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# Chapter 13: The Fall Below
The rooftop wind carried the scent of Seoul. Exhaust fumes, the heat of asphalt, and somewhere between the forest of buildings, the aroma of coffee. Minjun sat leaning against the railing. His phone was in his hand, the screen displaying the Netflix audition time. 3 PM. Two hours and twenty-seven minutes remaining.
As the audition time drew closer, Minjun’s breathing grew shallow. It was a physical response. The kind he couldn’t control. As if his own body was betraying him.
Because you’re ready to fall.
Seongjun’s words echoed again. Hearing them, Minjun laughed. Not a real laugh, but the sound of extreme anxiety bursting forth. He could only do it because he was alone on the rooftop. The freedom of solitude. And the hell of it.
His phone rang. The screen read “Junho.” Minjun saw it but didn’t answer. He let the call go through to the end. Three seconds later, a text arrived.
[Minjun. Where are you? The Netflix audition is in 30 minutes. Are you ready? Come to the office. We’re here. —Junho]
Minjun read the message. He read it three times. We’re here. That word kept piercing him. They had lost sleep because of him, been hurt because of him, and were now at the office because of him. And what had Minjun done for them in return?
The rooftop railing was drawing closer. Minjun felt it. Not the physical distance, but the psychological one. As if someone was pushing him toward the edge of the rooftop.
He picked up his phone again. 2:31 PM. He opened the chat window. The conversation history with them. Every message from the past four days.
[Uri: Minjun, aren’t you coming to practice today?]
[Minjun: I apologize. I’m preparing for Netflix.]
[Uri: Ah… okay. Fighting! You can do this!]
That was yesterday. And since then, they hadn’t messaged. Not unless Minjun reached out first.
He looked at his conversation history with Junho too. There was more. Almost daily. Messages like, “How are you? How’s the audition prep going?” And Minjun’s replies were always short. “Yes. Thank you.” That was all.
Because you’re ready to fall.
Seongjun’s words came back to him. But this time, they didn’t sound like a lie. Instead, they felt like the truth. Minjun was ready to fall. Because if he fell, everything could be justified. Hurting them, making Junho lonely, isolating himself. He could say, “I was never worthy of being an actor.”
The rooftop wind grew stronger. Minjun’s hair swayed. Autumn was deepening. The weather was turning cold.
Did Father leave on a day like this too?
When that thought came to him, Minjun realized what he was about to do. No—he’d already known. He just hadn’t admitted it.
The rooftop railing was approximately 120 centimeters high. That would be enough. For an adult man to go over. Minjun slowly stood up. His legs trembled. But it wasn’t the tremor of fear. Strangely, it was the tremor of relief.
Like the trembling of finally being ready to set down a burden carried for so long.
He placed his hand on the railing. It was cold. Iron is always cold. He thought that death probably felt the same. Cold, heavy, and perhaps even peaceful.
Seoul’s skyline stared at him. Buildings with thousands of windows. Behind those windows would be thousands of people. Some happy, some unhappy, some perhaps trying to give up on something like Minjun. But they were all alive. Everyone except Minjun.
You’re still doing this because of Father.
Uri’s words followed him even to the rooftop. Like a ghost. Or more accurately, like a conscience.
“It’s not because of Father.”
Minjun muttered. His voice trembled.
“It’s because of me.”
At that moment, the rooftop door burst open.
“Minjun!”
It was Uri. She ran up onto the rooftop, gasping for breath. She wasn’t wearing shoes. Just black socks on bare feet. As if someone had called her suddenly and she’d run out without time to put them on.
Junho followed behind her. His face was pale. Minjun couldn’t understand why they were here or how they’d found him.
“Come down. Please.”
Uri spoke. Her voice sounded like it would shatter. Really.
“I’m not coming down.”
Minjun said. His own voice was low, calm, and resolute.
“But you need to leave. This isn’t your responsibility.”
“Are you crazy?”
Uri tried to step closer, but Junho grabbed her arm. Slowly. As if pulling her back.
“Minjun. The Netflix audition is in 30 minutes.”
Junho spoke. His voice was calm. But it was an act. Minjun sensed it. A 34-year-old actor’s desperate performance.
“What does that audition matter? I’m going to fail anyway.”
Minjun laughed.
