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# Chapter 34: A Stranger in the Mirror
The glow from his phone screen illuminated his face. 11:45 PM. Minjun lay on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The semi-basement room’s ceiling was perpetually damp with moisture, its surface marred by mold stains in several places—like a map. A map that endlessly reminded him of where he was.
CEO Lee Sujin’s call had ended an hour ago. The message was simple: reject all interview requests, decline every advertising offer, focus solely on acting. And meet her at the company tomorrow to discuss a new role.
A new role.
The phrase kept surfacing in his mind, drifting across his consciousness like flotsam on water.
He picked up his phone and reread Woori’s message.
“Minjun. Do you have time tomorrow? I’d really like to meet at a cafe.”
And below that, another message.
“Congrats, for real. And… I think there’s something else we need to talk about. See you tomorrow.”
That last sentence. I think there’s something else we need to talk about. What could it mean? Woori’s usual bright tone was absent from the message. Instead, there was weight to it—the tone of someone who had made a decision.
Minjun set his phone down and picked up the small mirror beside his bed. The only mirror in the semi-basement room. A palm-sized thing, maybe ten centimeters across. It had belonged to his father—one of the few things left behind before he died.
His face appeared in the mirror’s dim reflection. Under the weak light, his eyes looked deeper. His cheekbones more pronounced. He’d lost considerable weight over the past few weeks. The photos in the article had captured it well. Sadness was etched into his features. Or perhaps the journalists and photographers had simply sculpted it that way.
Over the past four years, he’d studied his reflection countless times. That’s what actors did—research their own face, determine which angles looked better, understand which expressions conveyed which emotions. But this face in the mirror wasn’t something he’d crafted. This was his true self. The exhausted, hungry, lonely face of a struggling actor.
His phone rang. 11:47 PM. A call.
The screen read: “Junho.”
Minjun stared at the screen again. Junho rarely called at night—he thought he’d already caused enough trouble. So why call now?
Minjun answered.
“Hyung.”
“Minjun? You awake?”
Junho’s voice sounded different. His usual composure was gone. Instead, there was something urgent in his tone.
“Yeah. I just woke up.”
It was a lie. Minjun had been awake the whole time. But he couldn’t let Junho know that.
“You see the article?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Good, right? How are you feeling?”
Minjun took a breath before answering. He set the mirror down. He didn’t want to look at his own face anymore.
“It still doesn’t feel real. Like a dream.”
“Of course. You waited four years for this. This is just the beginning, not the end. One article won’t define you.”
There was encouragement in Junho’s words, but also something desperate underneath.
“How about you, hyung?”
Minjun asked—an instinctive deflection. A technique actors often used to hide their own feelings by turning the conversation outward.
“Me? I’m… good. Good because of you. Seeing you like this.”
Junho said it, and then there was silence. The kind of silence that travels through phone lines. It lasted about five seconds.
“Minjun. Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, what?”
“You’re not… having those thoughts anymore, are you?”
Minjun’s body went rigid. That question. What was it asking? He understood, but hearing it made him realize the truth: Junho knew how fragile he really was.
“No. Because you’re here, hyung.”
Minjun answered. But was it the truth? Or a lie to reassure Junho? Even he couldn’t be certain.
“Good. But you need to be careful. Success can be more dangerous than failure. When people start watching you, you face greater expectations. And when you can’t meet them, you fall—hard.”
Junho’s voice had lowered. He sounded like he was speaking from experience.
“I understand.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow I’m meeting with the CEO at the company. And I promised to meet our junior too.”
“Our junior?”
There was a subtle shift in Junho’s voice. It sounded less like a question and more like a confirmation.
“Yeah. She wanted to congratulate me.”
“That’s fine then.”
Junho said it, but it was unclear whether he was speaking to himself or to Minjun.
“Hyung, if you’re free… would you want to meet tomorrow? After I see our junior?”
Minjun asked. He needed this. He needed to see Junho, to confirm who he really was.
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow then. And Minjun?”
“Yeah?”
“You did good. I mean it.”
The call ended. Minjun set his phone down and looked back at the ceiling. The mold map. The map that told him where he was. But now he couldn’t see where he was going.
Morning came. Bright sunlight streamed through the semi-basement room’s narrow window. Positioned at street level, the light first caught people’s feet and car tires before reaching their faces and bodies.
