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# Chapter 11: Four Footsteps
Minjun stood before the practice room door. His fingers stretched toward the handle, but he couldn’t push it open. 10:23 a.m. Like all practice rooms in the company, this one was no exception. A small mirror, wooden floor, fluorescent lights. But this time, we would be standing before that mirror. And Minjun didn’t have the courage to appear before it.
Three hours had passed since leaving the locker room. In those three hours, Minjun had wandered through various corners of the company building. The rooftop, the underground parking lot, the cafeteria, the bathrooms. Any place where he could avoid running into us. Junho’s words kept echoing in his ears. “At least in front of those two.” Minjun knew what that meant. It wasn’t simple consolation—it was a command. In other words: show yourself. Show your face. Don’t run away.
He pushed the door open.
The practice room was brighter than expected. Morning sunlight poured through the window, and the mirror reflected that light. We weren’t standing before the mirror. Instead, we were sitting on the floor. Our back leaned against the mirror. Knees drawn up, arms resting on them.
The moment Minjun saw that posture, his breathing became shallow.
“Oh.”
We lifted our head. Her eyes found Minjun. In those eyes was sadness. But it wasn’t only that. There was anger, exhaustion, and something deeper—something that mingled disappointment with hope.
“’Oh’? What’s that? As if you’re seeing me for the first time.”
Our voice was low. Not the voice of a musical actress. Just the tired voice of one woman.
Minjun entered the practice room. He didn’t close the door. He left it open. Just in case. Or perhaps hoping that open door would narrow the distance between them.
“Did you… spend the night well?”
The question itself was ridiculous. Minjun knew it. We must have spent the night awake—in the locker room, or the practice room, or a café. Anywhere but home. Waiting for him.
“What kind of question is that?”
We laughed. Not quite a laugh—more of a giggle. The kind that comes from extreme exhaustion.
“I… I’m sorry.”
“You’re saying that again?”
We stood up slowly. Like an old person rising. Dust clung to her black workout clothes—evidence of a night spent on the floor. Her hair was tied the same way as yesterday, and her face was pale. A face without makeup. The face actors least want to show.
“You keep saying the same thing. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. What does that word even do? Nothing. What are you trying to accomplish with it?”
Minjun couldn’t answer. Because her question was precise. I’m sorry. The words meant nothing. They were simply a way to shut down his own emotions. Like bulletproof glass.
“What did I want?”
She asked again.
“I wanted your true heart. Your real feelings. But you keep building walls. Behind that wall, you tell me, ‘I’m sorry.’ What’s that supposed to do?”
Minjun looked at us directly. Without avoiding. He saw that pale face, that trembling voice, those tear-rimmed eyes. And all of it was because of him.
“I…”
Minjun opened his mouth. This time, not in formal speech.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“So you push me away? You think that’s not hurting me?”
She burst into laughter. Not real laughter—more like mockery.
“You’re really strange. You hurt me to avoid hurting me. Is that logic? You’ve already hurt me. And you’re still hurting me now.”
She was right. Minjun acknowledged it. His rejection, his silence, his distance—all of it was a wound. It would have been better to speak, to share. But Minjun couldn’t do that. Because the moment he leaned on someone, he felt like he would collapse.
“Is it still because of your father?”
Minjun’s body stiffened.
“What?”
“Junho told me. About your father.”
In that moment, Minjun hated Junho. The thought was crystal clear. Junho had given away his secret. It was a betrayal.
“You keep trying to do everything alone because your father killed himself? Because you’re afraid that if someone relies on you, they’ll fall apart like him? Is that why you push me away?”
Her analysis was precise. And precisely because it was accurate, it hurt more.
“That’s…”
“What? That’s what?”
“That’s something you can’t understand.”
Minjun reverted to formal speech. It was a defense mechanism. The moment he switched to formal speech, distance appeared, and from beyond that distance, he could speak.
She took a step back. As if someone had struck her.
