이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
# Chapter 33: What We Saw
The train pulled into Sillim Station, and Minjun stepped onto the platform. He moved through the crowd, his eyes fixed on his phone screen. Our last message was still there, glowing.
“Minjun. Do you have time tomorrow? I’d like to see you at a café.”
It was 9 PM. Minjun exited the subway station and climbed to street level. Sillim-dong stretched out before him—a college district. Noraebang, convenience stores, chicken restaurants, cafés. All glowing in the neon of 9 PM. A street for exam-takers. A street for actors who’d missed their shot. This was Minjun’s street. His semi-basement room cost 150,000 won a month in rent.
But he didn’t head home. Instead, he pulled out his wallet and entered a convenience store. CU. Under the fluorescent lights, he grabbed a bowl of instant ramen, two eggs, and a can of coffee. At the register, counting out his money, he thought of his bank account. About 300,000 won. Not nearly enough to last the month. But things were different now. The article had run. People had seen him. So what came next? Callbacks? Management offers? Commercial shoots?
Don’t think too much. Nothing’s confirmed yet.
Minjun left the store. The night breeze brushed his face. The air in Sillim-dong was neither warm nor cold. Lukewarm. It matched his current state perfectly—suspended between success and failure, between everything and nothing.
His phone buzzed. A message from Junho. Another one.
“Minjun. How are you doing these days? You haven’t reached out. I was harsh. Really harsh. Let’s talk when we see each other next.”
Minjun didn’t reply. He just read it. Then he looked at our message again. We were meeting at a café tomorrow. Why had we rushed like that? Within two minutes of getting off the train, you’d called. Then texted. Then suggested meeting tomorrow. It was the movement of someone who needed to confirm something. Or the urgency of someone who had to speak before their feelings disappeared.
Minjun descended the stairs to his semi-basement. He caught the smell—that underground smell. Mold, humidity, someone cooking seaweed soup. When he entered his room, the first thing he did was open the window. A narrow window. At street level. The sounds of footsteps and car engines drifted in.
He boiled ramen on a hot plate with a heating coil. While waiting for the water to boil, he picked up his phone. Naver Entertainment News. He searched his own name.
His face appeared on the screen. But it wasn’t the face he knew. The face in the article belonged to someone else. Someone deeper. Someone sadder. Someone more genuine. Was that him? Or just the result of good lighting, makeup, and emotional expression?
He read the comments.
“Who is this actor?”
“His acting is insane”
“What’s this actor’s next project?”
“His eyes… there’s something different about them”
Hundreds of comments. Words from strangers. Attention from strangers. They were watching him. Or more precisely, they were watching the him in the article. Were those the same person?
The water began to boil. He added the noodles. Cracked an egg into the pot. The smell filled his room. The smell of ramen. His smell. The smell that had defined him for the last four years.
Eating the ramen, Minjun thought about what you’d said. “You’re an actor people are interested in now.” Was that congratulations? A warning? Both?
His phone rang. An unexpected number. CEO Lee Sujin. Past 10 PM.
Minjun answered.
“Hello?”
“Actor Min. Did you see the article?”
Her voice was low and composed. It always was. But there was something different in her tone. Like someone who’d already made a decision.
“Yes, a junior sent it to me earlier.”
“Good response, right? Did you read the comments?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Your name is searchable now. Journalists will call. Interview requests will come. Commercial offers too. Turn them all down.”
Minjun was stunned. This wasn’t congratulations. This was an order.
“What? Why?”
“You’re not ready yet. What you need to do now is land better roles. Commercials come later. Interviews aren’t necessary. You need to remain mysterious right now. People will want to see more of you. If you keep putting your face out there, that mystery disappears.”
Minjun stayed silent.
“Understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Come to the office tomorrow. 2 PM. We have a meeting.”
The call ended. Minjun set down his ramen bowl. The food wouldn’t go down his throat. The CEO’s words were blocking his esophagus. Better roles. Mystery. Not ready.
He picked up his phone. He texted you back.
“Yes, I can meet you tomorrow. Where?”
Your reply came quickly.
“Gangnam. There’s a café called ‘Double Shot’ on Garosu-gil. 3 PM? Does that time work?”
Minjun did the math. Company meeting at 2 PM. Thirty minutes to Gangnam. 3 PM should be possible. But another anxiety crept in. Going to Gangnam after a company meeting felt strange. Like his life was moving between multiple stages. The company’s stage. Your stage. The stage inside the article. All him, but all different versions of him.
“Yes, 3 PM works.”
He texted back.
That night, Minjun couldn’t sleep. He lay staring at the ceiling of his semi-basement. Night light filtered through the window. Car headlights swept across the ceiling. That light illuminated his face, then darkened it, then illuminated it again.
Mystery.
The CEO’s word echoed in his mind. What was mystery? Was it being unseen? Or was it appearing genuine?
When morning came, Minjun was exhausted. But he got up. He had to go to the office. For the 2 PM meeting.
