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# Chapter 71: The Other Side of the Mirror
When Lee Soo-jin finished speaking, silence descended. It wasn’t an active silence. Rather, it felt passive and suffocating—as if someone were slowly draining the air from the room. Min-jun felt his fingers still trembling. No, not trembling. Convulsing. As though something were directly controlling his nervous system.
The desire to be saved is very dangerous.
That sentence circled his brain. Like a loop. Like our fingers. The rhythm of despair.
Min-jun looked at Lee Soo-jin. She was still gazing out the window, arms crossed. As if embracing herself. No—it wasn’t an embrace. It was a defense. A barrier to protect what lay inside.
“That’s your interpretation, Director.”
Min-jun spoke. His voice didn’t sound like his own. As if someone else were borrowing his mouth to speak. Another version of himself. The version on stage.
“That’s right. My interpretation. But there comes a moment when interpretation becomes reality. You’re already living in that reality.”
Lee Soo-jin turned slowly. Her eyes met his. In that moment, Min-jun felt his face reflected in her gaze. More precisely, he didn’t feel it—he knew it. He was aware of it. As though someone had placed a mirror behind him. And in that mirror, he could see himself. His pale face. His trembling lips. His dead eyes.
Dead.
“I’m still alive.”
Min-jun said it. But it wasn’t a statement. It was a question. A question he was asking himself. Am I still alive? Or am I already dead?
Lee Soo-jin’s mouth moved once. A smile almost formed. But it never quite completed. Her lips simply rose slightly at the corners before falling again.
“That’s what I’m most curious about. Whether you’re truly alive, or just acting like it. Where that line is.”
She returned to her desk and sat down. This time, she sank deep into the chair. A gesture of exhaustion. Or surrender. Min-jun couldn’t tell which.
“Shooting starts tomorrow. You know that, right?”
“I haven’t received the specific schedule yet—”
“You will now. I’ll send it. Check the email, read the instructions, prepare everything on time. Understood?”
“Yes, Director.”
Lee Soo-jin raised a finger. As if pointing something out. Or warning him.
“But there’s one more piece of advice I wanted to give you. Not as an actress’s advice, but as human advice. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“Spend less time with Jun-ho. More precisely, change the nature of that relationship. This isn’t the time for him to protect you anymore. Now you need to protect yourself. Otherwise, you’ll keep being a tool for his savior complex. And that’s not good for you or for him.”
Min-jun said nothing. He had no words. Or rather, he had too many. But the moment they left his mouth, everything would shatter. Like stacked glass. One more word, and it would all break into pieces.
“Go. And I’ll see you on set tomorrow. We have high expectations for you.”
Lee Soo-jin spoke her final words. They sounded like a blessing and a curse at once.
Min-jun stood. His legs trembled slightly. As if he’d been sitting for hours. But really, only minutes had passed. Time worked strangely. Especially in fear.
When he stepped into the corridor, he checked his watch. 12:34 AM. Still night. His life only seemed to happen in darkness. A life without sun. An eternal night.
While waiting for the elevator, Min-jun pulled out his phone. The moment the screen lit up, there were another fifty missed calls. Still from Mom. And one more. From Woo-ri. Actually, a text.
“Min-jun. Did something happen? I couldn’t reach you and got worried. Are you okay?”
The message had come hours ago. Reading it, Min-jun thought about what he’d done in the meantime. Met Woo-ri. Didn’t meet Jun-ho. Met Lee Soo-jin. And Lee Soo-jin had told him not to meet Jun-ho. Or to meet him differently.
Change the nature of the relationship.
Min-jun didn’t reply. Instead, he called Jun-ho.
The dial tone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times.
Then Jun-ho answered.
“Min-jun?”
Jun-ho’s voice was sleep-heavy. He could tell that Min-jun had woken him. And there was something in that woken voice. Anxiety. Or relief. Min-jun couldn’t tell.
“Hyung.”
Min-jun spoke. That was all. Just a name. Just a title.
“Where are you? What are you doing right now?”
“Outside the company building.”
Silence. Brief but intense.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Min-jun didn’t answer the question. Instead, he explained what he was about to do.
“Hyung, I think I need to spend some time alone. For a few days.”
The moment those words left his mouth, Min-jun realized what he was doing. He was pushing Jun-ho away. Just as Lee Soo-jin had suggested. To change the relationship. Or to protect himself. Min-jun couldn’t tell which was true.
“Min-jun, did something happen? If something happened, tell me.”
Jun-ho’s voice changed. Awake now. Guarded. Frightened.
