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# Chapter 75: The Truth Behind the Camera
The script reading was silent.
Eight actors sat around a table. PD Park Mi-ra occupied a chair, flanked by the programming director and Netflix’s production manager. Microphones sat in front of each performer. This was an official record. Voice, tone, timing—everything would be documented, analyzed, evaluated.
Three actors had already read their lines before Min-jun’s turn came. All of them were seasoned professionals. Their voices carried emotion as if they’d been inhabiting these roles for years. Or at minimum, had prepared for hours beforehand.
Min-jun hadn’t prepared. He’d only read our notes. “How to Quit Acting.” The title alone was enough. It told him what he needed to do—and what he absolutely shouldn’t.
“Actor Min.”
Park Mi-ra called his name.
Min-jun picked up the script. The scene: the protagonist’s best friend. The one who stays beside him when he’s broke and desperate. Five lines of dialogue. Across the entire drama, his role probably wouldn’t exceed twenty lines total.
“So your character hears that the protagonist is thinking about suicide. What do you say?”
Park Mi-ra set the stage.
Min-jun read. He read his own lines. His voice came out low. Almost a whisper.
“You can’t do that. You can’t. Because then you won’t see the part of you I love most.”
In that moment, the air above the table shifted. What had been light grew heavy. Like someone had dropped a stone into the room.
Park Mi-ra said nothing. But her eyes found Min-jun. Eyes full of curiosity. No—eyes full of recognition.
“That’s good. That’s enough.”
She spoke.
When the reading ended, it was 1:17 PM. The morning had passed quickly. Or Min-jun’s consciousness simply hadn’t been functioning properly. When he left the set, he couldn’t say with certainty what he’d just done. His mouth had opened. His voice had come out. Words had emerged. And somehow, they’d caught someone’s eye.
Joon-ho was waiting by the set.
The moment Min-jun appeared, he noticed. As though he’d been waiting there all along. As though he was attuned to his every movement.
“How was it?”
Joon-ho asked.
“It was fine.”
Min-jun replied.
“Fine? Have you looked at your own face?”
Joon-ho stepped closer. His hand found Min-jun’s shoulder again.
“What did the PD say?”
“She said it was good.”
“Be more specific.”
“She said that was enough.”
Joon-ho laughed. A small laugh. But genuine.
“You don’t realize it, but that’s the highest praise Park Mi-ra can give. She never compliments actors directly. When she says ‘that’s enough,’ what she means is ‘you can save this drama.’”
Min-jun heard Joon-ho’s words, but they felt disconnected from himself. Like someone else was being praised.
Filming began at 2 PM.
The first scene wasn’t Min-jun’s. The protagonist and the actress playing his mother. A scene of them eating rice in the kitchen. Nothing spoken aloud, yet everything revealed. Hunger. Silent love. Despair.
Min-jun sat beside the set and watched them. He watched their acting. How they moved, how they held eye contact, how they poured emotion into the silence.
That was acting.
So what had he been doing? What had he done for four years? All those moments among the extras—being ignored, cut from frames, forgotten?
“Thinking hard?”
Joon-ho sat beside him. Min-jun hadn’t noticed him arrive.
“I was watching them. The actors. Their performances.”
Min-jun spoke.
“And?”
“I don’t think I can do what they do.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s nothing inside me.”
Joon-ho said nothing. Instead, he took Min-jun’s hand. Openly. In a way everyone on the set could see. It was unprofessional. It broke the rules. But Joon-ho didn’t care.
“You have something. Enough.”
Joon-ho said.
“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?”
“That doesn’t matter right now. You just need to stand in front of the camera. And speak. Say those lines. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Min-jun’s scene started at 4:43 PM.
The protagonist sits alone in his semi-basement room. He’s looking out the window. Only legs are visible. The legs of passersby. As if he’s buried underground. Or as if he’s already dead.
Then Min-jun enters. Without ringing the bell. He opens the door with a key. Like a friend who’s been here many times before.
“What are you doing?”
Min-jun says.
The protagonist turns. His eyes hold nothing. Or everything.
“Just… thinking.”
He answers.
“Thinking about what?”
Min-jun sits. Beside the protagonist.
“Just… maybe ending it.”
Silence. Park Mi-ra doesn’t call “cut.” The camera keeps rolling.
“You can’t.”
Min-jun speaks. Not his scripted line. Something else. But he continues anyway. Without knowing why.
“Because then you won’t see the part of you I love most.”
In that moment, the protagonist’s eyes change. Eyes that realize someone is truly seeing them. For the first time.
“Cut!”
Park Mi-ra calls out.
“Again!”
They do it again. And again. And again.
With each take, Min-jun transformed slightly. He found his voice. He didn’t know if it was truly his, but it was a voice that reached someone. Someone other than himself.
