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# Chapter 82: The Temperature of Coffee
Minjun left the locker room and descended the stairs. Down to the second basement level of the set—the passage actors used when moving between locations. Fluorescent lights ran in a line along the ceiling, and the walls were plastered with shooting schedules and safety notices. “Watch for falls.” “Be careful with open flames.” “Check emergency exits.” As if someone had deliberately listed every possible danger.
Minjun’s footsteps were slow. With each step downward, his body felt heavier. In his hand was the Americano that Junho had left behind. The warmth of the paper cup transferred to his fingertips. Warmth. But even that warmth was cooling, fading away. Everything fades like this. Coffee, the heat of someone’s hand, promises.
The second basement level was empty. It was past four in the afternoon, after shooting had wrapped. Most of the staff were either breaking down the set or preparing for the next scene. Minjun walked along the corridor, which felt like a maze. Left turn, right turn, left again. As if he had to keep moving forward even when he didn’t know where he was going.
Then he saw someone walking toward him. Minjun looked up. It was Park Mira. She was still wearing the same clothes, holding a tablet in her hands. Her face was concentrated, as if only she and the screen existed in the world.
“Ah, Minjun.”
Park Mira spoke without lifting her eyes from the screen.
“Director.”
Minjun greeted her.
Park Mira kept walking, passing by him. But as she did, her hand brushed against his arm. Brief contact. But intentional. Like a signal telling him she was there.
“We’ll talk later.”
Park Mira said from behind him, already disappearing down the corridor.
Minjun continued walking. The coffee was no longer warm or hot. It was just liquid now. Temperature-neutral liquid. He felt like he’d become the same—neither burning with emotion nor calculating coldly, just something that existed.
When he reached the break room, there was only one staff member there. Someone from the lighting team, probably. He stood in front of a vending machine, buying a canned drink. Click. The sound of the can dropping. Minjun set his coffee on a table and sat in an isolated chair—one that faced a wall without windows.
His phone rang. Not a message tone, but an actual call. The screen showed “Junho.”
Minjun didn’t answer. He just listened to it ring. One ring, two rings, three rings. Then it stopped. Junho had hung up.
A few seconds later, a text arrived.
“Get out of the set. Do you have some free time?”
Minjun read it. Just read it. He didn’t respond.
The fluorescent light in the break room hummed. That peculiar sound of an old fluorescent fixture—as if something was constantly crying, or constantly sending a signal. But nobody was receiving that signal.
The lighting team member left, can in hand. He didn’t look at Minjun, as if Minjun wasn’t even there.
Alone in the break room, Minjun looked at his own hands. They were still trembling. But now he couldn’t tell why. Was it from the filming? From Junho’s text? Or from that brief touch from Park Mira?
His phone rang again. This time it was a text.
“Minjun, I think I need to tell you something. But there are things I can’t say on set. Come out.”
Minjun read the message again and again. “I think I need to tell you something.” The phrasing was incomplete. Junho usually spoke more clearly. But now there was an anxiety in his words, as if even he didn’t know what he needed to say.
Minjun stood up. The coffee remained on the table—no longer warm. In a bit more time, it would be completely cold. And someone would throw it away. Someone else. Not Minjun, but whoever cleaned this break room.
There were many ways to exit the set. The main entrance, the back exit, the underground parking garage. Minjun headed toward the underground garage. It was the least populated route. And Junho usually parked there. A black Genesis. The kind of car a 34-year-old actor could have. A symbol of his success. Or his shackles.
The lighting in the underground garage was dimmer than on the set. As if someone had intentionally lowered the brightness. Parked cars lined up in rows. Black, white, silver. All similar shapes. As if the cars themselves were performing roles.
There was Junho’s car. The black Genesis. And beside it stood Junho, arms crossed, waiting for him.
“I knew you’d come.”
Junho said.
“Hyung, what’s going on?”
Minjun asked.
Junho opened the car door and gestured for Minjun to get in. Silently. As if he knew he couldn’t speak yet.
Minjun got in the passenger seat. A place where the set’s lights still couldn’t reach. Like the end of the world.
Junho started the engine. It roared to life—a low, powerful sound. And the car began to move, leaving the underground garage, climbing the ramp. As if trying to escape from somewhere deep.
“Did Park Mira say anything to you?”