“Something I can’t understand?”
Her voice trembled.
“You’re really… truly strange.”
She moved toward the practice room door. In that moment, Minjun raised his hand. As if trying to grab someone. But his fingers only caught air.
“Uri.”
That’s what he called her. Her name. For the first time, in a truly genuine voice.
She stopped. She didn’t turn around, but she stopped.
“My father… killed himself. When I was a senior in high school.”
Minjun’s voice was trembling. And it wasn’t false. Genuine trembling.
“Ever since then, I’ve been afraid that if I accept help from someone, they’ll fall apart like him. I’ve been afraid that if I love someone, that emotion will destroy them. So I tried to do everything alone. Because I thought that was the best love I could give.”
She slowly turned around.
“I knew you were in the basement practice room until 1 a.m. I knew you were waiting for me early in the morning at the locker room. I felt all of it. But I was afraid. If you did those things for me, someday I would disappoint you, and on that day, you would fall apart too.”
As Minjun spoke, he felt a strange sensation. As if someone else was speaking. But it was his voice. His true voice.
“I’m weak. I’m not enough. I’m not a good actor. But you keep trying to see me. That…”
Minjun’s voice broke.
“That frightens me.”
Tears formed in her eyes. This time, she didn’t pretend to cry. She truly cried.
“So you pushed me away?”
“Yes.”
“You’re really an idiot.”
She raised her hand to wipe her eyes.
“You’re truly an idiot. I was ready to let myself fall apart. If you make me collapse, that’s my choice. I chose you. But you didn’t give me that choice? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Minjun took a step toward us.
“I…”
“What?”
“I need you.”
When those words came out, her body moved. As if those words had set her in motion. She approached Minjun. Slowly. As if touching something fragile.
“What did you just say?”
“I need you.”
“Why? Still in formal speech?”
Minjun couldn’t help but laugh. A laugh mixed with extreme exhaustion and extreme relief.
“I need you. Really need you.”
When he said that, she embraced him. Suddenly. Without warning. As if to hold him so he wouldn’t disappear.
“You’re a real idiot. Truly.”
Her voice was muffled against his shoulder.
Minjun swept her back. It was comfort. Or more precisely, a signal that he too was being comforted. Someone is holding me. I’m not alone. That kind of signal.
Minjun didn’t know how long they stood like that. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t the length of time that mattered—it was the weight of that moment.
She stepped back from Minjun. But she didn’t let go of his hand. She held it as she moved away.
“The Netflix audition is tomorrow, right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you prepared?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Not sure? What have you been doing this past week?”
“Worrying.”
“Just worrying? No practice?”
Minjun didn’t answer. She already knew. Just worrying.
“Let’s practice tonight. Together.”
“What?”
“Is there a problem? Have you seen the scenario?”
Minjun nodded.
“Then try interpreting it. What have you been doing all this time?”
Minjun thought back. The past week. He’d read the scenario. Hundreds of times. But only read it. Without understanding.
“I… didn’t understand the character.”
“So? Why are you telling me now?”
“Because you asked.”
She tapped Minjun’s chest with her hand. Lightly. But meaningfully.
“You’re really strange. You’ve just been worrying alone? Didn’t it occur to you to ask me? To ask your brother?”
“I was afraid of being a burden…”
“There you go again.”
She embraced Minjun again. This time briefly. But firmly.
“You’re never a burden. Never.”
The practice room showed 10:45 a.m. The two actors unfolded the scenario. Minjun and Uri. They began reading each other’s characters.
Uri’s character was female. A wife. A woman who discovered her husband’s betrayal. The scene was extremely quiet. No breaking things, no screaming. Just silence. A silence that was more terrifying.
Minjun’s character was male. A betrayer. A man attempting to explain his actions. But a man who knows that no explanation will suffice.
“Who are you?”
Uri read from the scenario. But that line was no longer acting. It was a true question.