“Nothing special. Just… I need to clear my head.”
“Clear your head? Last time you said that, you tried to kill yourself.”
Jun-ho had spoken the word. Suicide. It was the greatest wall between them. And the deepest bridge. They were connected by that event. And wounded by it.
“This time is different.”
Min-jun said.
“Different how? What’s different? You’re trying to be alone again. That’s dangerous. You can’t be alone.”
There was desperation in Jun-ho’s voice. But it sounded like love and control at once. The desire to save. Exactly what Lee Soo-jin had mentioned.
“Hyung, I think… I need to know who I am. Not the person you see. Not the person I think I am. But who I actually am.”
“That’s not something you find alone. You find it together.”
“If we find it together, I’ll only see your reflection. Not myself.”
It was the worst thing he could have said. Min-jun knew it. But he had no choice. Because it was true. At least, true in this moment.
Jun-ho was silent for a long time. Min-jun could only hear his breathing through the phone. Deep and irregular. As though someone were trying to crush his brain.
“Fine. Go. But…”
Jun-ho finally spoke.
“What?”
“Don’t think you’re alone. Never. You’re not alone. Even after this call ends, you’re not alone. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Min-jun answered. But it was a lie. Or a partial lie. Because in that moment, Min-jun truly felt alone. Even under Jun-ho’s protection. Even under Woo-ri’s concern. Even under Lee Soo-jin’s observation. Alone. Desperately alone.
The call ended. Min-jun got in the elevator. Left the building. Stepped out onto the street.
Gangnam Station at 1 AM was still crowded with people. Those leaving clubs. Those heading to convenience stores. Those trying to hail taxis. Everyone was doing something. Everyone had direction. Everyone except Min-jun.
He headed toward the subway platform. To wait for the last train. Or to spend the night. He didn’t want to return to his semi-basement room. Didn’t want to see the mold on the ceiling. Didn’t want to see his sleeping bag. All of it reflected his reality too clearly.
When he reached the platform, a woman passed by him. An older woman. The same one he’d seen before. She still looked like she was waiting for someone.
“Isn’t this the last train?”
The woman asked Min-jun.
“I think so.”
Min-jun replied.
“I’m waiting for my son. He works the night shift and takes this train home. But he’s been coming less often lately. No calls either. Still, I keep waiting. Why do you think that is?”
The woman looked at Min-jun. As if her question were genuinely seeking an answer.
“Because you love him.”
Min-jun said. And he knew how sad that answer was.
“Love. Is that what it is? I can’t tell anymore if it’s love or obligation. At some point, I stopped being able to tell the difference. It’s become a habit. Just waiting.”
The woman sat on a bench. Min-jun sat beside her. Like before.
“But why are you awake? At this hour. A young person.”
“I don’t know.”
Min-jun replied. It was true. He didn’t know why he was awake, why he was wandering the streets, why he’d hung up on Jun-ho.
“Are you… waiting for someone?”
The woman asked.
Min-jun considered the question. Am I waiting for someone? Or is someone waiting for me? Or am I waiting for another version of myself?
“I’m not sure.”
Min-jun said again.
They waited for the last train in silence. The platform clock showed 1:47 AM. And those numbers were telling Min-jun something. Time keeps moving. Whether you move or not. Whether you choose or not. Time keeps moving forward.
“There it is! The last train!”
The woman cried out. She stood. Min-jun stood too.
Watching the train enter the platform, Min-jun raised his hand. Those fingers still convulsed. Or were they dancing now? The rhythm of despair. Like our fingers.
He boarded the train. And through the window, he saw Gangnam’s night. That night was still beautiful. And that was the saddest part. That even when everything falls apart, the world remains beautiful. That even when you lose everything, the sun still rises. That was life’s greatest pain.
The train began to move. The platform disappeared. And the woman disappeared too. Min-jun thought he would never see her again. And that made him sad. That after sharing something, even briefly, it ends. Every meeting was a permanent goodbye. And they all knew it.
Min-jun’s phone rang. It was Woo-ri. The time was 2:12 AM.
He didn’t answer. He was afraid to. Because the moment he answered, he would become part of someone again. And right now, Min-jun wanted to be wholly his own. Not someone’s actor. Not someone’s protected one. Not someone’s concern.
Just himself.
The train kept running. Through the tunnels of night. And Min-jun saw his reflection in the window. Like a mirror. The other side of the mirror. Himself on the opposite side. From there, from that other side, another Min-jun was looking back at him. With dead eyes. With fingers of despair. And it seemed like the truest version of himself.