After eight takes, Park Mi-ra said:
“Okay. That’s enough. Next scene.”
When Min-jun left the set, his hands were trembling. They hadn’t shaken in front of the camera, but now they did. As if all the emotion had accumulated, then burst free the moment the camera stopped rolling.
Joon-ho was waiting in the hallway.
“Did you watch?”
Min-jun asked.
“I watched. All of it.”
Joon-ho said.
“How was it?”
“Good. Really good.”
Joon-ho took Min-jun’s hand again. This time tighter. This time in a hallway where no one could see.
“And?”
Min-jun asked.
“And what?”
“There’s more. You said you had something to tell me. Before filming.”
Joon-ho exhaled. A long exhale. Like he was setting down everything he carried.
“I can’t… save you. You already know that. And the thing is, it’s not that I want you. It’s that I want to be with you. Do you understand the difference?”
Min-jun understood now. At least his body did. How profoundly different those two things were.
“What am I to you?”
Min-jun asked again.
“You’re the person I love most.”
Joon-ho said.
“What does that mean?”
“It just… means that. There’s nothing more to explain. It just is.”
Joon-ho let go of him. And turned away.
“Go. You need to prepare for your next scene.”
Min-jun stood there. In the middle of the hallway. Not knowing where he’d come from or where he needed to go.
But one thing he knew.
That he was visible. At least to someone.
Filming continued until 10 PM.
Min-jun stood in front of the camera five more times. Different scenes, different actors, different lines, different emotions. But all of them said the same thing. That he was here. That he was watching. That he was being watched.
When he left the set, his phone had a message.
From us.
“Min-jun. How was filming? Joon-ho told me. He said you were amazing. Really amazing.”
Min-jun didn’t text back. Instead, he called.
“Hello.”
Min-jun spoke. 10:32 PM. On the street. Beneath the neon lights of Gangnam’s night.
“Min-jun? Are you okay? Your voice sounds strange.”
We asked.
“I’m fine. I just… I want to see you.”
Silence. Silence on the other end of the line.
“Now?”
“Yes. Now would be good.”
“Where?”
Min-jun thought. Where would be good? Where would be safe? Where would be closest to the truth?
“Gangnam Station. Exit 9, basement level.”
“Where are you now?”
“I just left the set.”
“That’s about thirty minutes away, I think.”
“That’s fine. I’ll wait.”
Min-jun hung up.
Gangnam Station’s basement level 9 exit was crowded even deep into the night. Drunk people, commuters heading home, people still working. All living their own lives. All wanting to be seen by someone. Or wanting desperately not to be.
Min-jun sat on a bench. A bench at Gangnam Station. The cafes had closed. Only convenience stores remained open. Fluorescent light filled the underground.
We arrived at 11:03 PM.
Gray hoodie, black sneakers, exhaustion etched across our face. As if we too had just stepped off a set.
“Hey.”
We spoke. Casual. But our eyes were full of worry.
“Hello.”
Min-jun stood.
“What’s with the formal speech? Are you really okay?”
We sat on the bench.
“I just… wanted to see you.”
Min-jun said.
“Why?”
“Because you said it at first. ‘You’ll become a good enough actor.’”
We said nothing.
“And you showed me that note. ‘How to Quit Acting.’ You wanted out.”
“That’s—”
We started to speak.
“That wasn’t your story. It was someone else’s story that you know. Lee Su-jin told me. Your friend. That friend left. That friend isn’t… here anymore.”
Our hands trembled on the bench. Underground at Gangnam Station.
“Yeah. My friend died last year.”
We said. Our voice shook.
“Suicide?”
“Yes. This industry. She couldn’t take it. Not just because of Lee Su-jin, but… because of all of it. This system. Where people devour each other, crush each other, throw each other away.”
We looked up. We really looked at Min-jun. Like the first time.
“And you reminded me of her. When I first saw you. The same despair. The same fear. That’s why I showed you that note. To say: ‘Don’t live like this. Please. Please stay alive.’”
Min-jun took our hand. On the bench. Underground at Gangnam Station. At 11:04 PM.
“I’m alive. And I’m going to keep living.”
Min-jun spoke.
“Why?”
“Because someone sees me. Joon-ho sees me. You see me. And that’s… that’s enough.”
We started crying. Openly. Underground at Gangnam Station. At 11:04 PM.
And Min-jun cried too.
Neither of us spoke. But we both understood.
What this was. How precious it was. How dangerous it was.
To be seen by someone.
To have someone truly see you.
Whether this was salvation or a trap, we didn’t know. But for now, it was enough.
Min-jun held our hand tighter. As if to keep from drifting away. As if to keep us from drifting away too.
11:04 PM at Gangnam Station.
Everything was beginning here.