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# Chapter 29: Silence After the Article
The call ended, but Minjun couldn’t put his phone down. His fingers had gone rigid, as if they were still gripping Junho’s words. The café’s music continued playing, but Minjun heard nothing—or perhaps he heard everything, yet it all blurred into a single, indifferent tone. Background noise. Static. The world’s apathy.
The latte had gone completely cold. A brown film had formed on its surface. Minjun stared at it. The warmth from when he first ordered it was long gone. When had it cooled? When had he stopped drinking and merely held it? Time happened like this—in the blink of an eye, without your noticing.
Two college students at the next table were still laughing. Both were staring at their phones, yet their laughter continued. Probably something funny from social media. Memes, they called them. Minjun didn’t understand such things. He knew the world kept moving, but he felt like he’d already fallen out of step with it. Or had he only just climbed aboard? Or was he continuously slipping?
His phone screen lit up. Someone had sent him a message. A notification chimed. Minjun checked it. It was Woori.
“Minjun, did you talk to Junho hyung? What did you guys do?”
Minjun typed a response. But he didn’t know what to write. He couldn’t write the truth. That Junho had reproached him. That he was angry about Minjun’s choices. If he wrote that, would Woori feel the same way? Woori was an actor too. Still waiting for opportunities. Would Minjun’s rise crush him?
“Yeah. We talked briefly. He seemed busy.”
Minjun wrote a lie. His finger pressed send. Lies came so easily. Especially when protecting someone else.
Woori replied instantly.
“Oh, I see. Hyung’s been swamped lately. But seriously, congrats. I really mean it. I’m waiting for my article day too, like you. ♥”
A heart emoji. That small symbol was pressing down on Minjun’s chest. Woori was genuinely congratulating him. But Junho had reproached him. They felt differently about the same thing. So who was right? Or were they both right?
Minjun left the café. It was 8:15 p.m. The streets had grown darker. He headed toward the Gangnam Station subway entrance. As he descended the stairs, Minjun caught sight of his face several times—on advertisement boards, in a convenience store mirror, on a large screen in the subway station. No, that wasn’t him. They were other actors’ faces. Movie posters. Drama advertisements. Musical promotions. All someone’s dreams. All someone’s choices. And now, was Minjun’s name appearing on one of those walls too?
The platform was crowded. Evening rush hour in Gangnam. Office workers, students, tourists. Everyone was going somewhere. Or coming from somewhere. Minjun stood at the platform’s edge. Before him lay a black tunnel. People waiting for a train to emerge from that tunnel. He was one of them. But a strange thought occurred to him. Was he really waiting for a train? Or did he want to be pulled into that black tunnel?
His phone rang. It was Junho again.
Minjun didn’t answer. Junho’s name kept flashing on the screen. The ring tone continued. Someone nearby might have noticed—a young man not taking his call. But no one cared. Everyone was busy with their own lives. Minjun was grateful for that fact. And at the same time, he understood that this was the loneliest feeling of all.
The call notification disappeared. A message came instead.
“I’m sorry. I was harsh. Let’s talk again later. Congratulations anyway. I really mean it.”
Minjun read the message again and again. Was it genuine? Or guilt? Or both? Actors knew how to handle words. How to express true feelings falsely. How to express false feelings as true. So how could he tell? Who was sincere and who was lying? It was impossible.
The train entered the platform. The doors opened. People boarded. Minjun boarded too. There were no seats. He stood holding a strap. He was surrounded by strangers, each absorbed in their phones. Each lost in their own thoughts. Each in their own world. That was Seoul. Hundreds of thousands of people in one space, yet everyone was alone. Minjun was one of them. No—he was the loneliest one of all.
He returned to his officetel at 9 p.m. The light from a street convenience store streamed through his window. A small room. Bed. Desk. Closet. Mirror. That was everything Minjun had. He stood before the mirror and looked at his reflection. Who was he? The person in the mirror? Or the person staring at it right now?
He picked up his phone. Opened a search portal. Searched his own name.
