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# Chapter 12: The Weight of Reality
When Sungjun’s voice cut across the locker room, Minjun couldn’t tell exactly what he intended by it. Kindness? Or mockery? Maybe both.
“Hyung, are you still practicing acting these days? I get voice lessons every day, and letting the tension out of your throat is really hard.”
Sungjun opened the locker room door and stepped inside. His movements were unhurried, comfortable—as if the space belonged to him. Maybe it did. Three commercials in recent weeks, two music videos, and even a supporting role in a drama. Word about Sungjun’s meteoric rise within The Star Entertainment had already spread. There was even talk of him being “a rookie who should have debuted before Netflix.”
Minjun hung his clothes in his locker as he answered.
“Voice lessons, huh? That’s impressive.”
“You don’t take them? My PD recommended it. Said I lack vocal appeal. But honestly, your voice too… Ah, sorry. Not my words though.”
Sungjun laughed. The laugh was bright. But beneath that brightness, something lurked. Like a shadow beneath sunlight. Minjun sensed it. Actors sense these things. The intentions of other actors.
“It’s fine.”
Minjun closed his locker. In that moment, Sungjun stepped closer. He was 183 centimeters tall. Nine centimeters taller than Minjun. It wasn’t just a physical difference. It was a difference in power. In the entertainment industry, even height was leverage.
“Hyung, how’s the Netflix audition prep going?”
“Fine.”
“I saw it too. That scenario. You got it, right? Or did I get bad information?”
Minjun looked at Sungjun’s face. It was the classic “flower boy” type—the kind K-drama fans loved. Sharp jawline, bright eyes, bleached blonde hair. But something was flowing across that face right now. Like a dam about to burst. Or more accurately, like it had already burst and he was desperately trying to contain the damage.
“Yes, I got it.”
“Wow, congratulations. But hyung, this might actually be your last real chance. You know that, right? It’s rare for a rookie at The Star to get this far. But you waited four years. What did you do in all that time? Extras? Commercials?”
Minjun didn’t answer. Instead, he bought time by tying his shoelaces. Shoelaces—it was one of the techniques actors learned. When faced with uncomfortable questions, keep your hands and arms busy.
“I thought you had something special. That’s why I waited. But thinking about it… you just seem ordinary. Your face, your voice, your gestures. All ordinary. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. There are actors who can do ordinary. But you… there’s something missing. What could it be?”
Sungjun rested his chin on his hand, pretending to think. But it was an act. He already knew the answer.
“Oh, that’s it. Passion. You don’t have passion, hyung. That’s how it looks to me. Like you’re always running away.”
The locker room went quiet. Only the fluorescent light’s hum remained. That sound shifted from background to foreground. Minjun’s hands stopped tying his laces. But he didn’t stand up. He stayed bent over, in that position.
“If you flunk this audition, I won’t think it’s strange. Because you’re… ready to fail.”
Sungjun left the locker room. The door was left slightly ajar, as if that too had been planned.
Minjun remained there, hands fallen from his laces. Sungjun’s words kept echoing in his ears. “You’re ready to fail.” It wasn’t a lie. Minjun knew it himself. The kind of actor he was. His weaknesses. What the Netflix audition meant to him.
He climbed to the rooftop at 11:47 AM.
The Star’s rooftop was better maintained than he expected. Concrete floor, steel railings, and Seoul’s skyline. To the north, the buildings of Gangnam Station rose up. To the south, the Han River flowed. The weather was clear. Clear weather only made the loneliness worse.
Minjun leaned against the railing. In his hand was a can of coffee from the convenience store. It was warm—warm enough to heat his fingertips. He hadn’t drunk any of it. He just needed the feeling of warmth.
“There you are.”
It was Junho’s voice. He’d come through the rooftop access door. The 34-year-old actor was catching his breath, visibly winded from climbing the stairs. His face was pale. Since the conversation with Minjun that morning, he’d looked this way continuously.
“Hyung, why did you come up here?”
“Sungjun told me. Said you’d be on the roof.”
Minjun sighed when he heard this. How did Sungjun know? But that was how actors read people. Especially the urge to run away.
Junho stood beside Minjun. He didn’t lean against the railing. He simply stood, as if ready to leave at any moment.
“Sungjun’s a good kid. But that goodness is… sharp. You know?”
“Yes.”
“That kid finds people’s weak points exactly. And he points them out. Not to hurt them, of course. He just… says what he sees.”
Minjun brought the coffee can to his lips. He didn’t drink. He just needed the gesture.
“Minjun. Are you really ready to fail?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You don’t even know your own heart?”
Junho turned to face him directly. There was something in his eyes. Worry. But that wasn’t all. There was anger too. Anger at his student for continuing to reject him.
“Listen to me. The Netflix audition is just days away. That audition is… for you. You understand? Representative Lee herself specially recruited you for this. You know that much, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you like this? Why do you keep making yourself small? You’re not alone. We’re here. I’m here, our family is here, even Junho is here.”
Junho’s reference to himself in the third person revealed how emotionally shaken he was. Actors do this. Objectifying themselves helps them regain emotional control.
“Hyung… it seems like you want something from me.”
Minjun spoke carefully.
“I want something. From you.”
“What is it?”
“You’ve already failed this audition. Psychologically. Already. So I’m asking you. Why? Why did you give up on yourself? You waited four years, so why are you giving up now?”
That question struck Minjun’s chest. Precisely. Like someone had cracked his ribcage open and placed their hand on his heart. Minjun dropped the can of coffee. It fell onto the railing, rolling but not tumbling over.
“I… am ready to fail.”
Minjun finally said it.
“Why?”
“Because this much is enough. For my life.”
