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# Chapter 39: A Choice Beyond the Screen
Min-jun’s finger moved toward the screen. Slowly. As if it were a button that would decide the course of his entire life. Our phone. The memo inside it. A note titled “How to Quit Acting.”
Before his finger could touch the screen, Min-jun stopped.
The sounds of the café returned. The hiss of the espresso machine, someone’s laughter, conversations from tables in the back. May’s sunlight streamed through the windows, dividing our face in half. The side bathed in light looked exhausted, while the shadowed side appeared darker still.
“Don’t read it.”
Min-jun spoke. His own voice surprised him. He hadn’t expected those words to leave his mouth.
We lifted our head. Surprise flickered across our face. As if we hadn’t anticipated his refusal. Or as if the refusal itself was a new kind of shock.
“Why?”
We asked. The question was simple, but something desperate lay beneath it. As though we needed his answer. As though we were seeking validation for our choice.
Min-jun didn’t answer. Instead, he looked into our eyes. The dark circles beneath them. The eyes of someone who’d stayed awake through the night. But it wasn’t simple exhaustion. It was the light that comes from losing something—from slowly surrendering one’s existence.
Min-jun lowered his hand again. Placed it on the table. Then slowly opened his mouth.
“If you’re writing that note, you’ve already decided. You’ve already made up your mind to quit acting. So why show it to me?”
We didn’t answer. We picked up the phone again. Turned off the screen. Darkness enveloped it.
“Because…”
Our voice was very small. Almost inaudible beneath the café’s noise.
“Because I didn’t want to be alone.”
That sentence fell through the air. Like a heavy stone. Min-jun felt it land on his chest.
“You’re not alone.”
Min-jun said it before he could think.
“Really?”
We let out a sound that might have been laughter. But it wasn’t laughter. It was something closer to crying. The movement of someone whose body wants to weep, but whose eyes produce no tears.
“Do you know Junho? Junho from our company?”
Min-jun nodded. Of course he did. Junho, an actor at The Star Entertainment. Eight years of experience. A veteran who frequently landed second lead roles. Recently nominated for an award for an indie film.
“Junho went through a difficult time too. About five years ago. Back then, he was extremely anxious about not getting lead roles. So he tried to expose himself more. Wore flashier clothes, worked with more famous directors. And in that process, Junho lost himself.”
We took a sip of coffee. It had already gone cold. We frowned but didn’t stop drinking.
“And you know what I told Junho back then? I said, ‘You’re dying right now. Stop. Stop and find yourself.’ But Junho didn’t listen. He kept running. And one day, he fell.”
“Fell?”
Min-jun asked.
“Junho developed severe depression. Spent almost a month in bed. And the company abandoned him. Didn’t give him any roles for months. Junho thought he was finished. That’s how far it went.”
We looked at Min-jun. There was something pleading in our eyes.
“But Junho got back up. Because he wasn’t alone. Because someone was protecting him.”
“Who?”
“Me. I visited that hospital room every day while he lay in bed. I brought him food, listened to him, cried with him. And Junho slowly got back on his feet. Now he doesn’t take just any role. He only takes roles he truly wants. And in that process, he became a better actor.”
Min-jun listened to our words. But his mind was circling around something else. That what we were saying wasn’t advice, but a plea. What we wanted from him. What we hoped he would become for us.
“What are you asking of me right now?”
Min-jun asked directly. We smiled. A real smile. For the first time, a real smile.
“You’re sharp. Really sharp.”
“Answer me.”
We sighed. And placed our hand on the table. Min-jun placed his hand there too. Their hands met on the table. Not touching, but close enough to almost graze.
“I’m making this choice right now. To quit acting. But I don’t want to be alone. I want someone to hold my hand. And I hope that someone is you. You can still choose a different path. You haven’t sunk as deep as I have. You can escape this. And I’ll show you how to survive it. Because I’ve already learned.”
Min-jun looked at our hand. Our fingers were trembling on the table. Anxiety. Fear. And something desperate.
“If you quit acting, what will you do?”
“I don’t know. Not yet.”
“Then is that path really the right one?”
We stopped smiling. Min-jun’s question shook everything inside us.
“I don’t know. But I’m certain the path I’m on now is a path to death. So I’m getting out. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m leaving this road.”
“Alone?”
“Hoping not to be.”
Min-jun took our hand. He felt its temperature. A warm hand. But the fingers kept trembling. As if shaking from cold.
“You still have a chance.”
Min-jun said.
“Leaving this musical—that’s not everything. You can still be an actor. A different kind of actor. The kind you truly want to be.”
“That doesn’t exist. In this industry, there are only successful actors and failed ones.”
“That’s a lie.”
Min-jun’s voice grew stronger. Surprising even himself.
“When I look at you, I feel you’re a real actor. That everything you do on stage isn’t false. Because all the actions you’re doing right now in front of me—they show your genuine emotions. You can still be an actor. A better one.”
We closed our eyes. Tears fell from them. Finally. At last.
“Why do you say such things?”
“Because you’re not alone.”
Min-jun squeezed our hand tighter. On the table. Amid the café’s noise. In May’s sunlight. The two of them held each other’s hand.
Then Min-jun’s phone rang.
A text notification sound. But it wasn’t a text. It was a call. The ringtone kept going. Min-jun let go of our hand to reach for it. We let go too.
He looked at the screen. The caller’s name appeared.
‘Junho’
Min-jun answered.
“Hello?”
Junho’s voice came through from the other end. Low, composed, but with something tense underneath.
“Min-jun, where are you right now?”
