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# Chapter 36: What Your Friend Said
Our voices died in the café. Piano music filled the silence that followed. MinJun met our eyes—the dark circles beneath them more pronounced than before. The eyes of someone who’d stayed awake through the night. The eyes of someone who’d spent those hours reaching a decision.
“What did your friend say?”
MinJun asked again. We kept using formal speech, even though he’d told us to stop. But in this moment, it was the only distance that made sense. We couldn’t treat him like a friend right now. We didn’t know what we were about to say, but we felt it would change something fundamental in his life.
MinJun wrapped both hands around his coffee cup. The gesture of someone seeking warmth. Even though it was early summer, the air felt like winter.
“My friend said this: ‘You have to choose now. Are you going to show your true self on that stage? Or are you going to become what people want you to be? You can’t have both. Because once people start watching, you stop being free.’”
We spoke. Then closed our eyes, as if we didn’t want to hear those words again. But the voice reaching our ears wasn’t our friend’s—it was our own. A question we’d asked ourselves.
“You know what I chose? Nothing. I just… drifted. I got good reviews on stage, so I thought that was me. And somewhere along the way, I lost track of who I actually was.”
Our eyes opened. They found MinJun’s. There was something desperate in that gaze—a warning and a plea all at once.
“You still have time to choose, MinJun. Right now. After that article, people have started watching you, but you’re not defined yet. What are you going to do in this moment? Become the sad actor people want to see? Or become the actor you actually are?”
MinJun couldn’t answer. His mouth opened, then closed. The question was too heavy for him. Too heavy for someone who didn’t even know the answer themselves. Who didn’t know if they really wanted to be an actor, or just wanted to be seen by someone.
“I don’t know.”
It was the only truth.
We nodded, as if we’d already expected that answer.
“Fair enough. Then let me ask you something. What have you been doing since that article came out?”
“Nothing special…”
“Just stayed home? Haven’t been going to the company?”
MinJun hesitated. He had gone to the company. He’d met with CEO Lee Sujin. They’d talked about a new role. But he hadn’t mentioned it to us. He wasn’t sure why.
“I went in. The CEO called for me.”
Our face shifted. Barely noticeably. An eyebrow raised. Surprise. Or maybe concern.
“Sujin? What did she say?”
“That there’s a new role for me. She didn’t give details yet, but…”
We laughed. But it wasn’t a laugh of joy. It was the kind that explodes from extreme tension—almost a cry.
“Of course. That’s exactly like Sujin. Whenever a good article drops, she moves the actors around. Gives them new roles, new challenges. And through that process, they break.”
“You…?”
MinJun asked carefully. He felt what we were saying, but didn’t want it confirmed.
“I got a new role from Sujin too. A musical lead. The role I’d been dreaming of. But you know what I became while preparing for that musical? I only performed that role. My life disappeared. When I went home, my body was there, but my heart stayed on stage. And at some point, I realized the truth—that musical was stealing my life from me.”
Our voice grew quieter. Like someone sharing a secret.
“So here’s what I’m going to do…”
We stopped. Picked up the phone on the table. Turned on the screen. Opened the memo app. Long text. Notes spanning several pages.
“I’m going to turn down this musical. And…”
We paused again. As if the next words would change everything about us.
“I’m going to quit the company. Leave The Star. And…”
Our eyes met MinJun’s.
“You’re going to come with me.”
MinJun’s body went rigid. What did that mean? Quit the company? Leave The Star? Was that even possible? Was it even wise?
“What… what are you saying?”
“I’ve already decided. Tomorrow, I’m going to tell Sujin I’m declining the musical. I’m going to ask for contract termination. Even if I have to pay the penalty. And I want to ask you to do the same. Refuse this new role. Protect your freedom. Define yourself before people do it for you.”
MinJun opened his mouth, then closed it again. Several times. Like a fish. The proposal was too large. Impossible to reject and impossible to accept.
