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# Chapter 27: The Weight of Silence
Junho’s call never came. That was strange.
Minjun picked up his phone and put it down repeatedly. The screen showed 6:47 PM. About an hour had passed since the article went live. After finishing the call with us, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling. That white expanse felt like some kind of massive screen, as if his own face was being projected onto it. Trending searches. 3,500 comments. The PD’s evaluation. All of it came crashing down from above.
He turned on his phone again and checked his KakaoTalk list. Junho’s name was there. But there were no new messages. The last one was from yesterday: Rest up. See you tomorrow. That was all.
Minjun started typing a message to Junho. But he didn’t know what to say. Did you see the article? felt too obvious—like bragging about his success. Thank you felt too distant, like a signal that he’d already moved away from them. In the end, he sent nothing. He stopped typing and put the phone down.
At 7 PM, Minjun left his officetel.
The streets were Seoul at evening. Near Gangnam Station. Office workers gathered at bus stops as they clocked out. Students stood in front of convenience stores. Someone smoked. Someone scrolled on their phone. No one looked at Minjun. That was still his reality. Despite the article, the comments, the trending searches—he remained invisible on these streets. That contradiction made his chest ache.
He entered a café. A sign read “Starbucks” with a star logo. He sat by the window and ordered a latte. 5,500 won. That was a fraction of his monthly salary. But it felt okay now. The article had come out, after all. What did it mean that an article had come out? Was it proof? Or a beginning? Or a trap?
He watched the street beyond the window. People passed quickly, as if compelled to be somewhere. He used to be like that too—driven to go somewhere, to be seen by someone. But now? Now he’d already been seen. The PD had seen him. The CEO had seen him. Hundreds of thousands of people had typed his name into search engines.
His latte arrived with rising steam. It fogged the window, making the world blur as if shrouded in mist. Minjun picked up the cup. It was warm—dangerously warm. But he drank it anyway. His tongue burned slightly. That pain was proof of reality. Pain meant he was alive.
His phone rang.
Minjun braced himself before looking at the screen. This could be good news or bad news. An actor had to always be ready for either. He turned on the screen. It was Junho.
“Hello?” Minjun spoke carefully, as if waking someone.
“Minjun. What are you doing right now?” Junho’s voice was quiet and composed as always, but something else mixed into it. Minjun detected it—fatigue. Or stress. Or both.
“I’m at a café. Why?”
“Did you see the article?”
It was his first question. Not congratulations. Not amazement. Just a simple question, as if asking about the weather.
“Yes. You called and told me.” Minjun paused. “Did you see it too?”
Silence filled the line. It stretched on. Three seconds. Four. Five. Actors understand the weight of silence. Silence speaks louder than words. Silence exposes emotion.
“Yeah. Just saw it,” Junho said. “Remember what they taught you in school? When an article comes out, who do you call first? What did they say?”
“That’s… I’m not sure.” Minjun answered honestly.
“Yourself. You congratulate yourself. Then family. Then friends. And last comes your manager or company. But you? Who called first?”
Junho’s question sounded like a reproach. But underneath, it sounded like concern.
“You all did…”
“Right. Us. And then what? Did you congratulate yourself? Or did you report to the CEO first? Did you think about the company first?”
Junho’s voice was rising, though it remained controlled. Like a volcano moments before eruption.
“Hyung… what’s the problem?” Minjun asked innocently.
“What’s the problem? Do you know what you just did? You’re out on the street sitting in a café drinking a 5,500-won latte. That alone shows you’ve changed. Until yesterday, you were the actor drinking convenience store Americanos. One article comes out and suddenly you have confidence? Suddenly you think you’re a ‘decent actor’?”
Junho’s tone was definitely reproachful.
Minjun set down his latte. His hand trembled. The cup clinked against the saucer, the sound echoing through the café. A few people by the window glanced at him, then returned to their own concerns. Someone else’s life falling apart wasn’t their responsibility.
“Hyung… I was just…”
Minjun stammered.
“Just what? Celebrate yourself? Or just relax? You don’t understand. In this industry, after one success comes something very specific. Expectations. Enormous expectations. Netflix. PD evaluations. Trending searches. Do you know what all of that does to you? It lifts you up. And being lifted up means…”
Junho paused.
“…you can fall,” Minjun finished the sentence himself. His own voice. In that moment, he understood. Why Junho hadn’t called. Why there were no congratulations. Why the call came at 7 PM, not right after seeing the article.
Junho was protecting him. Junho knew he’d have to watch Minjun fall. And he knew it couldn’t be prevented. So Junho was warning him in advance—like telling someone about the big waves before they head out to rough seas.
“Do you have time tomorrow?” Junho asked. His voice was calm now. The eruption had passed.
“Yes. I have time.”
“Then let’s meet at 2 PM tomorrow. In The Star’s lobby. All of us together. We have something to tell you.”
Junho said this and hung up.
Minjun put down his phone. The latte was already cold. It was no longer warm. Like his joy. Somehow it had cooled. He drank the latte. Cold and bitter spread across his tongue.