Minjun answered.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
That line wasn’t in the scenario either. But she accepted it. And in that moment, something changed in the practice room. As if the air between them had been charged with electricity.
“What good is sorry? It’s already too late.”
She spoke calmly. In an actor’s voice. Or no—now it was no longer an actor’s voice, but a true woman’s voice.
“I trusted you. That trust…”
Her voice trembled.
“That trust has been broken.”
Minjun looked at her directly. Without avoiding. And answered.
“I know I can’t regain that trust. But I will try.”
“Will you? When?”
“Now. Starting from this moment.”
The practice continued. 11 a.m. Noon. 1 p.m. As time passed, their reading transformed. If at first they were reading from the scenario, now they were not. They had each become their characters. Minjun had become the betrayer, and Uri had become the wounded woman.
2:30 p.m. The locker room door opened.
Seongjun entered. He saw the practice room door was open and peered inside. Minjun and Uri were doing a scenario reading. Seongjun’s face contorted. As if someone had taken what was his.
“Wait, is that the Netflix scenario?”
Seongjun asked.
“Yeah. Minjun has an audition tomorrow.”
Uri answered without stopping their reading.
“Wait, wasn’t that the role I was preparing for?”
There was something in Seongjun’s voice. Anger? Or something deeper—anxiety?
“No. Netflix has multiple people auditioning. You’re trying out for a different role, remember?”
Her words were accurate.
Seongjun knew that. But the fact that it was true was even more upsetting. In other words, Minjun had received an opportunity just like him. And he was a newcomer.
“So where are you learning from?”
Seongjun asked Uri. But his eyes were on Minjun.
“I’m helping him.”
“Helping? With a scenario reading?”
Seongjun burst out laughing. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh.
“That doesn’t help much. It’s more important to meet the production PD and understand their style. A scenario reading? What good is that?”
Minjun looked at Seongjun. And he realized something. Seongjun was afraid. It wasn’t competition—it was terror.
“You’re right.”
Minjun said.
“What?”
“Understanding the PD is more important than a scenario reading.”
“Right. I know that well.”
Seongjun left the locker room. But in his departing figure, something was wavering. Like a dam about to break.
Quiet returned to the practice room.
“Do you think that guy will be okay?”
Uri asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Still, I’m worried.”
She picked up the scenario again.
“Let’s keep going. One more time from the final scene.”
When she said that, Minjun realized how fortunate he was. Someone believed in him. Someone made time for him. Someone wanted to see him.
Those were all things he had rejected at first.
5 p.m. As Minjun and Uri left the practice room, they ran into Junho. Junho was heading into the locker room.
“Oh, what are you two doing here?”
Junho asked.
“Preparing for an audition.”
Minjun answered.
Something passed across Junho’s face. Satisfaction? Or relief?
“Good. Keep it up like this.”
Junho tapped Minjun’s shoulder with his hand. The same way as yesterday. And this time, Minjun accepted that hand.
“Thank you, hyung.”
“What are you saying? We’re actors together.”
Junho entered the locker room. His departing figure seemed even more upright than yesterday.
Minjun and Uri left the company building. Evening sunlight was pouring in from the west. Their shadows stretched long. Four footsteps. Minjun’s footsteps and Uri’s footsteps moved in parallel.
“You’ll do well tomorrow. You.”
Uri said.
“Yes.”
“That answer again?”
“Yes. Thanks to you.”
She linked Minjun’s arm with hers. Not hooking arms, but linking them. As if the two were becoming one.
“I have a musical audition too. Next week.”
“I see.”
“Then let’s prepare together. Helping each other.”
“Yes.”
Walking down the street, Minjun looked at his footsteps. In parallel with hers. And it was beautiful. That simple fact was beautiful. Not being alone. Walking this path with someone.
6:30 p.m. Minjun’s officetel. A very small room. A bed, a desk, a mirror, and stacks of scenarios. Minjun was lying on the bed. Looking at the ceiling.