Minjun woke at 6 AM. Actors did that—rose early, took care of their skin, stretched, prepared themselves.
Today required extra attention. He was meeting the CEO. And he was meeting Woori.
He stood before the full-length mirror on his wall—not the small one. His entire figure reflected back at him. Black short-sleeved shirt and loose black pants. His face was pale. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. Four years of exhaustion marked his features.
He changed clothes. His wardrobe wasn’t extensive, but he had interview clothes. Company meeting clothes. A gray shirt. Black pants. Minimal formality.
He looked in the mirror again. This time, he looked like someone else. Like the rookie actor Minjun. Like the actor from the article. Like the actor the journalists and commenters had seen.
But his eyes in the mirror remained the same. Anxious. Deep. The eyes of someone who had lost something.
The DaeStar Entertainment building stood near Gangnam Station. Twelve stories. Floors five through eight housed the company offices. Minjun must have entered this building hundreds of times. But today felt different.
The security system looked different. The elevator seemed taller. Even the other employees’ gazes felt different. Or maybe he was simply seeing things differently now.
When he stepped into the elevator, he saw his reflection in its mirror. His image repeated across the polished surfaces. Side profile, straight-on, side profile again. Infinite repetition.
He got off on the sixth floor. The CEO’s office floor. He walked down the corridor, breathing in the company smell—air conditioning, carpet, someone’s perfume. The scent of a Gangnam entertainment company.
He reached the CEO’s secretary’s desk. A young woman sat there.
“Hello. You’re actor Min Minjun, right?”
She smiled as she spoke. It was new—being called an actor. No one had called him that before.
“Yes, hello.”
“The CEO is waiting for you. You can go right in.”
Minjun knocked on the CEO’s office door.
“Come in.”
A low voice sounded from inside.
Minjun opened the door.
CEO Lee Sujin’s office was exactly as he remembered it. A large window overlooking Gangnam. And behind her desk, a 52-year-old woman.
“Actor Min. Sit.”
The CEO gestured. Minjun sat in the chair across from her, the desk between them.
“The article’s getting good reactions, huh?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“More people have seen you now. You’re not just ‘an actor’ anymore. You’ve become ‘a promising actor.’ You understand?”
“Yes.”
“But here’s the thing. You’re still lacking. Your acting, your experience, your charisma—all of it. But you have one advantage.”
The CEO stood and walked to the window, looking down at Gangnam.
“What could it be?”
Minjun couldn’t answer.
“You have a spark in your eyes. Authenticity. You know what’s missing most in Korean dramas right now? Real emotion. No matter how well actors perform, there’s always something that feels fake. But you’re different. You look genuinely sad. Because you are genuinely sad.”
The CEO sat back down, facing him across the desk.
“When I look at you, I see myself. When I was an actor. Your age. I had that spark too. And because of it, I got many small roles. But there comes a moment when that spark fades. For everyone. I was afraid of that moment, so I quit acting.”
Minjun looked at the CEO—really looked at her. For the first time, she seemed human. An actor. A failed one.
“That’s why I believe in you. You won’t lose that spark. You can’t lose it. It’s your value. Understand?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“And I have a new project for you. A film. Korean cinema. It’s an independent film, but the director is talented. And you’re going to be the lead. It’s not confirmed yet, but I’ll recommend you to the director, and the director will see you. After that… it’s up to you. Clear?”
Minjun’s heart raced. Lead. The word he’d waited four years to hear.
“Thank you. Sincerely.”
“One more thing. Don’t trust anyone in this industry. Not a soul. You trust only yourself and your acting. Everything else is a lie. What people say, what journalists write, what fans comment—it’s all lies. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Minjun answered, but in his heart, he disagreed. Junho? Woori? They weren’t lies.
The CEO might have sensed that. But she didn’t say anything.
“Now go. And meet the director the day after tomorrow. The address will come from my secretary. Prepare yourself.”
“Yes, thank you, CEO.”
Minjun stood to leave.
“And actor Min.”
Minjun paused at the door.
“Don’t read the article comments. It’s advice, for your own good.”
The cafe was a small place near Gangnam Station. Woori said it was somewhere she frequented. Minjun had never been there before, but he followed the location she’d sent him.