It was still trending. But lower than before. Someone had said real-time search rankings didn’t matter. But Minjun knew better. He knew how important they were. Falling in the rankings meant falling from people’s attention. Quickly. Much faster than he’d imagined.
The comment count had now exceeded 4,200. New comments kept appearing.
“Never seen this actor before, but really impressive.”
“If the PD praised them that much, they’re gonna blow up, right?”
“Their face is unique, but they can really act.”
“Who is this? How many Instagram followers?”
“Not many followers yet. I want to follow later, but what’s this actor’s name again?”
As Minjun read the comments, he felt how transparent he was to strangers. Even with the article and the search ranking, so many people still didn’t know him. Didn’t know his name. That was reality. One article was just one moment of glitter. After that came darkness again. Darker darkness.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Junho’s words kept repeating.
“You’re still acting for your father.”
That hurt the most. Because it was the most accurate. Minjun thought about why he acted. What had it been at first? What his father had said in high school: “Minjun, you want to be an actor. Then give it a try. I failed, but you might be different.”
Back then it was simple. His father believed in him, so he could believe in himself. His father said it, so it must be the answer. But his father died. And Minjun lost the only witness who could confirm whether his choice was right.
Since then, Minjun had tried continuously to prove it—that his choice wasn’t wrong. That his father wasn’t wrong. And now that proof was finally beginning. The article. The search ranking. The PD’s evaluation. But Junho couldn’t see it. Junho only saw his own pain.
His phone rang again. Woori this time. A call, not a message.
Minjun answered. He prepared his voice. A bright voice. A grateful voice. A voice that said everything was okay.
“Hello?”
“Minjun. Were you sleeping?”
Woori’s voice was bright. But there was worry mixed in.
“No. What’s up?”
“Just… I couldn’t sleep, you know? I had a lot on my mind. I wanted to tell you again how much I’m congratulating you. But what did Junho hyung say? Can we meet and talk?”
Minjun’s heart sank. Woori had figured it out. That the call with Junho hadn’t gone well. Minjun could have lied. But he knew lies didn’t work with Woori.
“Hyung said… something.”
“Can you tell me in person?”
“Yeah. Can we meet tomorrow?”
“Sure. How about tomorrow afternoon? That café—the one we always go to.”
“Okay.”
The call ended. Minjun set his phone down. But his hands were trembling. What could he do now? What could he tell Woori? Would those words hurt him? No, Junho had already hurt him. So would Minjun hurt Woori too?
Outside his window, Seoul’s night continued. Lights. Hundreds of thousands of lights. Behind each light was someone’s life. Someone’s pain. Someone’s choice. And Minjun was one of those hundreds of thousands. But now he was becoming a brighter light. A more visible one. But at the same time, a light that more people would try to extinguish.
The night deepened. Time moved toward midnight. Minjun still stared at the ceiling. He pretended to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. And he knew it wouldn’t. Like the night the article came out, he’d stared at this same ceiling then. With hope stirring in his chest. But now was different. Now his chest was filled with anxiety. Was that another name for success?
His phone screen lit up again. He searched his own name once more. The real-time search ranking had already dropped out of the top fifty. How long had it been since the article went up? Only a few hours, and already people’s interest was cooling. That was the entertainment industry. Rising fast, falling fast. In that cycle, some succeeded, some disappeared. And which direction was Minjun heading?
Finally his eyes closed. Whether he dreamed or simply lost consciousness, he couldn’t say. But one thing was certain: morning would come again. And when it did, his promise with Woori would be waiting. Where that conversation would lead him remained unclear.
The next afternoon, Minjun arrived at the café fifteen minutes early. It was their usual café. A small place tucked in an alley near Gangnam Station, with a worn sign. “Tiny Brew,” it read in English, though the interior was purely Korean. Weathered wooden tables stained with fingerprints. Old posters on the walls. A handwritten menu board. Time seemed frozen in this place. As if time didn’t pass here. As if no one aged.