“Seongjun said I’m ready to fall. And he was right. I am ready to fall.”
“So you’re doing this?”
Uri screamed. A real scream. Like someone watching another person die.
“What did I do wrong? What did I do to make you like this?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Minjun spoke slowly.
“It’s not about you. I’m already broken. Since childhood. Because of Father, and because of myself. And even if you try to care for me, I can’t accept it.”
He placed one foot on the railing. It happened slowly. Like a scene on stage. Composed, planned, and inevitable.
Uri screamed. Not words, just a scream. The most primal sound a human can make.
“No! No! Please!”
She tried to break free from Junho’s arm and move forward. But Junho held her tighter. His arm trembled. Even a 34-year-old actor couldn’t perform in this moment.
“Minjun.”
Junho spoke. His voice was low, but something resonated within that low tone.
“You’re enough. Already. Even right now. You’re enough.”
Minjun heard those words. But it was too late. No—he’d already gone too deep.
“Hyung.”
Minjun looked at Junho.
“I’ve waited four years. As an extra, as a supporting actor, as an actor no one remembers. And now the opportunity came. Netflix. But nothing changed. I’m still afraid. Still alone. And even if you hold onto me, I’ll still slip away. Because…”
Minjun looked up at the sky. Seoul’s sky. This city’s sky was always gray. Gray in any weather.
“Because I’m Father’s son.”
At that moment, the rooftop door opened again.
This time it was Seongjun. Several employees followed behind him. Company staff. Probably Uri or Junho had told someone.
“Minjun?”
Seongjun’s voice was heard. It was different. Gone was the mockery from the locker room. Instead, it was pure shock.
“What… what are you doing?”
Seongjun took a step forward. But Junho raised his hand to stop him. With just a gesture. As if saying stay quiet.
Minjun thought all of this was surreal. As if he were on a film set. Someone directing, someone rolling cameras, and Minjun acting. But this wasn’t a film. This was reality.
“You said I’m ready to fall.”
Minjun looked at Seongjun.
“Yeah. You were right. I was ready to fall. But now… now I don’t know. Because…”
Minjun lowered the foot from the railing. Slowly.
“Because these people are here.”
Uri burst into tears. Real tears. As if someone had brought a dying person back to life. Her body shook. Junho caught her. In his arms, Uri collapsed.
Minjun slowly descended from the railing. His legs trembled. But this time it wasn’t relief. It was fear. Extreme fear. The fear of what he’d almost done, what he’d nearly become.
When his feet touched the ground, Minjun’s knees buckled.
Junho caught him. With strong arms. Arms like a father’s. No—stronger than a father’s.
“I… what was I about to do?”
Minjun mumbled. His voice was no longer steady. It was a child’s voice. The voice of someone broken.
“You didn’t do anything. You’re here. You’re alive.”
Junho said. His voice trembled too.
“And the audition is in 20 minutes.”
On the way down from the rooftop, Minjun couldn’t feel where his body was. Like a ghost, like a puppet being manipulated. Uri was still crying. Junho was holding Minjun. Seongjun stood behind them. His face was pale.
Camera test. That’s what the Netflix audition was. Very simple. A final monologue. A scene where a character tries to give up on life.
Minjun stood before the camera. His face was pale, his eyes red, his hands trembling. No actor could perform emotions like this. Because this wasn’t acting.
“Action.”
The director’s voice was heard.
Minjun opened his mouth. And the lines flowed out. No longer his voice, but the character’s voice. And that character was Minjun himself.
“I was… someone who couldn’t do anything. But someone… saw me. So… I decided to live.”
The camera stopped.
The director stood up. Something was flowing down his face. As if someone had carved into his chest.
“Cut.”
When those words came, Minjun’s knees buckled again. But this time no one caught him. He caught himself. With his own arms. With his own body. To prove he was alive.
# Chapter 14: Tears in the Locker Room
## Part One: Fractures
The fluorescent light in the locker room poured out cold, desolate illumination. Beneath that light, Seongjun sat on the bench. His body didn’t move, but his fingers continued to tremble. The fingers resting on his knees kept bending and straightening of their own accord, against his will.
His face was pale. As if someone had drained every drop of blood from his body. The humid air of the locker room clung to his skin, and he couldn’t feel it. His senses were numb. Only his heart kept racing. Fast and rough, like a bird struggling to escape from his chest.
