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# Chapter 19: What That Silence Said
When Minjun stepped out of the studio, his legs could no longer support his own weight.
One step, then another. Walking down the corridor felt like swimming through water. There was resistance in the air. No—it wasn’t the air. It was his own body. His body was growing heavier by the second. Like someone drowning. But Minjun didn’t sink. He simply kept walking, very slowly, one step at a time.
Junho and I followed behind him. Neither of us spoke. Words weren’t necessary in this moment. What we needed was just our presence. Being together. Walking together. Breathing together.
When we reached the elevator, Minjun looked down at his hands for the first time. They were still trembling. No—it wasn’t trembling. It was the echo of something. The memory of holding his father’s hand. It had been an actor’s hand on stage, but for Minjun, it was reality. The reality of ten years ago. The time when his father was alive.
The elevator arrived. The doors opened.
“Don’t go down. Let’s go to the roof.”
Junho said it. His voice wasn’t a command. It was a suggestion. But it was a suggestion in the form of a command. Minjun nodded. I nodded along with him.
The elevator climbed upward. The numbers grew larger. Fifth floor, sixth floor, seventh floor. When the final number appeared, the elevator slowed, as if preparing to stop somewhere.
When the rooftop door opened, Seoul’s wind rushed in.
It was a wind that mixed warmth and cold. The wind of late afternoon. The buildings of Gangnam sparkled in the sunlight. That light entered Minjun’s eyes. Very brightly. Like a flame consuming something.
The three of us walked to the edge of the rooftop. Beyond the railing, the entire panorama of Seoul unfolded. Namsan Tower, Lotte World, and countless buildings. From this height, we could see the whole city in a way that was invisible from ground level.
“Say something.”
I spoke to Minjun. I was standing to his left.
“Say what?”
“What you’re feeling right now. Just say it. Say anything.”
Minjun opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. His lips moved, trying to form words, but no sound came out. As if he’d already used up every word he had left in that studio. His throat held nothing.
“If words won’t come, it’s okay to cry.”
Junho said this. He was standing to Minjun’s right. The two of them were holding him on both sides. As if to keep him from falling apart.
“I’m fine.”
Minjun spoke. His voice was small. Almost a whisper. But within that small voice was something resolute. The instinct to protect himself. The determination not to break anymore.
“That’s a lie. You’re not fine at all.”
I said it. There was kindness in my voice, but also no room for argument.
“I know.”
Minjun answered.
“Then say it. What’s not fine?”
I asked again. I waited with remarkable patience. Like someone who believed time was infinite.
Minjun reached toward the rooftop railing. To steady himself. His fingers gripped the cold, rough metal. It smelled of metal. The smell of rusted iron. And somewhere beneath it, the smell of bird droppings.
“When I lost my father… I didn’t cry.”
Minjun spoke. His voice was still small.
“I just… went on. I attended the funeral, bought flowers, received people’s condolences… I did all of it. Like someone else. Like I wasn’t myself.”
I placed my hand on Minjun’s shoulder. Very lightly. Like a leaf settling on a branch.
“Ten years have passed, and I still haven’t cried. Even when I was facing my father, I couldn’t cry. Even in that studio… even while holding my father’s hand…”
Minjun’s voice began to shake. This time it was a tremor he couldn’t control.
“I wanted to cry. I really wanted to. But if I cried… if I cried, I felt like something would break. Myself. Everything I’ve been holding together all this time. So… so I…”
Minjun stopped speaking. What came from his throat wasn’t words anymore—it was breathing. Rough, irregular breathing.
“If I cried… I felt like I could never come back up.”
Junho placed his hand on Minjun’s other shoulder. Now both their hands were supporting him on either side.
“That’s not true.”
Junho said it. His voice was very low. Even in the rooftop wind, it was clear.
“What?”
“You cried. In that studio, you cried. You cried in that silence.”
Junho turned to face Minjun directly.
“I’ve been watching actors for eight years. I’ve watched rookies for six years. How long since I’ve seen an actor at a Netflix audition—I don’t know. But the strongest thing I’ve ever witnessed… is your silence.”
Minjun looked at Junho’s face. His eyes were wet with something. These weren’t tears for Minjun. They were Junho’s own tears.
“Netflix saw it. They must have. How much emotion was contained in that silence. How much you were enduring. How much you were hiding beneath the surface of your life. They saw it.”
“Brother…”
Minjun whispered.
“And you need to know. You cried. You already cried. That silence—that was your crying.”
Junho gripped both of Minjun’s arms. Very firmly. As if pouring all his strength into it.
“Do you know what you need to do now?”
Minjun shook his head.
“You need to go. Home. Not alone… but with yourself. You’ve been running from yourself all this time. You’ve hidden your feelings somewhere else. But today… today you took them out. You revealed them on that stage. So now you…”
Junho paused.
“Now you have to accept it. Accept what that emotion is. Accept what that silence means. Accept that it’s a part of you.”
The rooftop wind blew again. It came from the west. From the direction of the sun. Evening was coming. 4:47 PM.