12,847 characters
# The Last Train
## Part One: A Meeting on the Bench
The subway platform at night was quiet like the end of the world. Fluorescent lights poured down their pale glow onto the gray floor, and within that light, dust danced slowly. Min-jun sat on a bench. He wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d been sitting there. The concept of time had lost meaning in this place. The night subway station existed outside reality, and here, minutes and seconds seemed to flow differently.
Then a woman came walking along the platform. At first, Min-jun didn’t really see her. There are things our eyes ignore if we don’t want to see them. But then the woman sat down beside him, and only then did he realize she was actually there.
“It’s become a habit,” the woman said suddenly.
Min-jun looked at her. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties. Hair streaked with silver, deeply lined face, and eyes with a hint of resignation. Those eyes were similar to the ones Min-jun had seen in the mirror. Or more precisely, they were eyes he would soon have.
“When night comes, I keep coming here. To this platform. To take the last train. Or just to watch it come. Though the difference between those two is negligible,” the woman continued. She didn’t look directly at Min-jun. Instead, she gazed at the wall across from them. “At first, it was a mistake. I missed the last train. So I waited for the next one, and that turned out to be the last. After that, I kept coming. At this time. To this platform. To see the last train.”
Listening to her, Min-jun looked at his own hands. The fingers were trembling. The cold air of the platform touched his skin, and that sensation felt like proof he was actually alive. The trembling of fingers. A pulse-like tremor. The rhythm of despair.
“But why are you awake? At this hour. You’re so young,” the woman asked.
She finally looked at Min-jun. Her eyes were like a deep lake. In that lake, countless nights had sunk.
Min-jun opened his mouth, then closed it. He had an answer, but no language to express it.
“I don’t know,” he finally said.
It was the truth. Min-jun didn’t know why he was awake. A body responding wasn’t a reason. A beating heart wasn’t proof of life. He was simply here. On this platform, in this night, beside this woman. Nothing more, nothing less.
## Part Two: Questions
Silence settled between them. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. Rather, it was necessary. Natural, as if they’d known each other for a long time. The platform clock proved it. 1:32 AM.
“Are you… waiting for someone?” the woman spoke again.
That question made Min-jun’s chest clench. Am I waiting for someone? Min-jun began turning the question over in his mind. Am I waiting for someone? Or is there someone waiting for me? Or am I waiting for another version of myself—a different version of me?
“I’m not sure,” Min-jun said again.
But this time, his answer was different. This time it wasn’t simple ignorance. It was the result of deep contemplation. Knowing that you don’t know. Someone once said that was the beginning of all wisdom, but Min-jun didn’t want to call it wisdom. It was just despair.
The woman gave a soft laugh at his answer. It was a sad laugh. As all night laughs are.
“I don’t know either,” the woman said. “At first, I thought I was waiting for something. Salvation, maybe. Some kind of sign. Something. But now… now I just come. Like a habit. As if I’m part of this platform. No, as if this platform is part of me.”
Min-jun looked at the platform. Gray concrete, yellow safety lines, darkness of the tunnel in the distance. Could a place really become part of someone? Could someone become part of a place? Min-jun wasn’t sure. But listening to the woman, it seemed possible. Actually possible.
“Do you come at the same time?” Min-jun asked.
“Not exactly the same, but around the same time. About 1 AM. Then I have about an hour to wait until the last train comes. During that time, I… what do I do? Think? No. I don’t do anything. I’m just here. That’s all.”
Hearing this, Min-jun looked at his hands again. The fingers were still trembling. Trembling. Was it a sign of fear, or proof of life? Min-jun couldn’t distinguish anymore. All signals felt the same.
“I don’t answer my phone,” Min-jun suddenly said. Even he didn’t know why he was saying this. “People call. Constantly. But I don’t answer.”
The woman slowly nodded when she heard this.
“That’s right. You shouldn’t answer,” the woman said. “The moment you answer, you become part of someone. Their responsibility. Their worry. That’s what scares you, isn’t it?”
Min-jun nodded. That was exactly it. Why he was afraid to answer the phone. The moment he picked up, he would cease to be wholly his own.
“But here’s the thing,” the woman continued. “Is it really that bad? Being part of someone? Being needed by someone?”
Min-jun couldn’t answer that question.
## Part Three: The Flow of Time
The platform clock kept moving forward. 1:47 AM.
