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# Chapter 66: The Lying Actor
When Junho finished speaking, everything in the café froze. The background music, the murmur of other customers—none of it existed. Or rather, it seemed not to exist. Only the breathing of three people hung in the air.
Minjun stared at Junho. For a long time. As if seeing him for the first time. Or as if someone he’d spent years with suddenly spoke in a foreign language. Junho’s face was composed. That sharp, heavy kind of composure. As if relief at finally revealing what he’d hidden all this time was etched in invisible lines beneath his eyes.
“Why are you saying this?”
Minjun’s voice was low. Less a question than an attempt to confirm something.
“Because you like to package your weakness as something you don’t understand.”
Junho replied. His voice was emotionless, but not cold. The opposite, actually. So full of emotion that there was no vessel left to contain it. Like an overflowing cup.
Minjun turned his head toward us. Toward us, our fingers began again on the table. Tap, tap, tap. That rhythm. That persistent sound. As if his own heartbeat was pounding outside his body. Our face was pale. A sickly, ashen pale. The café’s lighting cast shadows across our cheeks.
“When was the last time you saw Junho?”
Minjun asked us.
Our fingers stopped.
“When did you last see him?”
Minjun asked again. Slower this time. As if he already knew the answer and simply wanted to hear it from our lips.
“Four days ago.”
We spoke. Our voice cracked.
“Where?”
“The hospital.”
We spoke in fragments, each word separate and wounded.
“Which hospital?”
Minjun asked.
We didn’t answer. Instead, we pushed our hand into the pocket of our black long-sleeved shirt. We withdrew something. A smartphone. We turned on the screen as if searching for a photo. And we found it. We turned the screen toward Minjun.
A young man on a hospital bed. A round face. Thin eyebrows. A breathing tube inserted in his nose. Medical tape wrapped around his arms. And his face. It was the face of someone already gone. The body remained on the bed, but his soul seemed to have departed elsewhere. That was the expression.
Minjun’s breath stopped. Truly stopped. His lungs refused to accept air. As if they already knew he should be dead.
“This is…”
Minjun began to speak. But couldn’t finish.
“Junho. My friend Junho. The Junho you know.”
We spoke. Our voice was nearly a whisper now. As if afraid of waking the dead.
“His condition is…”
Minjun said.
“Bad. Getting worse. The doctor said he’s brain dead. A drug overdose. A suicide attempt. But it wasn’t a complete suicide. Someone found him. There was time. So he lived. But…”
Our voice broke.
“But what?”
Minjun asked.
“But he’s already gone. Look at his eyes. Even when I hold his hand, even when I call his name, he’s not there. He’s already not there.”
We lowered the phone. Our hands trembled. Badly. As if our nervous system was signaling that it could no longer bear the pain of our heart.
Junho moved. He tried to take our hand. But we pulled away. As if touching would only corrupt us further.
“You already knew.”
Minjun looked at Junho.
“Yes.”
Junho answered. His face remained composed, but his eyes were desperately enduring something. As if he was holding back tears from inside.
“So you were angry at me because of this?”
Minjun asked.
“You said you didn’t understand yourself. So I tried to make you understand.”
Junho said. His voice remained low. But within that quietness was anger. Unbearable anger. No—it wasn’t anger. It was sadness. Sadness masquerading as rage.
“You’re saying you made me angry?”
Minjun asked.
“Do you know what you did to me?”
Junho asked. It wasn’t a question. It was a confession.
“What did I do?”
Minjun said.
“You lied to me. And I lied to you. And we all lied to each other about all of this. We said it would be okay. That we could bear it. That it would get better with time. And we’re all liars.”
Junho’s voice rose. For the first time. Under the café’s lighting, other customers turned to look. But they quickly turned back. This wasn’t their business. This was the tragedy of three people.
Minjun said nothing. Instead, he looked at Junho. Really looked at him. For the first time. As if realizing he hadn’t truly seen him until now. Junho’s lips trembled. Almost imperceptibly.
“What do you really want?”
Minjun asked.
“What?”
Junho asked.
“What you really want. From me? About this situation?”
Minjun asked again.
Junho didn’t answer for a long time. That silence spoke louder than words. Within that silence were years. Years of endurance. Years of protection. Years of self-sacrifice. And the end of it all.
“I want you to save yourself.”
Junho said. His voice was now a whisper. But that whisper sounded louder than a scream.
“I want you to end all these lies. You’re an actor. Actors lie. But you’re lying in your own life too. And that’s the problem. You show truth on stage, but off stage you pretend not to know who you are.”
Junho continued.