Minjun looked down at his hands again. The hands that had held his father’s hands. Now they were wrapped in the hands of Junho and me.
Three hands. Forming one shape. Becoming one mass.
“Thank you.”
Minjun said it. It was meant for Junho and me. But at the same time, it was meant for himself. For the version of himself that had been able to endure.
When we came down from the rooftop, Minjun felt his legs had become slightly more solid. Not completely recovered. But at least they were no longer shaking.
In the elevator descending to the lobby, I placed my hand on Minjun’s arm again. In the same position as before. But this time, the weight of that hand was different. It wasn’t a hand supporting him. It was a hand that belonged with him.
“Let’s go home.”
I said it.
“Yeah.”
Minjun replied.
“What about you, brother?”
Minjun looked at Junho.
“I need to stop by the office. I have a report to give to the CEO.”
Junho said it. His voice carried a new resolve.
“A… a report about what?”
Minjun asked.
“What you did at that audition. That it’s enough. More than enough. And that I want you to take a lead role in the next project. That’s what I’ll tell him.”
Junho’s voice was calm. But within it was something firm and unwavering.
“Brother, that’s…”
“Don’t say anything. Just believe me. Believe my judgment.”
Junho looked at Minjun. His eyes were no longer unstable. If anything, they were clear. Like murky water becoming transparent after a long time.
“Because watching you made me realize something. When did I start living like this? So afraid. So I also… I need to go find my own thing. My own stage.”
Junho dropped Minjun and me off in the lobby. He got back in the car himself. The black Genesis disappeared into the evening traffic of Gangnam-ro.
Minjun and I were left on the street.
Gangnam’s streets were already turning to evening. Street lamps began to flicker on one by one. White light illuminated the roads. And within that light, people moved. Office workers, students, tourists, street artists. All of them moving toward their own goals. All of them searching for their own something.
“Want to eat?”
I asked Minjun.
“Yeah.”
Minjun answered.
“What do you feel like?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Really? Then I’ll decide.”
We started walking toward Gangnam Station. The path was long. But unlike the elevator corridor from before, this path had an end. Gangnam Station. The station filled with people. A small alley with restaurants where you could buy food.
We went into a mala hotpot place.
A pot of red broth bubbled on the table in front of us. From that bubbling pot rose the smell of chili peppers, garlic, and something addictively spicy.
“The first time I had mala hotpot, it was so spicy I cried.”
I said it. I was trying to pick something up with my chopsticks.
“Really?”
“Yeah. But if you keep eating it, you get addicted. The spiciness keeps calling you back.”
I finally put something in my mouth. A crisp sound. It was cucumber.
“I think it’s like people. When you first meet them, it’s hard and painful. But if you keep seeing them, they stay on your mind. Like something’s missing when they’re not there. Maybe that’s what love is?”
Minjun listened to my words. He maintained a composed expression even while eating the spicy food. Probably to avoid showing any weakness. Just like he had done before.
“Our actress, do you… do you…”
Minjun opened his mouth to speak.
“Yeah?”
“Do you… like brother?”
I put my chopsticks down. And looked at Minjun. My eyes were slightly red—whether from the spice or something else, I wasn’t sure.
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean… about brother Junho.”
Minjun spoke slowly. Like he wasn’t even sure what he was asking.
I picked up my chopsticks again and put more mala hotpot in my mouth. The sound of chewing. That was my only answer for the moment.
“I… I needed someone like brother. I’ve been alone for too long. But that… I don’t think that’s love.”
I finally spoke. My voice was clear even beneath the bubbling sound of the hotpot.
“Then what is it?”
“That’s what I should be asking you.”
I looked at Minjun.
“I don’t know.”
Minjun answered. It was an honest answer.
After that, we didn’t speak. We simply ate the mala hotpot. Picking food from the bubbling pot, drinking water when our mouths burned, then eating again. The cycle repeated. The rotation of spice and sweetness. The crossing of pain and pleasure.
The evening deepened. Gangnam Station’s streets were turning to night. The streetlights glowed brighter. More people gathered. Evening time. The time when people congregate.
Minjun looked at his hands again. They were no longer trembling. They were just hands. Hands for eating. Hands for holding chopsticks. That was all.
But on top of those hands, his father’s hands, Junho’s hands, and my hands were still layered. Invisible, but clearly there.
That was all Minjun had now. Three hands. Three people. Three weights. That was what sustained him. That was proof he was no longer alone.
Another spicy aroma rose from the mala hotpot. Minjun inhaled it deeply. The spice stimulated his nostrils. But it wasn’t unpleasant. Rather, it was proof that he was alive.
I continued eating the mala hotpot. As if it would never end. As if this moment would last forever. But Minjun knew. He knew this moment would end soon. That a new time would come after this. And no one yet knew where that time would take him.
But now Minjun wasn’t afraid of it.
Because there were people beside him.
The mala hotpot pot continued to bubble. Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop. That sound was like a heartbeat. Proof of being alive. Proof of continuing to move. Proof of never stopping.
Minjun picked up another piece of food and put it in his mouth.