“Enough? This much? A few extra roles, a few supporting parts? That’s enough?”
“Yes. It’s enough.”
Minjun’s voice was calm. But beneath that calm, something flowed. Like water beneath ice.
“Because what’s not enough isn’t my life. It’s my heart.”
Junho watched him. Silent. Instead, he truly listened.
“I lost my father. Ten years ago. Back then, I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t a good enough son. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t understand his sadness. I couldn’t understand why he made the choice he did.”
Minjun’s hand went into his pocket. There was nothing there. But he needed to put his hand somewhere. He needed to hide himself somewhere.
“After that, I… decided not to burden anyone. To do it alone. To endure alone. Because if I relied on someone, they would also suffer like my father did. Or like I did…”
Junho’s face changed. The anger vanished. In its place came something else. Deep understanding. Or something deeper still.
“So the Netflix audition too… you’re ready to fail?”
“Yes. If I fail, my life continues. That’s enough. But if I pass… then I carry someone’s expectations. Yours. Our family’s. The company’s. And I’m afraid of betraying those expectations…”
Minjun’s words stopped. His throat tightened visibly. But he didn’t cry. Actors cry. But Minjun had learned not to.
Junho placed his hand on Minjun’s shoulder. This time not his arm, but his shoulder. It was the gesture of someone who was being depended on, not someone who was depending. It signaled a shift in roles.
“Minjun. You’re not alone anymore.”
“You said you were alone, hyung.”
“I did. I was alone for eight years, and I still am. But you… you don’t have to be. Understand? You’re not my age yet. You can still choose. Don’t choose loneliness.”
Minjun looked at Junho’s face. It was paler than before. As if someone had drained all the blood from it. But within that paleness was something. Something that would never break.
“If you want this much, hyung…”
Minjun opened his mouth.
“I will… try.”
“Try?”
“Yes. To show my real heart. At the Netflix audition. And…”
“And?”
“And to our family too. To you.”
Seoul’s wind blew across the rooftop. Mixed within it was the scent of summer. Asphalt, air conditioning units, and the distant smell of food. Minjun breathed it in. The smell of all he’d been missing.
It was 1:15 PM when he returned to the locker room.
The family wasn’t there. But she had left something. On the shelf above the locker. A memo.
“Minjun. I can wait for you. However long. But please don’t keep running away, okay? Please.”
It was handwriting. A musical actress’s handwriting. Curved, emotional. Minjun held the memo. The paper was thin. Like it would crumble if he squeezed it.
He put it in his pocket. Like his father’s photograph. Somewhere he could take it out anytime. But somewhere he wouldn’t.
3:47 PM. The Star Entertainment’s conference room.
Representative Lee sat on the opposite side of the table. Her face was expressionless. But that blankness contained everything. Hope. Anxiety. Pressure.
“Actor Min. Tomorrow is the audition.”
“Yes.”
“Are you prepared?”
“Yes. I’m prepared.”
Representative Lee studied Minjun. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Her gaze was evaluative. Not an actor’s gaze but a businesswoman’s. The gaze of someone assessing investment value.
“Good. Then we’ll meet at the studio tomorrow at 8 AM. Don’t be late. You haven’t had many opportunities, so if you miss this one, there may not be another. Understand?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. What you need to do is produce results. That’s all.”
Representative Lee closed her laptop. The meeting was over. Minjun stood. But when his hand reached the door, the representative’s voice came again.
“Actor Min. Why did you want to become an actor?”
The question was unexpected. Minjun turned around. The representative remained seated. Her laptop was closed, her eyes on him.
“I… wanted to become famous. To make money.”
“Is that all?”
Minjun couldn’t answer. Because it wasn’t all. But he couldn’t say what the rest was.
“What you’re thinking right now is correct. The rest is something you can’t speak. That’s the secret actors should keep. That secret is what shines on stage, in front of the camera. That is acting. Show me that secret tomorrow.”
Representative Lee opened her laptop again. Now the meeting was truly over. Minjun opened the door and left.
The hallway was quiet. 4 PM at The Star Entertainment. Most actors were out on set. But somewhere, someone was practicing vocals. Pitch. Tone. And the emotion beneath. Actors were constantly refining themselves. Like stone.
As Minjun walked that hallway, he felt his hands trembling. On the side of his pocket with his father’s photograph. On the side with the family’s memo. Both sets of fingers were shaking.
11 PM. Minjun’s studio apartment.
He lay on the bed. Staring at the ceiling. The ceiling held nothing. Just white paint and traces of a fluorescent fixture. That white ceiling looked like an infinite screen. Everything could be projected there. His past. His present. His future.
His phone buzzed. A KakaoTalk notification. The family.
“Oppa. Fighting tomorrow.”
Below the message was a heart emoji. A red heart. Minjun saw it. And felt how much weight it added to his heart.
He didn’t reply. Instead, he put the phone down and looked at the ceiling again.
Tomorrow at 8 AM. Who would he be by then? Still an actor running away? Or an actor who could bear someone’s expectations?
Minjun didn’t know. But that didn’t matter either. Because when tomorrow morning came, it would already be decided. Not by choice, but by fate. The kind of thing actors had to accept.
Wind struck the window. Seoul’s midsummer wind. It carried countless stories within it. Someone’s excitement. Someone’s fear. Someone’s despair. And someone’s hope.
Minjun listened to that wind and slowly closed his eyes.
Until tomorrow morning came, he had to continue existing. Not as a burden, but as someone necessary. That was what it meant to become an actor. That was what it meant to be human.
The memo from the locker room was still in his pocket. Along with his father’s photograph. Minjun felt it. Not by touch, but with his heart.
In that sensation, he slowly drifted into sleep.