He arrived at The Star Entertainment building at 1:50 PM. He took the elevator. The CEO’s office was on the 14th floor. As the elevator rose, he looked at his reflection in the mirrored wall. The same face from yesterday’s article?
The doors opened. 14th floor. The entrance to CEO Lee Sujin’s office.
Sujin was already seated. And beside her was another person. A man, probably in his fifties. Dressed in a suit. His expression was blank—the face of a producer who’d auditioned countless actors.
“Actor Min. You made it. Have a seat.”
Sujin’s tone was neither kind nor unkind. Just businesslike.
Minjun sat down.
“This is PD Yoo Jaehoon. He produces OCN’s ‘Black Mirror’ series. He’s interested in you.”
Minjun’s heart trembled. OCN. Cable channel. Black Mirror. That was a series he loved. Dark tone. Deep emotion. Experimental direction. Did they need him for something like that?
PD Yoo Jaehoon spoke.
“Actor Min, it’s a pleasure. I watched your Netflix work. It was excellent. Especially the final scene. The confrontation with your father. In that scene, you said very little, but you expressed so much.”
Minjun couldn’t speak. He didn’t know if the praise was for him or just a courtesy.
“We’re preparing a new series. The title is ‘In the Mirror.’ It’s about a man who encounters different versions of himself. Not a multiverse—psychological fragmentation. We want a rookie actor like you for the lead role.”
Minjun heard the words. But it was hard to understand. Different versions of himself. Psychological fragmentation. Wasn’t that his life?
“Think about it. If that role is right for you, your life will change.”
PD Yoo’s voice carried conviction.
“Thank you. I’ll think about it.”
Minjun spoke formally, as he always did.
“We’ll send you the script tomorrow. Read it and talk to Representative Lee. And you’ll need to decide quickly. Other production companies are interested too.”
PD Yoo stood. The meeting was over. Minjun stood as well.
As he left the office, Sujin said, “Minjun. This is your next chance. Don’t miss it.”
There was a warning in those words. Not an option. An obligation.
Minjun left the building. It was 2:30 PM. He had plenty of time to get to Gangnam. He took a taxi to Garosu-gil.
In the taxi, he saw his reflection in the window. And he realized something. That face was different from the one PD Yoo had seen. This version looked more tired. More anxious. More false.
When he arrived at the café ‘Double Shot’ on Garosu-gil, it was exactly 3 PM. You were already seated by the window. Your expression was bright. Like someone about to do something good.
Minjun sat down.
“Good, you’re not late. Will anything work for you?”
You asked, pointing at the menu with your finger.
“One Americano, please.”
Minjun said.
“How have you been lately? I was really curious.”
You asked. The question seemed simple, but it held something deeper.
“I’m doing well.”
Minjun answered.
“You’re lying, right?”
You said with a smile.
“… Yes.”
Minjun admitted it.
“I knew it. You’re always like that. You say you’re fine, but your eyes can’t lie. I’m an actor, so I know. The lies eyes tell.”
You said. And in the noise of the café, you took his hand. On the table. Naturally. Like you’d been doing it forever.
“You’re afraid of something right now. Aren’t I right?”
You asked.
Minjun couldn’t answer. Your hand was warm. Your hand. It held him in place. Like an anchor keeping him from drifting away.
“I’ll tell you. You don’t know yourself. That actor in the article—that’s you. It’s what I saw, and it’s what the viewers saw. You just don’t know it yet.”
You continued speaking.
“Then… what should I do?”
Minjun asked.
“You have to believe in it. The you that other people see.”
In that moment, Minjun understood. Why you’d rushed. Why you’d called two minutes after getting off the train. Why you’d wanted to meet today.
You were really seeing him.
Afternoon sunlight from Garosu-gil came through the window. That light illuminated your face. And in that moment, Minjun understood what he’d been afraid of.
Not success. Success frightened him too, but the real fear was different. Being completely seen by someone. He’d been afraid that would kill him. Like it killed his father.
But you saw him. And he didn’t die.
“Thank you.”
Minjun said. Formal speech, but it wasn’t distance. It was awe.
“For what? You’re just my friend.”
You said with a smile.
You sat in that café. Gangnam beyond the window. 3 PM sunlight. Two actors, not performing their roles. Just sitting.
“Do you have an audition tomorrow?”
Minjun asked.
“Yeah. A musical. I’ll probably bomb again.”
You said.
“You won’t.”
Minjun said firmly.
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know yourself. So you give something more. Than other actors.”
As he said it, Minjun realized something. It was what you’d said to him. On that train ride. But now it meant something different. Now it was true.
When night came, Minjun returned to his semi-basement. He began reading the script PD Yoo had given him.
‘In the Mirror’
First page. The opening scene.
“The man looks in the mirror. In the mirror is himself. But it is not himself. It is another version of who he could have been. And that version is smiling. As if mocking him.”
Minjun trembled as he read. Was this coincidence? Or inevitability?
His life was becoming a mirror. And in that mirror, he was encountering someone.
To know who that someone was, he would have to go deeper.
END OF CHAPTER 33