Headshots of several people were pinned to the wall. Their faces seemed to glare at Seongjun. Or perhaps it was simply his guilt creating the illusion. Everything felt like an illusion. His entire life these past few months.
He had done something wrong. Something irreversible.
The locker room door opened. Footsteps were heard. Seongjun looked up. It was Minjun.
“Minjun.”
Seongjun stood from the bench. His movement was awkward. Like someone who hadn’t used his body in a long time. As he stood, he swayed slightly. Did Minjun see it? Probably. Minjun always sees everything.
“I’m… sorry.”
As those words came out, Seongjun realized he was crying. Or rather, about to cry. Tears were flowing down his cheeks, but his throat hadn’t caught yet. That was worse. Because it showed how superficial his apology was. These weren’t genuine tears, just a physiological response.
Minjun observed him carefully. From his eyes to his mouth, from his mouth to his jawline. As if he believed he could read someone’s soul.
Beneath that gaze, Seongjun felt completely transparent. Minjun could see everything hidden beneath his expression. Competitiveness. Anxiety. And extreme loneliness. It was all exposed.
He must see how pathetic I am.
“It’s okay.”
Minjun said. The words were unexpectedly warm. Seongjun had expected harsher reproach. Perhaps that’s what he deserved. But Minjun’s voice was gentle.
“You probably know why you said those things.”
Tears welled up in Seongjun’s eyes. This time they were real tears. Hot tears flowed down his cheeks. But he didn’t wipe them away. Like Minjun, he seemed to have decided to stop hiding his emotions.
“I… I…”
Seongjun began to speak. He opened his mouth. He tried to explain. He wanted to justify his actions. To explain why he’d said those things, why he’d thought them. But all those words felt like lies. They all sounded like excuses.
So he fell silent.
Instead, he left the locker room. His retreating figure was collapsing. His shoulders were hunched, his steps unsteady. As he passed through the door, he never looked back once.
Minjun stood in that spot for a long time. He stared at the empty space where Seongjun had been. The locker room’s fluorescent light illuminated that emptiness coldly.
Is this really the end? Or is it the beginning?
## Part Two: Comfort in the Night
That night, Minjun didn’t go home.
He was afraid to return home. Or more precisely, he was afraid of being alone. Going home meant confronting himself. His failures, his anxieties, his loneliness. So instead, he called Junho.
“Where are you right now?”
“At my apartment. What’s up?”
“Can I come over?”
Junho was quiet for a moment. Probably detecting something in Minjun’s voice. Something different from usual.
“Of course. Come.”
Junho’s apartment was different from what Minjun expected. For some reason, he’d thought Junho’s place would be messy, loud, and disorganized. Because he was a celebrity. But reality was the opposite.
The apartment was clean. Too clean. Angular sofa, organized bookshelf, dust-free table. Like nobody lived there. There was no warmth. Yet there was warmth. It sounded like a contradiction, but it was exactly what Minjun felt. The apartment’s temperature was warm, but that warmth didn’t come from human connection. It came from central heating.
Is this apartment lonely too?
And at that moment, Uri appeared.
She came from the kitchen. Wearing an apron. A black apron with water stains on it. Her eyes were puffy. Probably from crying. But a weak smile played on her lips.
“Oh, Minjun. Junho said to come eat.”
Uri. That was her name. Minjun still didn’t quite understand her name. But it didn’t matter.
“Hello.”
Minjun greeted her formally.
“What are you doing? Be comfortable.”
Uri laughed as she spoke. That laugh was real. Minjun could tell.
Minjun sat on the sofa in the living room. The sofa was softer than expected. As if someone had already anticipated him sitting there, shaped to his form.
The television wasn’t on. This too was strange to Minjun. Usually people couldn’t bear silence. So they turned on the TV, played music, or did something. But in this apartment, silence was permitted.
Only the sound of ramen boiling came from the kitchen. The sound of boiling water. Bubbling. That sound was warm. More comforting than expected. The sound was proof that someone was doing something for him.
Junho sat beside him on the sofa. He didn’t ask Minjun anything. Instead, he just existed beside him. His presence itself was a statement.
“Netflix will call tomorrow.”
Junho suddenly spoke.