“At a café…”
“Come to the office. Now. Hurry. Lee Su-jin is looking for you. She said there’s a lot to prepare.”
“For what?”
“Your role is confirmed. A major film. A role just below mine in a Netflix series. Filming starts next month.”
Min-jun couldn’t respond. He looked at us. We were looking at him too. Something in our eyes had changed. Subtly. Like something awakening.
“Min-jun? Can you hear me?”
Junho’s voice came again.
“Yes, I hear you.”
“Then come now. Su-jin wants to explain it to you directly. And… there are some things you need to be careful about.”
The call ended. Min-jun set his phone down.
“Do I have to go?”
We asked. Our voice was very small.
“Yes.”
“Then go. And…”
We picked up our phone from the table. Opened the notes app. The note titled “How to Quit Acting.”
“Don’t read this note again. This is my choice, not yours.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll take my path. You take yours. We’ll walk different roads. But…”
We took Min-jun’s hand again.
“But we’re people who met on the same road. And that’s enough.”
Min-jun held our hand. On the table. Without realizing it, tears streamed down his face.
“Survive. No matter what path you take.”
“I promise.”
We smiled. This time a real smile. A genuine smile carrying profound sadness.
Min-jun stood up. Let go of our hand. Headed for the café door. But he stopped at the entrance.
He turned back. Looked at us. Sitting at the table. May’s sunlight dividing our face in half.
“Whether you quit acting or not, you’re an excellent actor.”
With that, Min-jun left the café.
On the way to the office. In the taxi. Min-jun looked out the window. Seoul’s streets. May’s sunlight. People. Cars. Everything kept moving. The world doesn’t stop. Even if someone exits, even if someone takes a new path.
His phone rang. This time it was a text.
From: Lee Su-jin
Message: “Waiting for you. Hurry.”
Min-jun set his phone down. His fingers trembled. But not from fear this time.
Something was beginning. Without his knowledge. Beyond his control.
The taxi stopped in front of The Star Entertainment building. Min-jun got out. Through the glass doors, he could see inside. People. Employees. And somewhere among them, Lee Su-jin.
Min-jun took a deep breath. And entered through the door.
The elevator rose. First floor, second floor, third floor, fourth floor. His heart rose with it. A mixture of fear and anticipation. A feeling as if something were awakening.
Fifth floor. The executive level. The elevator doors opened.
And in that moment, Min-jun understood. What we had said was right. This industry is a path to death. But at the same time, it’s the only path where he felt alive. Within that contradiction, he would have to keep walking.
The elevator doors closed.
Time passed. Minutes. Or hours. Min-jun stood before the conference room door. He could hear Lee Su-jin’s voice from inside.
“Come in.”
Min-jun opened the door and entered.
Inside the conference room was Lee Su-jin. And beside her was Junho. Junho looked at Min-jun. His eyes were saying something. A warning? Or encouragement?
“Sit.”
Lee Su-jin said. Her voice was composed. But it carried a powerful force.
Min-jun sat. Documents lay on the table. They looked like contracts.
“You will take the role we’ve prepared. This is an opportunity that could change your life. Or completely destroy it. One or the other.”
Lee Su-jin slid the documents toward him.
“And you must choose now. Will you take this opportunity, or refuse? But if you refuse, you’re done with this company. Understood?”
Min-jun looked at the documents. They were contracts. And across the top, the film’s title was written in large letters.
“Spotlight: The Second Act”
Min-jun read the title. And in that moment, he felt everything about him changing.
“In this film, you’ll play the second lead. A young actor’s role. And this role will make you a veteran actor like Junho. Or it will completely ruin you. Because it all depends on you.”
“Why did you choose me?”
Min-jun asked.
“Because you’re an actor who understands death. And this role requires portraying death.”
Lee Su-jin smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. A business smile. A hunter’s smile.
“So you’ll do it, right? This role?”
Min-jun had to answer. But his mouth wouldn’t move. Our words echoed in his ears. “This is the same trap. You might not know it, but I do.”
And at the same time, another voice sounded. His own voice. “You’re an excellent actor.”
Min-jun opened his mouth.
“Yes. I’ll do it.”
Lee Su-jin smiled. And slid a pen toward him.
“Then sign.”
Min-jun picked up the pen. His hand trembled. But he signed.
In that moment, it felt like his life was starting again. Or ending.
The pen fell onto the paper. Black ink engraved his name on white paper.
Min-jun Park.
It was the end. Or the beginning. He had no way of knowing.
Junho looked at Min-jun. And slowly nodded. His eyes were speaking a language beyond words.
“Well done.”
Those words might have been heard. Or not. But Min-jun heard them.
Leaving the conference room. A corridor. An elevator. Underground.
Min-jun descended the stairs. Third floor. Second floor. First floor. And underground.
The underground practice room. This was where he began. Where he practiced as an extra.
In the basement studio was a mirror. Min-jun stood before it.
He looked at himself in the mirror. 174 centimeters. Thin build. Light brown eyes. An extremely ordinary face. That face looked back at him from the mirror.
“Who are you?”
Min-jun asked the mirror.
The one in the mirror didn’t answer. Instead, he stared back with an extremely exhausted expression.
In that moment, Min-jun’s phone rang.
Caller: Us
Message: “Wake up. You’ve become someone’s expectation now. And that will either kill you or save you. Be careful.”
Min-jun read the message. And looked at the mirror again.
In the mirror, his image seemed to slowly transform. From an ordinary actor into something else.
Or it might have been an illusion.
The mirror still reflected his ordinary face. Nothing had changed. Only time had passed.
And now, his second act was about to begin.
END OF CHAPTER 39