“That friend Junho. He did what you do. He was silent like you. He pretended not to understand like you. And that killed him. And I’m watching you walk the same path. That’s why I’m angry.”
Minjun accepted those words. The way one accepts a stone. Not knowing exactly where it would land.
“Refuse that role.”
We said it suddenly.
Minjun looked at us.
“The Netflix role. Refuse it. Tear up the contract. Let Lee Sujin sue you. It doesn’t matter.”
We continued. Our eyes had regained focus now. Our fingers left the table. Our body rose from the chair.
“Why?”
Minjun asked.
“Because someone’s already dead. I can’t let you die too. When I called you, when I told you all this, I wanted to save you. But then I realized I could kill you.”
We spoke.
“I told you about Junho’s death. I told you about the settlement and the silence clause. I told you everything. Now, if you take that role, it means you’re staying silent about my friend’s death.”
We continued.
“And that will kill you.”
Our voice broke.
Silence.
It was a long silence. Not seconds, but perhaps minutes. The café’s background music seemed to stop too. Or maybe Minjun simply wasn’t listening.
“What happens if I refuse?”
Minjun finally asked.
“Lee Sujin will sue you. And you’ll lose your acting career.”
We answered.
“And if I accept?”
Minjun asked again.
“Then my friend stays dead. And you’ll slowly die too. But more quietly. On stage.”
We said.
Minjun contemplated the shape of these two deaths. Quick death. Slow death. Death from outside. Death from within. And he understood how small the difference between them was.
“What will you do?”
Minjun asked us.
“Me?”
We asked.
“Yes. What will you do?”
Minjun repeated.
We didn’t answer for a long time. Our hand went back into our pocket. We withdrew our smartphone. And we did something with it. A press. A recording. A send. As if we were formalizing something.
“I’m going to expose all of this.”
We said.
“How?”
Minjun asked.
“Online. Everything I know. The settlement. The silence clause. And Junho’s story. I just recorded this. Our conversation—you, Junho, and me. And I’m going to release it.”
We said.
“Then you’ll also…”
Minjun began.
“I’ll be ruined too. I know. But this isn’t your choice anymore. It’s my choice. It’s a choice for my friend.”
We said.
Junho moved. He tried to take our hand. This time he succeeded. Our hand was in Junho’s. Small, trembling, cold.
“If you do this, you’re finished too.”
Junho said.
“I know.”
We answered.
“Your career too.”
Junho continued.
“My friend’s life matters more.”
We said.
Minjun heard those words. And he knew they weren’t lies. Even actors who are liars sometimes speak the truth. But that truth destroys them.
“What should I do?”
Minjun asked.
All three felt the weight of that question. It wasn’t a simple question. It was surrender. And at the same time, a beginning.
“You have to choose.”
Junho said.
“Choose what?”
Minjun asked.
“Your life.”
Junho answered.
In that moment, the café’s lighting changed. Or didn’t. But to Minjun’s eyes, it seemed to change. As if he were beginning to see the world in a different color now. It was no longer warm lighting. It was the lighting of an interrogation room. And he was the one being interrogated.
“Are you saying I have to choose between my life as an actor and my real life?”
Minjun asked.
“Not just that.”
We said.
“You’re choosing between lies and truth. And it has nothing to do with being an actor. It’s a choice as a human being.”
Silence.
And in that silence, Minjun saw his own reflection. It wasn’t an actual mirror. It was Junho’s face. And our face. And reflected in that mirror was himself. Not the four-year-old Minjun of innocence, but Minjun now. A lying actor. A silent human. A person slowly disappearing.
“I’m going to quit acting.”
Minjun said.
“Really?”
We asked.
“Yes. Really.”
Minjun answered.
And in that moment, something broke in his face.
Word Count: 16,847
# The Weight of Choice
Three people sat across from each other at a corner table in the café. Six in the evening—the sun was already setting, and Seoul’s sky outside the window was turning a deep purple. Minjun looked at the two people across from him. Junho and us. Their faces were filled with resolve. Minjun picked up his coffee cup. The coffee had long since gone cold. Drinking it wouldn’t change anything, but he felt he had to do something.
“I’ll be ruined too. I know. But this isn’t your choice anymore. It’s my choice. It’s a choice for my friend.”
We said. That voice was calm but unwavering. As if we’d been preparing to say it all along. Minjun felt a strange emotion as he listened. Guilt? Gratitude? Or both? His finger traced the rim of the coffee cup. The warmth was already gone, leaving only the cold texture of ceramic.
Junho moved. He reached across the table, trying to take our hand. The first attempt failed. But on the second try, he succeeded. His hand wrapped around ours. That hand was small, trembling, and cold. Minjun watched the sight. One friend holding another. It was like a drowning person grasping at driftwood. Desperate. Beautiful at the same time.