Junho asked, his eyes on the road, reflected in the rearview mirror as if checking for cars following behind.
“No. Just that filming was done.”
Minjun answered.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Junho let out a sigh. It could have been relief or disappointment. It was hard to tell.
The car emerged onto the Gangnam streets. Past 4:30 in the afternoon. The start of rush hour. The streets were filled with cars. Everyone was going somewhere. Or coming back from somewhere. But no one stayed put. It was as if Seoul itself was in motion.
“I’ve missed something.”
Junho said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
“Missed what?”
Minjun asked.
“You. Park Mira. All of this.”
Junho waited at a red light. His fingers tapped the steering wheel in a regular rhythm, as if sending a signal to someone.
“What have you missed, hyung?”
“That you’re not an actor anymore.”
Junho said.
“What do you mean?”
“What I saw on set. Your tears. That wasn’t acting. And what I should have done wasn’t to stop you—it was to let you go.”
The light turned green. The car started moving again.
“So what are we doing now?”
Minjun asked.
“Now? Now I’m taking you wherever you want to go.”
Junho turned the car toward Gangnam Station. It was a more congested area. But they had to go there. As if it were already decided by fate.
“Hyung, what am I supposed to do?”
Minjun asked quietly.
“You just breathe. And think. About what you really want. Do you want to be an actor, or do you want to be a person?”
“Is that different?”
“Completely different. An actor plays a role, but a person lives themselves.”
The car kept moving toward Gangnam Station. Afternoon sunlight reflected off the front windshield, as if someone were signaling with a flashlight. But it wasn’t a signal—just light. Everything is like that. Even the things we try to find meaning in are ultimately just reflections of light.
Minjun looked ahead. Gangnam Station was getting closer. This was where he’d had his first audition. And now he was returning there. But differently this time. With Junho. And carrying a question about who he was.
“Hyung.”
Minjun said.
“Yeah.”
“What do I want to become?”
Junho didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled up to the entrance of Gangnam Station. It was a red zone, but he parked anyway, as if this was more important.
“That’s something you have to know. Not me. You. And you don’t know yet. But you will. On the set. Or somewhere else. Or maybe right here in this car.”
Junho looked at Minjun. For the first time, their eyes met.
“I’ll be by your side until then.”
It was a promise. Or a threat. It was hard to tell. But Minjun accepted it, as if he had no other choice.
The traffic light at the station entrance remained red. Cars behind them honked. Once, twice. But Junho didn’t move. As if time had stopped.
“Get out now.”
Junho said.
“Where to?”
“Inside the station. And take your time. Time to face yourself. Look in the mirror. See who’s there. An actor, or a person.”
Minjun got out of the car. The entrance steps to Gangnam Station. Still crowded with people. Rush hour. Everyone going somewhere. Minjun entered the station. The automatic doors opened. Cold air conditioning rushed out. Like entering a different world.
The restroom at Gangnam Station was on the first basement level. Minjun headed there. It was a place with bright lighting even at night, as if someone had deliberately filled it with light.
When he stood before the mirror, Minjun saw himself. An ordinary 174-centimeter-tall young man. Bright brown eyes. Black hair. And traces of tears. Tears from the set still remained on his cheeks, as if they were evidence. Evidence that something had happened.
He stared at the mirror. For a long time. As if hoping someone else was there. But the mirror only showed himself. One face. One pair of eyes. One person.
“What do I want to become?”
He asked himself. The mirror didn’t answer. It only reflected. As if it didn’t know the answer either.
He raised his hand. Before the mirror. And he touched it. Cold glass. His hand and the hand in the mirror met. But it wasn’t contact. It was only separation. And that was the loneliest thing.
In the Gangnam Station restroom on the first basement level, the time showed 4:47 PM. And Minjun was still standing before the mirror. Asking who he was. An actor, or a person. Until he found the answer.
Outside, people continued to pass. Station workers, travelers, commuters, those leaving work. All moving toward their own goals. But Minjun remained standing before the mirror. As if he’d lost his direction. Or was searching for it.
His finger began to write on the mirror. A faint sound as his fingertip touched the glass. It was a word.
“Person.”
After writing it, he lowered his hand. The mirror still reflected him. But now, above that reflection, the word “person” was written. Like a promise he was making to himself.
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