이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
# Chapter 14: I Wanted to Call Their Names
When the rooftop door swung open, Minjun realized he wasn’t ready to die.
Someone grabbed his arm. A strong grip—fingers digging into his forearm hard enough to leave marks. Minjun turned from the railing, and only then did he see the face. It was Junho. His face was pale. The skin around his eyes was red and swollen, as if he’d been crying or hadn’t slept in days. Right. Junho would have known. Where Minjun was. What state he was in.
“Are you insane?”
Junho’s voice trembled. A voice he thought he’d never hear again. It wasn’t an accusation—it was despair.
Minjun couldn’t speak. His arm was being pulled by Junho’s grip, dragged away from the edge of the rooftop. His mind had gone blank. As if someone had reached inside and emptied every thought.
“Come downstairs. We’re waiting for you.”
That was the only thing Junho said. No explanations. No questions. Just a command. Or rather, not a command—a plea.
The walk down from the rooftop felt longer than expected. Concrete stairs. Walls with the company logo. The same monotonous view repeating on each floor. Fourth floor. Third floor. Second floor. Minjun walked, but nothing felt real. It was as though he was controlling someone else’s body.
When they reached the first floor, Junho didn’t let go of his hand. Fingers still pressed into his forearm. It would bruise later. But Minjun couldn’t feel it. Every physical sensation had been blocked out.
As they passed through the lobby, some employees stared. Junho and Minjun. Two men, holding hands. Their expressions were strange. But Minjun didn’t care. There was nothing left to care about.
Inside the elevator, Junho spoke.
“Netflix audition is in thirty minutes. You’re going.”
“…What?”
Minjun spoke for the first time. It didn’t sound like his voice. Someone else’s voice. Low. Hollow.
“Netflix audition. Thirty minutes. You’re going. We’ll help you prepare. And you’re going to get on that stage. Understand?”
Junho’s tone was commanding. But beneath it was something else. Extreme anxiety. And certainty. A strange combination.
“I… don’t think I can do this.”
Minjun answered, still using formal speech. As if confirming he was far below Junho.
“Don’t say that. Don’t say you can’t. Those words can’t come out of your mouth right now.”
The elevator doors opened. Third floor. The recording studio, makeup room, and practice rooms. Junho dragged Minjun toward the innermost practice studio.
The door opened.
They were there. But not the version of them Minjun had seen in the locker room. She looked completely different. Her face was made up. Her hair was beautifully styled. She wore a black dress. Like an actress waiting for something important. But her eyes were still swollen. And when those eyes met Minjun’s, something trembled.
“Minjun.”
That was their first word. A simple call of his name. But it contained so much. Apology. Concern. And love. No—Minjun tried not to think about the word love.
“Sit here.”
Junho pushed forward a chair. The one in front of the mirror. Minjun sat, not even knowing why.
They stood behind Minjun. In the mirror, her face was directly before his. She wasn’t avoiding his gaze. Junho stood to the side.
“Do you know what a Netflix audition is?”
Junho asked.
“Yes. I do.”
“That audition isn’t about seeing an actor. It’s about seeing the actor’s truth. How much they can expose themselves. How much they can give. That’s what they’re looking for.”
Junho placed a hand on Minjun’s shoulder. Not the strong grip from the rooftop—a warm hand.
“Netflix doesn’t want a perfect actor. Netflix wants a real human. Not someone who can lie perfectly, but someone who can show their wounds. Can you do that?”
Minjun couldn’t answer. Because it wasn’t a question about him—it was an awakening about him.
“Minjun.”
They spoke. Informally. For the first time, they used informal speech with him.
“Why do you keep running from us?”
Minjun looked at them in the mirror. Her eyes met his exactly.
“Because I’m afraid of hurting you.”
“But you’ve already hurt me. Don’t you understand? It’s not bad that you hurt me. It’s bad that you won’t show me that hurt. I want to see your wounds. I want to see your weakness. That’s how I can help you.”
Their voice trembled. A voice they thought he’d never hear again.
“What do you do at the Netflix audition? Act like a perfect actor? No. You become that character. You become that character’s wound. And you show how deep it runs.”