“I… I can’t do that.”
MinJun’s voice trembled.
“Why?”
“Because I… I need this opportunity. I waited four years. Four years as an extra. This chance is my life.”
“You’re right about that. But you don’t know something. You really don’t. That opportunity could cost you yourself. Sujin’s roles always break actors. That’s her way. She gives them good parts, then grinds them down in the process. And when the actor collapses, she finds a new one.”
We spoke. It was a warning. But also a plea—don’t repeat my mistakes.
MinJun looked out the window. The street beyond the café. Seoul’s streets. Near Gangnam Station. People passed by quickly. Everyone heading somewhere. Like him. Hoping someone would see them.
“But if I leave like that, what changes? I want to be an actor anyway. Whether I’m at The Star or somewhere else, isn’t it the same?”
We let out a quiet laugh.
“You’re smart. But that’s the trap too. You’ll repeat the same cycle anywhere. Because you’re trapped in the actor’s world. You’ve never even considered stepping outside it. I was the same. I only did musicals. And ten years passed. Ten years. But now I’ve realized something. I wish I’d been just a person, not a musical actor.”
We set the phone down. The memo app still showed that long text. A blueprint. A plan for a future.
“I’m going to save this money and rent a small space. And there, I’m going to teach acting. To people who really want to learn. Not to make money—just to people who want to express themselves. So I’m asking you. Will you do it with me?”
Those words split the café’s air. Everything seemed to stop. The piano music, the voices of other people, the coffee machine. Everything paused. Before that offer.
MinJun really looked at us for the first time. Truly looked. He saw who we actually were. We were afraid. Afraid of our own decision. And afraid that MinJun wouldn’t follow.
“I…”
MinJun spoke. But nothing came after.
He stood at a fork in a road he didn’t even know existed. One path shone with light. A new role. The CEO’s promise. People’s attention. Four years of waiting finally rewarded. The other path was darkness. An uncertain future. A state of not knowing who he was.
The café door opened. Someone came in. It broke MinJun’s thoughts.
“Think about it. You still have time. Before you hear the details about that new role. Just think until then. What you really want. Not what people want. What you want.”
We spoke. And drank our coffee. The one that had already gone cold. We winced. But drank it anyway.
“One more thing.”
We added.
“I’m telling Sujin tomorrow. Two days from now, I’m leaving the company. During those two days, you really think about it. What kind of person do you want to be? When you find that answer, contact me. We might walk the same path, or different ones. But at least you’ll have made your own choice.”
MinJun nodded. But really, he was being crushed under his own weight.
When we left the café, MinJun followed. Stepping outside, he smelled it. The aroma of espresso mixing with Seoul’s night air. It was early summer, but the air felt like autumn. Like something was ending.
“Us.”
MinJun called out. For the first time, he dropped the formal speech.
We turned around.
“I’m grateful. Truly. You didn’t have to do this for me.”
We let out a quiet laugh. Weak. Almost a cry.
“Not for you. For me. When I tell you not to repeat my mistakes, I’m really talking to myself. Through you.”
After that, neither of us spoke. Walking through the streets near Gangnam Station. Weaving between people. Some heading to appointments, some heading home, some just standing there going nowhere.
MinJun said goodbye to us at the subway entrance.
“Two days. Think about it. And tell me. Whatever you decide.”
We said.
“Okay.”
MinJun answered.
As he descended the subway stairs, MinJun turned on his phone. The inbox had several messages. From Junho. From CEO Lee Sujin. From unknown numbers.
But he didn’t read them. Instead, he looked at his reflection in the mirror-like subway window. Whose face was that? The face people saw? Or his true face?
The subway moved. Toward Sillim Station. Toward his semi-basement room. That small space. There, he would have to make a choice.
Within two days.
MinJun closed his eyes. Lights from outside passed through his eyelids. Seoul’s night. Someone’s night. And now, his own.
[End of Chapter 36]