A television was on in the café. A news channel. An anchor read something. It was muted, but Minjun watched. Captions scrolled by. Politics. Economy. Society. Culture. The world kept moving. And within that world, a single actor named Minjun’s article was already being pushed aside by other news.
He turned on his phone again. Opened a portal site. Went to the entertainment section. Searched his own name. The article was still there. But it had dropped in ranking. He also saw a photo of himself in the “Photo Issues” section. A photo taken in the theater lobby. Someone must have secretly taken it during filming. His expression was serious. As if he were bearing the weight of the entire world alone.
He started reading the comments. He’d been told by us that reading comments drives you crazy, but he couldn’t stop. Like an addiction. Like he needed to confirm that he mattered to someone.
‘His emotional acting is really good’
‘This actor’s going to be famous later, I think?’
‘How did Netflix find such a rookie?’
‘Isn’t he just an average actor? Why all this hype’
‘Sungjun’s better looking lol’
‘If the PD gave such a good review, the drama can’t fail’
Hundreds of voices. Hundreds of mouths. Hundreds of judgments. Some for him, some against him. They all seeped into his body like a virus. Like poison.
By 8 PM, Minjun was back at his officetel.
He lay in bed. Stared at the ceiling. It was still white. So very white. Like nothing at all. He closed his eyes. His own face appeared. The face he’d seen in the photo issue. Was that really his face? Or the face he’d tried to show? Or the face someone had wanted to read into his face?
His phone rang again.
Minjun opened his eyes. He checked the screen. It was Sungjun. Sungjun. That name. The one Junho had mentioned. Already famous, did lots of commercials, much larger contracts. Why was that actor calling him?
“Hello?” Minjun answered.
“Minjun. You see the article?” Sungjun’s voice was bright and friendly. Like a good friend.
“Yes. I saw it.”
“Crazy, right? Really great article. If the PD gave such a good review, the drama’s got a high chance of succeeding. Which means you’ll blow up too. Congratulations. Really.”
Sungjun spoke. It was congratulations. But there was something else underneath. Minjun detected it. Anxiety. Or jealousy. Or both.
“Thank you.” Minjun answered formally.
“But what did you talk about with the CEO? It’s unusual for an article to come out this fast. Is the company pushing you?”
Sungjun’s question sounded more like an investigation than curiosity.
“I don’t think we did anything special. I think the PD released it.” Minjun answered honestly.
“Ah, the PD. But once an article like this comes out, you have a responsibility too. A responsibility to make the drama successful. Since the PD hyped you up like this, you’re now part of the drama. Your performance becomes the drama’s performance. You get that, right?”
Sungjun spoke. It was a warning wrapped in a friendly tone.
“Yes. I understand.”
“And… do you have time next week? We’re having a meeting for rookie actors at our company. You should come. It’s where new actors from The Star and other companies meet. You need to get your face out there. Networking is everything in this industry.”
Sungjun made the suggestion.
“Will Junho hyung be going?” Minjun asked.
“Junho? I’m not sure about that. Anyway, it’s mainly rookies. Just think about it and call me.”
Sungjun said this and hung up.
Minjun set down his phone. The black screen on the bed. It felt like a small universe. Inside it were dozens of conversations, hundreds of judgments, thousands of emotions.
By 11 PM, Minjun still hadn’t fallen asleep.
Staring at the ceiling, he thought about what he’d gained in the past 24 hours. An article. Comments. Search rankings. Junho’s warning. Sungjun’s invitation. Was all of it for him? Or was it a trap to snare him?
He turned on his phone again. 11:23 PM. His name was still in the trending searches. The ranking had dropped slightly. But it was still there. His name. Someone’s fingertips typing letters. Someone’s curiosity. Someone’s judgment.
Minjun cleared the search. And sent a message to Junho.
‘Hyung, thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
It was a short message. But it was the best he could do. To contain his feelings in those brief sentences. To do what actors do. Say much in few words. Hold everything in silence.
Junho’s reply came quickly.
‘Thanks. And tomorrow, we have something to tell you. Something you need to hear.’
Minjun read that message five times. Each word separately. And he thought about what it meant. What would he say? Would it be congratulations? Or a warning? Or something more?
At midnight, Minjun finally turned off the light beside his bed.
Darkness fell. The darkness of his officetel. In that darkness, Minjun repeated opening and closing his fingers. Like yesterday. Like he was still out of control. Like his hands still belonged to someone else.
And in that darkness, one thought emerged.
Did I want this article? Or did the article want me?
The question waited for an answer. But no answer came. Instead, a new day would come tomorrow. And tomorrow at 2 PM, Junho and the others would tell him something. Something that could change his life all over again.
Minjun closed his eyes. Images danced on his closed eyelids. The article. The comments. Junho’s expression. Sungjun’s voice. Their laughter. It all mixed together into one massive wave.
And on that wave, Minjun floated. Not knowing if he was rising or falling.