Tomorrow is the audition.
Does that matter?
No. What mattered was something else.
Someone spent the night awake for him.
Someone read the scenario with him.
Someone believed in him.
That was everything an actor needed.
Minjun picked up his phone. He sent a message to Uri.
Thank you for today. Without you, I’d still be talking to myself in front of the mirror.
A few seconds later, her reply came.
What are you talking about? We’re a team. Remember? And tomorrow you’ll definitely pass. Got it?
Minjun burst into laughter reading that message. A quiet laugh. But a true one.
Yes. I’ll definitely pass.
7 p.m. Minjun unfolded the scenario again. But this time it read differently. As if the scenario was speaking to him for the first time.
Tomorrow. On that audition stage. Minjun would bring forth his true voice. Not alone, but with someone’s belief on his back.
That was what it meant to become an actor.
# Faith in the Shadows
## Part 1: The Hand on the Shoulder
Junho passed by the locker room entrance. Minjun didn’t miss that moment. Something flowed from Junho’s eyes. Satisfaction? Or relief? Minjun couldn’t read that emotion precisely, but one thing was certain. The deep wrinkle that had been on Junho’s face last night had eased slightly.
“Good. Keep it up like this.”
Junho’s voice was still low and measured. But there was a different tone mixed within it. Encouragement. Pure, calculated encouragement.
Minjun’s shoulders flinched. Junho’s hand had landed on them. Exactly the same way as yesterday. Yesterday, he had avoided that hand. It had been too sudden, too warm, and he felt he didn’t deserve that warmth.
But today was different.
Minjun slowly lifted his head. Junho’s face was backlit. The studio ceiling light made his outline glimmer. Junho was smiling silently. A very small smile. But a genuine one.
“Thank you, hyung.”
His throat caught. Minjun realized it. His voice was trembling. To hide it, he bowed his head deeper.
Junho took a step back. His hand fell away.
“What are you saying? We’re actors together.”
Those words weren’t simple pleasantries. They were a declaration. A declaration that Minjun and Junho now stood at the same level. No longer senior and junior, no longer competitors, no longer victim and perpetrator.
Junho entered the locker room. His departing figure seemed much more upright than yesterday. His shoulders were straight. Like someone who had set down a heavy burden.
Minjun watched that figure disappear. And he thought: People really can change in an instant.
## Part 2: Footsteps in the Sunset
The path out of the company building. Evening sunlight poured down from the west. June sunlight was intense. It felt less like shining down than like crashing down.
Minjun looked at the person beside him. It was still difficult to call her name precisely. His scenario reading partner. No, that wasn’t it either. Now… what should he call her?
“You’ll do well tomorrow. You.”
The person beside him spoke. She didn’t wave her hand. Her voice wasn’t loud. But her words weren’t a question—they were certainty.
“Yes.”
Minjun answered. That was the only answer.
“That answer again?”
She burst into laughter. Her laugh was different from Junho’s. Brighter. Freer. Like sunlight itself laughing.
“Yes. Thanks to you.”
At Minjun’s words, she suddenly stopped walking. Both of them stopped. In the middle of the street. The evening breeze ruffled their hair.
“What’s wrong?”
Minjun asked.
“No, just… that’s a strange thing to say. Thanks to me? Like I did something great.”
“You did.”
“What?”
“You believed in me.”
She looked up at the sky. The sunset painted their faces orange. Shadows fell beneath her eyebrows. Along her nose too. Every line of her face became sharper.
“We need to keep walking. If we stand here any longer, we’ll be late.”
She spoke and extended her hand. Not hooking arms, but creating a ring. Connecting wrist to wrist.
Minjun took that hand. Not her fingers, but her upper arm. As if the two of them were forming a single chain.
“I have a musical audition too. Next week.”
