
“Yes. Betrayal is the result, and behind that betrayal is a desperate need for self-salvation. He doesn’t betray because he wants to be abandoned by someone. He betrays to become necessary to someone. That’s his tragedy.”
Silence flowed through the phone. A few seconds of silence. But it felt long.
“That’s good. I’ll see you at 6 PM today.”
The call ended.
Minjun put his phone down. His hand was still trembling. Today. 6 PM. That could be the moment that decided his entire life. But at the same time, it felt too close. Not enough time to prepare. Or rather—it wasn’t time he lacked. It was himself.
Minjun left the locker room.
He went down to the first-floor café. Thestar Entertainment’s building had a small café on the first floor. It was famous for terrible coffee, but it worked as a waiting area. That’s where he found her.
She was sitting by the window. The Americano in front of her was almost cold. She wasn’t drinking it. Instead, she was looking at her own face reflected in the café window like a mirror. An actor’s habit. The act of observing one’s own face.
“Hm.”
Minjun sat beside her.
She took her eyes off the window. She looked at him slowly. Her eyes were red and puffy. But her expression was calm. The control of a musical theater actor. The way to keep your face peaceful even when full of emotion.
“You came?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To talk.”
She fell silent. She picked up her Americano. She took a sip of the cold coffee. Her expression remained calm, but within that single sip was so much—rejection, pain, and the effort to endure that pain.
“I know everything. You want to keep me away. You’ve been like that from the start. I keep trying to come closer to you, but you keep stepping back. What is that?”
Her words were precise. So precise that Minjun couldn’t refute them.
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t want to keep you away.”
Minjun said it. His voice was low. But within that low voice, something was vibrating. The tremor of an emotion just awakening.
“I pushed you away because of you. Because you got too close to me. Because you wanted to see me.”
She set down the coffee cup.
“What are you? You hate being seen? Are you so afraid of being known by someone?”
“Yes. Very afraid.”
Minjun answered. Surprised by his own words, he kept speaking.
“If you see me, you’ll know me. If you know me, you might leave me. Everyone does. At first they try to get close, but eventually they leave. My father did the same.”
When those words came out, it felt like the café’s noise had stopped. The noise was still there, of course, but Minjun couldn’t hear it. Like his words had frozen the world.
Her eyes changed. The change was subtle. But Minjun saw it. What an actor sees. The way emotion is expressed on a face.
“Your father…”
“He passed away ten years ago.”
Minjun said it. He didn’t say what came next. How he died. That was still something he couldn’t handle. Like if he dug up the soil buried deep in his chest, the smell of rot would rise up.
She reached out her hand. Across the table. Toward Minjun’s hand.
“So you think I’ll leave too?”
Her voice grew quieter. But this time it wasn’t anger. It was sadness.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know me?”
“I don’t know why you would leave. But everyone else has, so I thought you would too.”
She moved her hand closer. But she still hadn’t touched his. As if waiting for his hand to meet hers.
“I’m not an actor. I’m not someone playing a role on stage. I just… want to be with you. That’s why I was in the practice room until 1 AM. That’s why I waited for you this morning.”
Minjun looked at that hand. A musical theater actor’s hand. A hand that had reached out countless times on stage.
He slowly moved his own hand. Across the table. Until it met hers.
Their hands touched.
It was warm. Minjun felt it. Someone’s warm hand. A hand that wasn’t pushing him away. A hand that didn’t want to leave him.
“You won’t leave.”
Minjun said it.
“Why?”
“Because… I won’t let go of you.”
Her eyes filled with tears again. But this time they weren’t tears from pain. A different kind of tear. Like when someone opens your chest.
They sat in the café for another hour. Holding hands.
Minjun didn’t tell her that the Netflix audition had been moved up to 6 PM today. It didn’t feel like the right time yet. It felt too early to break this moment.
But time passed anyway. The café’s clock kept moving. From 1 PM to 2 PM. From 2 PM to 3 PM.
When it became 3 PM, Minjun let go of her hand.
“I have to go.”
“Where?”
“Company business.”
Minjun lied. It was a lie. But he couldn’t tell her yet. He didn’t know how important this moment was, or how she would accept it.
She stood up.
“Oppa. Can we meet tonight?”
Minjun didn’t answer her question. Instead, he embraced her. In the café. Openly. Where everyone could see.
The musical theater actor was surprised at first. But soon she buried her face in Minjun’s shoulder.
They stayed like that for a few seconds. A time where only they existed. A time as humans, not as actors.
Minjun let go first.
“Oppa…”
“I have to go. I’m sorry.”
He left the café.
The street was filled with afternoon sunlight. The area around Gangnam Station in Seoul was packed with people. Office workers, students, tourists. Everyone going their own way.
Minjun caught a taxi.
“Netflix Studio, Teheran-ro, Gangnam-gu.”
“Netflix? Are you an actor?”
The taxi driver asked.
“No, just… I have some business there.”
Minjun looked out the window. Seoul’s streets. The streets he’d walked as an extra for four years. Four years ago, no one paid attention to him. Even now, no one did. Everyone on the street was focused on their own lives.
But in a few hours, that could change. Or it could get worse.
Minjun looked at his hand. It still held the warmth of her hand.
When they arrived at the Netflix studio, it was 5:30 PM. Thirty minutes remained.
Minjun stood in front of the studio. A glass building. Inside, countless videos were being made. A place where someone’s dreams become reality. Or where someone’s dreams shatter into pieces.
He took a deep breath.
All the things he’d done in the basement practice room last night came back to him. The movements of someone who’d betrayed. The voice of someone who’d betrayed. The desperation of someone who’d betrayed, trying to save himself.
And now he understood. That person who’d betrayed wasn’t someone else. It was him. He’d been betraying himself. By hiding his emotions, by concealing his weakness, by acting as though he belonged to no one.
Minjun opened the studio door.
“Hello. I’m Minjun.”
The receptionist greeted him with a smile.
“Oh, you’re here. Let me show you to the waiting area.”
Minjun followed that path. The hallway was long. What lay at the end of that hallway? Victory? Defeat? Or both?
He didn’t know. But he knew one thing. He was no longer alone. Someone was behind him. Someone who wouldn’t let go.
The hallway door opened.
The End
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