Minjun sat at the window table. The same seat as yesterday when he’d talked to Junho. As if he were repeating yesterday’s mistake. Or reliving yesterday’s pain. He ordered coffee. This time, unlike yesterday, he chose an Americano. Pure bitterness without foam. It seemed to express his current self better.
Woori appeared at exactly 3 p.m. Black hoodie, jeans. A mask on his face. He’d dressed for going out. Or rather, he’d prepared to hide. Behind the mask, Woori’s eyes were visible. Those eyes were worried.
“Hi.”
Woori sat across from Minjun.
“Hello.”
Minjun replied. Formal speech came out. He was surprised at himself. He hadn’t expected formal language with Woori.
“What? Why so formal all of a sudden? Are we like that now?”
Woori laughed. But the laugh wasn’t light. Anxiety mixed through it.
“Sorry. It’s a habit…”
“It’s fine. But tell me quick what Junho hyung said. Your answer was weird when I asked yesterday.”
Woori got straight to it. He lowered his mask. Beneath it was a tired face. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Because of Minjun’s article. Minjun knew that. Woori had stayed up because of him.
“Hyung said…”
Minjun began speaking slowly. All of it. The story about his father. The trauma. The question of whether he truly wanted to be an actor, or was acting to compensate for his father’s failure. Everything.
Woori listened quietly. He didn’t interrupt. He heard all of Minjun’s words. And when Minjun finished, Woori slowly looked up.
“Yeah. Junho hyung’s right. But…”
Woori continued.
“But what?”
“But you already knew that. You knew it, so why ask now? Why do you need hyung to tell you before you realize it? Shouldn’t you be looking after your own feelings?”
Woori’s voice got louder. But not in anger. It was disappointment. That voice that came from truly hurting for someone.
Minjun couldn’t answer. Woori’s question was too accurate. He really hadn’t been looking after his own feelings. He was always waiting for someone’s evaluation. Always waiting for someone’s words. He couldn’t decide anything for himself.
“I’m sorry.”
Minjun said it quietly.
“Sorry for what? What did you do wrong? You don’t owe me an apology. I just… I wanted you to be okay. Really. I worried that this article and Junho hyung’s anger would hurt you. But coming here, you look even more hurt. Like something’s broken.”
Woori said it. And it was accurate. Minjun was breaking. Or already broken. Since the night the article came out. No—long before that. Since the day his father died. He’d been breaking continuously, and he knew it couldn’t be undone.
“What will you do going forward?”
Woori asked.
“I don’t know.”
Minjun answered honestly.
“That’s okay. Not knowing is fine. Just think slowly. If you’re acting for your father, you need to stop that. It’s not for you. Think about what acting for yourself means. Find out what that is. And…”
Woori stopped mid-sentence. He wanted to say something more but didn’t.
“And?”
Minjun asked.
“And I’ll always be here. You’re not alone. Junho hyung got angry not because of you, but because he felt his own limits. He’s already reached a place he can’t climb from. But you’re climbing. That’s what’s hurting him. But that’s not your fault. You just need to go your own way.”
Woori’s words opened Minjun’s heart again. In a different direction. With a different feeling.
“I thought hyung would be happy about it.”
Minjun said quietly.
“He will be. Just not now. It takes time. And during that time, you need to focus on yourself. Think about what happens with the Netflix drama, what comes next. Think about all of it. Don’t apologize to hyung—be true to yourself.”
Woori said it. And it sounded like a final sentence. As if this were the last conversation between them. Or the beginning of something. Something was changing. Subtly. Invisibly. But definitely.
Minjun and Woori sat in that café for another hour. Without speaking. Just sitting together. That was what was needed. That was a greater comfort than any words.
When night fell, Minjun returned to his officetel. Woori took the subway in the opposite direction. As they parted, Woori brushed Minjun’s shoulder once. That was all. But it was enough.
When Minjun arrived at his officetel, his phone rang. It was CEO Lee Sujin.
“Actor Min. Can you come to the office now? There’s something important we need to discuss.”
Minjun’s heart sank. It was starting again. Something new was beginning.