“What?”
“Netflix. That audition. The results will come out tomorrow. Probably a pass.”
Minjun didn’t understand. Why was Junho saying this? Why now, at this moment?
“But that doesn’t matter.”
Junho continued. His voice was calm.
“You’re already enough.”
Minjun didn’t respond. Instead, he rested his head on Junho’s shoulder. That was all the gratitude he could express. Emotions too numerous to fit into words. So he simply rested his head.
This person knows what I am. Knows who I am. And despite that, stays beside me.
Minutes later, Uri appeared. Two bowls in her hands.
“Here it is.”
She said. The ramen in the bowls was perfect. The noodles were cooked just right, and the broth was steaming with heat. An egg floated on top, and green onions were scattered. Such simple cooking. Such ordinary food. But to Minjun, it seemed like the most delicious thing in the world.
Because it was made for him by someone else.
“Eat.”
Uri said. Her eyes were still puffy. But she was smiling. It wasn’t a forced smile. It came from genuine care.
“And never do that again. Understood? Don’t try to carry everything alone. We’re here.”
“Understood.”
Minjun replied. This time in formal speech. But it wasn’t formal speech that created distance. It was formal speech of gratitude. Formal speech of respect.
As he ate the ramen, the warmth of the broth passed through his chest. With each bite of noodles, the yellow of the egg spread across his palate. The softness of the yolk touched his tongue. It was more meaningful than any food he’d ever eaten.
Junho and Uri didn’t force him. Didn’t ask him to speak. They simply existed beside him, eating their own ramen. Their presence said everything.
I’m not alone. Really, I’m not alone.
## Part Three: The Next Day
After the incident on the rooftop, the entertainment industry didn’t change. It was still cold. Still full of contradictions. Still, someone fell and someone rose.
Newspapers reported the audition results. Some received congratulations, others were mocked. Managers still made calls. Directors still evaluated actors. That didn’t change.
But Minjun had changed.
It was difficult to explain exactly what had changed. Externally, nothing had changed. He still slept in the same room, drank coffee at the same café. Saw himself in the same mirror. But internally, everything was different.
Because he’d realized he wasn’t alone.
It wasn’t an abstract concept. It was concrete and tangible. Junho’s shoulder. Uri’s smile. The warmth of the ramen they’d made for him. All of these things had changed Minjun’s world.
Minjun was still waiting for the Netflix audition results. But now it wasn’t his entire world. It didn’t determine everything about his life anymore. Because he already had things. Things that mattered more.
Now I’m not alone.
And the next day at 3 PM, exactly the time Junho had said, the phone rang.
“Hello. This is Netflix.”
The voice was calm. Professional. But Minjun could sense something in that voice. The voice of someone delivering good news.
“Congratulations. You’re the actor we’ve been looking for.”
When those words came, Minjun’s world stopped. All sound faded away. Only that sentence repeated.
You’re the actor we’ve been looking for.
Minjun looked at Junho and Uri. They were looking at him too. A smile was already blooming on Junho’s face. Tears were welling up in Uri’s eyes.
And this moment was the first time Minjun shared joy with someone else.
After ending the call, Minjun embraced them both. As his arms wrapped around them, he understood. What success truly was. It wasn’t simply landing a role. It was celebrating with someone. It was living with someone—crying, laughing, and existing together.
Junho patted his back.
“What did I tell you?”
“Thank you.”
Minjun replied.
Uri laughed and spoke.
“Our Minjun’s becoming a star. But you can never forget us.”
“There’s no way I could.”
Minjun said.
He remembered Seongjun sitting on that locker room bench. His tears. His broken retreating figure. But Minjun didn’t resent him. It was all part of this journey.
That’s right. Now I can move forward. Because I’m not alone.
Night deepened. Beyond the windows of Junho’s apartment stretched Seoul’s nightscape. Countless lights. Under each light, someone was living. Someone was dreaming of success. Someone was feeling loneliness.
But now Minjun knew. How to endure that loneliness. It was to be with someone. To trust someone. To lean on someone’s arms.
So he still rested his head on Junho’s shoulder. Uri sat beside them. The ramen bowls were empty, but the warmth they’d left behind remained.
Tomorrow will be another day. And on that day, and the day after, I won’t be alone.
This was true success. This was true joy.