It wasn’t crowded—it was early afternoon. A few people worked on laptops at tables, and one person sat reading in a corner.
Woori sat by the window, nursing a coffee. Her face brightened when she saw him enter.
“Oh! Wow!”
She stood up. Actors expressed their emotions with their bodies. She was doing exactly that—standing, waving, speaking with brightness in her voice.
Minjun approached and sat down across from her.
“You came.”
Woori gestured for him to sit.
“Wow, I really saw it. The article. Your photo was amazing.”
She spoke, studying him more carefully now, as if seeing him for the first time.
“Thank you. I saw it because you sent it to me.”
“Congratulations, really. And…”
She trailed off, as if preparing to say something important. Minjun understood—actors knew the weight of silence.
“What?”
He asked.
Woori picked up her coffee cup, then set it down. Her fingers trembled slightly.
“The real reason I asked you here… it’s not just to congratulate you. You probably sense it, but I’ve been unsettled. You’re rising, and I’m still stuck here doing musicals. And…”
She lifted her eyes and looked directly at him—truly looked at him.
“But I’m happy about it. Genuinely. About your success. Because you’re a real actor. Actually real. And I think… I think I like you. Not as an actor. As a person.”
Silence fell between them. Long silence. Three seconds. Five. Seven.
Minjun’s mouth remained closed. He had no words. Or no courage to speak them.
“I know it’s weird. The closer you get to success, the further we’ll drift apart, and yet here I am saying this. But it’s true. You have the most authentic quality of any actor I’ve ever seen. And I think that authenticity is you. You don’t act on stage—you just live. That’s why I…”
Woori continued.
“I want to support you. Always. No matter how far apart we become. Okay?”
Minjun still couldn’t respond. His throat felt tight, emotions constricting it.
“And one more thing. I failed my musical audition yesterday. For the lead role. They said my skills weren’t enough. So I realized I’ve stopped growing as an actor. But watching you, I figured out what I need to do. I shouldn’t just do musicals. I need to try dramas too. Films. Like you do. And I want to follow you. As an actor.”
Woori laughed, tears streaming down her face.
“That’s why I asked you here. To congratulate you, to tell you how I feel, and to apologize. I’m sorry, Minjun. I got hired before you, but I couldn’t help you with anything. You ended up helping me instead. And…”
Minjun reached across the table, searching for her hand.
And found it.
“Thank you. Really, thank you so much.”
His voice was small but steady.
“I don’t know what to say when I hear things like this. But… thank you. Truly.”
Woori squeezed his hand tighter.
“You’re going to be fine. Really fine. I know it. You’re an actor. A true actor.”
Other customers in the cafe might have noticed them—two young people holding hands. But it didn’t matter. This moment belonged to them. To actors. A moment where silence spoke the loudest.
After leaving the cafe, Minjun and Woori walked through the streets near Gangnam Station. They didn’t talk much. But they needed this—the understanding that comes through silence.
“Sorry I couldn’t answer you back there.”
Minjun said.
“It’s okay. You’re not ready to accept it yet. And that’s right. You need to become an actor first, before you become a person. That’s this industry.”
Woori said.
“But I’m not alone. I have Junho hyung, and I have you.”
Minjun said.
Woori stopped and looked at him.
“Do you like Junho hyung?”
That question. It wasn’t simple. It was the question she’d needed to ask.
“No. I respect him.”
Minjun answered.
Woori started walking again.
“Good.”
That’s all she said. But those words carried everything.
His appointment with Junho was at 7 PM. A cafe near Hangang Park. With time to spare, Minjun walked around the area.
He saw the Hangang River. The river at dusk. The water was dyed in sunset colors. Red, orange, pink. Every color blending together.
Minjun stood at the railing and looked at his hands. The hands Woori had held. They were still warm.
His phone rang. Junho.
“Minjun. I’m already at the cafe. Where are you?”
“I’m coming now, hyung. I’ll be there in about five minutes.”
Minjun said.
“Okay. I’ll wait.”
The call ended.
Minjun looked at the Hangang one more time. Then he walked. Toward Junho. Toward his only anchor.
But somewhere in his heart, Woori remained. And he still didn’t know what that feeling would make him become.
All he knew was that he was no longer alone.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because now, he could lose someone.
[End of Chapter 34]