Min-jun stared at that time. 1:47. Those numbers were telling him something. Time keeps moving. Whether you move or not. Whether you choose or not. Whether you pray, resist, or give up. Time keeps moving forward. That was time’s only promise. The only certainty.
“Isn’t time strange?” the woman said. “When you’re here at this time. It feels like time has stopped. But then you look at the clock and it’s still moving. That contradiction… I like it. Because it’s true.”
Min-jun understood. It was true. Time moves, and we stop. Or we move, and time stops. Both could be true. Actually, both were true.
“When does the last train come?” Min-jun asked.
“Around 2:50 AM. After that, you have to wait more than an hour for the first train in the morning. But I always take the last train. No one wants the first train of the morning. That’s not an ending—it’s a beginning.”
An ending, not a beginning. Those words lodged in Min-jun’s heart. People always fear beginnings. New things. The unknown. But endings? What about endings? They seemed equally frightening. No, maybe more so. Because endings never come back.
The woman’s phone rang. The sound was sudden, violent—like an intrusion into this silent world. The woman checked the screen and hung up without saying anything.
“Who was it?” Min-jun asked.
“I’m not sure. Just someone,” the woman answered. “These days everyone’s like that. They keep calling. Keep texting. As if they’re afraid we’ll disappear. But we’ve already disappeared. They just don’t know it yet.”
Disappeared. That word pierced Min-jun’s chest. Had he already disappeared? Really? He thought he was still here. His hands were trembling, his heart was beating, he was thinking. But hearing the woman, that didn’t seem like proof.
Min-jun’s phone rang too. Jun-ho. Min-jun knew without any special ringtone. Just the vibration told him. He could feel Jun-ho calling. That desperation. That worry.
Min-jun declined the call.
“You didn’t answer,” the woman said. This time, it sounded like praise.
“No,” Min-jun replied.
“Good. Really good. Not answering is the right choice. Because the moment you answer, you’re no longer alone. And being not alone isn’t freedom—it’s a prison.”
Min-jun sat with that statement. Freedom and prison. Alone and together. Where was the boundary? Or did it even exist? Maybe it was all the same thing.
## Part Four: Reflections
The platform clock showed 2:05 AM. Forty-five minutes until the last train.
“We don’t have to wait much longer,” the woman said. “It’ll be here soon.”
With that, the woman fell silent again. It was a waiting silence. Like all night silences. Night silence is different from day silence. Day silence is just a temporary break in noise. But night silence is a signal that the world has actually stopped.
Min-jun stood up from the bench. He began walking the platform. Slowly. As if he wanted to become a ghost of this place. Ghosts make no sound when they walk. Min-jun wanted to be like that. He wanted to erase his presence from this platform.
There was an advertisement on the wall across from him. For some product. Smiling people. A happy family. Everyone together. Min-jun stared at it. Were those people in the advertisement truly happy? Or was that acting too? Everything seemed like acting. Happiness, sadness, all emotions.
Min-jun raised his hand. The fingers were still trembling. That tremor was visible in the reflection of the advertisement. Or rather, it wasn’t visible. But Min-jun knew it was there. Trembling. Fear. Despair. Everything was hidden behind the advertisement.
“Are your fingers shaking?” the woman asked. She was still sitting on the bench, but watching Min-jun’s movements.
“Yes,” Min-jun answered.
“Is that guilt, or fear?”
Min-jun considered the question. Guilt? Fear? Both? Or did it matter? Weren’t all tremors essentially the same? All fear and guilt and sadness?
“I’m not sure,” Min-jun said.
“That’s right. That’s correct. You don’t need to know. Not knowing is normal. No one knows exactly why they’re trembling. We just… tremble. That’s all.”
The woman’s voice was gentle. Like someone who had comforted many people like this. Or had been comforted by many people like this. Those two things might be the same.
Min-jun returned to the bench and sat again. Next to the woman. They fell silent once more. But this silence was different from the first. Now there was trust. Thin but certain—a trust between two people.
## Part Five: The Last Train
The platform clock showed 2:48 AM. Just two more minutes to wait.
The woman stood up. “The last train is coming,” she said.
Min-jun stood too. They walked to the platform’s edge. They gazed into the darkness of the tunnel. Nothing was visible. But Min-jun could feel it coming. Through vibrations. Through the movement of air. Through the sound of night breathing one last time.
“Just wait,” the woman said.
And exactly two minutes later, light broke through the tunnel’s darkness. White light. Warm light. That light was like a signal of salvation. Or judgment. Min-jun couldn’t tell which.
The train entered the platform. It was truly the last train.