“If you do this, you’re finished too.”
Junho said. His voice was trembling. Minjun observed Junho’s face closely. Dark circles under his eyes, paleness of his lips, wrinkles on his forehead. All of it spoke. Junho was already ending. And now he was trying to end with him too.
“I know.”
We answered.
“Your career too.”
Junho continued. It was like reading through a checklist. A list of things to lose. Career, reputation, money, trust. Everything.
“My friend’s life matters more.”
We said. That voice was full of certainty. As Minjun heard those words, he felt his heart sink. It wasn’t a lie. Both Minjun and Junho, and we ourselves, all knew it was the truth. Because it was truth, it was more dangerous. Lies can be exposed and changed, but truth is irreversible. Truth is permanent.
Minjun fell silent for a moment. In that silence, he looked inward. There was fear. Enormous fear. But beneath it was another feeling too. Minjun didn’t understand what it was. It felt like a seed buried in soil for years, finally moving toward sunlight. The sensation just before breaking. And at the same time, a premonition of rebirth after shattering.
“What should I do?”
Minjun asked. The question came in a small voice. Almost a whisper. But it cut through the café’s noise—the hum of the coffee machine, the barista’s footsteps, laughter from a distant table—and came through clearly.
All three felt the weight of that question. Minjun could feel it in his chest. Like a heavy stone placed there. It wasn’t a simple question. It was surrender. At the same time, it was a beginning. A first step down a new path.
Junho squeezed our hand harder.
“You have to choose.”
Junho said.
“Choose what?”
Minjun asked. His voice grew even quieter. It felt like his own voice was fading away bit by bit.
“Your life.”
Junho answered.
Something changed in that moment. The café’s lighting changed—or so it seemed. In reality, nothing changed. The lighting was still the same warm yellow, the music was still the same jazz piece, and the barista was still making drinks at the same pace. But to Minjun’s eyes, everything seemed transformed. As if he was now seeing the world through a different-colored lens. It was no longer warm lighting. It was the lighting of an interrogation room. And he was the one being interrogated.
Minjun looked at his own hands. They had changed too. They seemed paler somehow. Or more transparent. It felt like he was slowly disappearing.
“Are you saying I have to choose between my life as an actor and my real life?”
Minjun asked.
“Not just that.”
We said. That voice had become even more resolute.
“You’re choosing between lies and truth. And it has nothing to do with being an actor. It’s a choice as a human being.”
Silence came. Deep, heavy silence. Like sinking into water. In that silence, Minjun saw his own reflection. It wasn’t an actual mirror. It was Junho’s face. And our face. Their eyes reflected not Minjun, but their own determination. And reflected in that mirror was Minjun himself. Minjun now. Not the pure Minjun of four years old, but Minjun in this moment. A lying actor. A silent human. A person slowly fading away.
“I’m going to quit acting.”
Minjun said. His voice was rough like broken glass.
“Really?”
We asked. It wasn’t confirmation but a final offer. The last moment to turn back.
“Yes. Really.”
Minjun answered.
And in that moment, something broke on his face. Like water flowing over breaking ice. Tears streamed down. But these weren’t tears of sadness. They were tears of liberation.
—
The wall clock in the café showed 6:30. Minjun stared at that time. The hour his life split in two. Before and after. He wanted to remember this moment clearly. This hour, this minute, this second. And the two people at this table with him.
Junho took Minjun’s hand. We were already holding his other hand. Three people forming a circle, hands clasped together. It felt like a prayer. Or like taking an oath. Or perhaps just confirming they were together.
“What happens now?”
Minjun asked.
“I don’t know.”
We answered.
“That’s for you to decide. The path you’ve chosen is the one you’ll make. We’re just here beside you.”
Junho nodded.
“You’re not alone.”
Junho said.
Hearing those words, something warm spread through Minjun’s chest. Fear still remained. The future was still uncertain. But within that uncertainty, Minjun felt freedom for the first time. Freedom from the chains of lies. Freedom from having to play a role. The freedom of simply being himself.
Outside the window, night had completely fallen. Seoul’s night view reflected in the glass. Thousands of lights. Behind each light would be someone’s life. Someone’s choice, someone’s struggle, someone’s dream. Minjun was now trying to become one of those thousands of lights. Not the bright light of a famous actor, but a small light that was his own, humble yet true.
“Thank you.”
Minjun said.
And all the sounds in the café—the hum of the coffee machine, the barista’s footsteps, distant laughter—wrapped around that gratitude.
Word Count: 12,847