Junho spoke.
“Did you read the Netflix audition script again?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think is the most important scene?”
Minjun thought. The scenario he’d read dozens of times over the past week. It told the story of a father and son. The father failed in business. The son had to care for him. And one day, the father leaves. No—he doesn’t leave. He denies his son. “You are not my son.”
“The scene where the father and son meet.”
“Right. What does the son say in that scene?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly. You don’t know. Because that emotion exists inside you. An emotion not written in the script. You have to fill it in.”
Junho stepped back from the mirror. They moved closer. In the reflection, their face was directly above Minjun’s.
“You need to think of your father.”
They whispered.
“You need to bring your wound to that stage. And you need to pour it all out. That’s how actors live.”
Minjun’s eyes began to water. But it wasn’t tears. Not yet. Like someone was pressing down on his insides.
“What can I do to help?”
Minjun asked, his voice hoarse.
“You’ve already done it.”
Junho said.
“You showed up for us. That’s all.”
Time moved quickly. From 2:45 PM to 3:00 PM was only fifteen minutes. In those fifteen minutes, what did they do?
Junho loosened the tension in Minjun’s shoulders and neck. Pressing with his fingers. Like tuning an instrument. They stood before Minjun and matched his voice. From the first line of the script to the last. Over and over.
And Minjun listened to their voices. Junho’s deep, heavy tone. Their high, clear voice. Both voices wrapped around him.
“You can do this.”
They said finally.
“You really can.”
And Minjun stood.
Outside the acting academy building, Minjun stood alone. Junho and they didn’t follow. They’d done enough. Now it was Minjun’s turn.
The moment he stepped inside, his body trembled. But this time, it wasn’t from fear. It was a different kind of trembling. As if someone had lit a fire in his chest.
In the waiting room were other actors. Young men his age. All waiting for the same role. Their expressions were identical. Tension. Anxiety. Hope.
His name was called.
“Actor Minjun.”
He stood.
In the audition room were a PD and a casting director. Both middle-aged. Both looked tired. This was their job. Watching rookie actors all day. Judging their hopes.
“Hello. I’m Minjun. Thank you.”
Minjun greeted them. It was mechanical.
“Shall we start?”
The PD asked.
Minjun began.
He read the scenario. The role of a son waiting for his father. The father doesn’t come. The father denies his son. And the son must expose his wound before him.
The first few lines were mechanical. Like a machine reading text. But halfway through, something changed.
Minjun’s voice trembled. But it wasn’t the tremor of weakness. It was the tremor of truth.
“Why?”
The son asked. And Minjun answered that question.
“Why did you abandon me? Why did you see me and pretend not to know me?”
In that moment, Minjun was no longer an actor reading a script. He became the son. And that son was Minjun himself.
The final line.
“I wish you’d look at me. If nothing me could become something to someone… I wish you’d look at me.”
Minjun closed his mouth. And that silence filled the entire room.
The PD and casting director said nothing. But their eyes had changed. They were looking at Minjun with completely different eyes than before.
“Thank you.”
Minjun bowed.
And left.
When he emerged into the waiting room, Minjun’s hands were shaking. A physical reaction. This time, one he could feel.
He turned on his phone. Messages were waiting.
[Junho: How was it?]
[They: Minjun fighting!!!]
Minjun didn’t reply. Instead, he left the building. Stepped into the Seoul streets. Evening was falling. Streetlights were turning on. People were heading home from work.
And Minjun realized something.
He wasn’t alone.
Someone was waiting for him. On the rooftop. In the practice room. And now, too.
He wanted to call their names. Loudly. But he didn’t. Instead, he typed on his phone screen.
[Minjun: Thank you. Really.]
That was all he could do. Now it was time to wait. To wait for the results. And in that waiting, to feel that someone was waiting for him.
The rooftop railing no longer called to him.
Instead, Minjun’s ears heard their voice.
“You can do this.”
And Junho’s voice.
“You’ve already done it.”
Those two voices intertwined, wrapping around Minjun.
END OF CHAPTER 14