She began walking, and Minjun followed. Their footsteps printed in parallel. Four footsteps that weren’t four separate footsteps anymore, but seemed like one person’s prints.
“I see.”
“Then let’s prepare together. Helping each other. The way I spent the night awake for you, I want to spend the night awake for you too. Understand?”
Her voice trembled slightly. Minjun felt it. In that subtle vibration between her fingers.
“Yes.”
“That answer again?”
“Yes. And… I’m really grateful.”
Walking down the street, Minjun watched his footsteps. In parallel with hers. And it was beautiful. That simple fact was beautiful. Not being alone. Walking this path with someone.
The evening breeze blew. It ruffled their hair. Minjun closed his eyes and felt that wind. It was refreshing. Like the wind of a new beginning.
## Part 3: The Night in a Small Room
6:30 p.m. Minjun’s officetel.
It was too small to be called a room. A bed, a desk, a mirror, and stacks of scenarios. That was all. The walls were gray. The window was small. A room where sunlight barely entered.
Minjun was lying on the bed. Looking at the ceiling. There were several places where the paint on the ceiling had peeled. Water stains. He had counted them once. Twenty-two. Exactly.
Tomorrow is the audition.
Does that matter?
Minjun asked himself. Honestly. Without lies.
No.
What mattered was something else. It wasn’t whether the audition would be a success or failure. It wasn’t how well he would act in the audition.
Someone spent the night awake for him.
Someone read the scenario with him.
Someone corrected his pronunciation, adjusted his emotional line, and tried to change even his gaze.
Someone believed in him.
That was everything an actor needed. Not technique. Not talent. That was it.
Minjun picked up his phone. The screen came alive at 6:47 p.m. His fingers trembled. They trembled as he typed.
Thank you so much for today. Without you, I’d still be talking to myself in front of the mirror.
After sending it, Minjun picked up and set down his phone repeatedly. The time it took for a reply to come felt long. A few seconds felt like hours.
3 seconds.
Then his phone buzzed.
What are you talking about? We’re a team. Remember? And tomorrow you’ll definitely pass. Got it?
Minjun burst into laughter reading that message. At first it was quiet. A laugh where his shoulders trembled slightly. But it grew. At some point it became a true laugh. A laugh from the stomach. A laugh from the soul.
Yes. I’ll definitely pass.
Minjun replied. And laughed again.
## Part 4: Conversation with the Scenario
7 p.m.
Minjun got up from the bed. He walked to the desk. He picked up the topmost scenario from the stack. A scenario he had read many times. A scenario worn by his touch. The scenario he had read with her yesterday.
This time it read differently.
Yesterday it was just text. Simple text. Black letters printed on white paper. That was all.
But today was different.
It was as if the scenario was speaking to him for the first time. As if each letter had a voice. As if each sentence held emotion.
Minjun began reading slowly. Moving his lips. Speaking with his voice.
His voice was different from yesterday. Deeper. More certain. More truthful.
It was because her voice remained in his ears. “Try it like this. This scene isn’t despair—it should carry hope. This person is dying, but he still believes in someone.”
Those words seeped into his body. Into his muscles. Into his nerves.
As Minjun read the scenario, he thought.
Tomorrow. On that audition stage. I will bring forth my true voice.
Not alone. With someone’s belief on my back. With someone’s sleepless night on my back. With someone’s touch on my back.
That was what it meant to become an actor.
Not standing on stage alone. Standing on stage with someone. With someone who wasn’t visible but was clearly there.
## Part 5: Sounds of the Night
The night grew deep.
Through the walls of the officetel came someone’s footsteps. The sound of a TV. The sound of a refrigerator from the floor below. This city was never quiet, even at night.
Minjun heard those sounds. But none of them disturbed him. Because within his inner self, a greater music was playing.
It was her voice.
“We’re a team.”
The resonance of those words filled him. Filled his chest.
Minjun continued reading the scenario. Until 11 p.m. Until midnight. Until 1 a.m.