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# Chapter 21: The Stranger in the Mirror
The fluorescent light in the locker room flickered. Min-jun stared at it for a long time. On, off. On, off. Like sending a signal. Like an SOS. But no one answered.
It was half past six in the afternoon at Destar Entertainment’s locker room. Most of the actors had already left—to film sets, cafes, or home. Only Min-jun remained. And the mirror.
Watching himself in the mirror still felt strange. As if someone else were standing there. His face was his own, but the eyes belonged to someone different. Ever since coming down from the rooftop, those eyes had seemed like someone else’s.
Min-jun raised his hand and touched his own face. His cheeks were cold and dry. As if someone had drained all the moisture away. Or perhaps traces of the tears he’d shed on the rooftop lingered there. Yes, he’d cried on the rooftop. After Woo-ri and Jun-ho left. When no one could see. He’d been standing at the railing, then suddenly dropped to his knees and wept. For the first time in ten years.
Destar’s locker room was a small space. The ceiling was low, the walls painted a dull gray. That paint looked layered, applied over and over. Like geological strata. Like history itself compressed into pigment. How much emotion from how many actors remained in this room? Anticipation and disappointment. Anger and frustration. And occasionally, joy. All of it seemed to seep into these gray walls.
“Min-jun?”
A voice. It was Woo-ri. She pushed open the locker room door, holding two cans of coffee. Boss brand—the most common kind from convenience stores.
“Hm?”
Min-jun answered. He realized he hadn’t stepped away from the mirror. He’d been watching Woo-ri through the reflection. In the mirror, she looked even more isolated than in reality. Almost transparent.
“What are you doing?”
Woo-ri asked again, standing beside him and offering a can. Iced Americano. She knew what he preferred. Or perhaps it was simply the most obvious choice.
“Looking at my own face.”
Min-jun answered, not taking his eyes from the mirror.
“And?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know whose face this is anymore.”
Woo-ri laughed. It wasn’t mockery. Rather, it was a warm laugh. The laugh of someone who understands.
“Every actor thinks that. The more roles you take, the less you know what your own face is. Your face. Your emotions. Your voice. What’s real anymore?”
Woo-ri stood beside him, looking into the mirror. Two figures reflected side by side. Min-jun and Woo-ri. Min-jun didn’t look at his own face—he looked at hers. In the reflection.
“So I have to find the real one?”
Min-jun asked.
“No. The real you already exists. You’re not finding it—you’re refusing to acknowledge it. The you I saw in the studio—that’s real. You holding your father’s hand, your voice trembling as you apologized—that’s the real you.”
Woo-ri raised her finger to the mirror. The glass reflected it back. As if the Woo-ri in the mirror were reaching out to touch this side of Woo-ri. As if two versions of her were trying to meet across the glass.
“But I’ve seen something too.”
Woo-ri continued. Her voice grew quieter.
“What?”
“You see fear. You see yourself failing like your father. Crumbling like your father. That’s why you keep trying to look strong. Keep pretending you’re fine. Keep acting like nothing matters.”
Min-jun’s body stiffened. Woo-ri was seeing through him. Like looking inside him with x-ray vision. It was uncomfortable. But necessary.
“It’s true.”
Min-jun said, still facing the mirror. Looking not at his face but into the mirror’s depths.
“Good. Because an actor can put that fear into their performance. Do you know what you did in the studio? You were afraid of your father’s death. Afraid of losing him. And all that fear came through on camera. The PD saw it. That’s why he’ll call you back.”
“Jun-ho hyung said the same thing.”
“Jun-ho speaks from experience. I’m speaking from observation. Both are true. You’re becoming an actor now, Min-jun.”
Woo-ri turned away from the mirror. Min-jun followed. Now the mirror was behind them. But he could still feel its presence. As if someone stood at his back. As if another version of himself existed there.
“Woo-ri, can I ask you something?”
Min-jun asked.
“What?”
“Why do you help me? We weren’t that close before. We barely said hello to each other…”
Woo-ri’s face darkened for a moment. Like a cloud passing over the sun. The darkness lasted only a second before fading. But Min-jun saw it. Something that flickered across her face. Sadness? Or recognition?
“Because you remind me of myself.”
Woo-ri answered. Her voice was very low. Almost a whisper.
“How do I remind you of yourself?”
“Like you’re alone. Like you’re hiding something. Like you’re adjusting to everyone, but fitting nowhere.”
Min-jun didn’t write down her words. But they buried themselves deep inside him. Like arrows.
“I’m like that too. So when I saw you, I felt something. ‘This person is as lonely as I am. This person wants to be needed by someone too.’ That’s what I thought.”
Woo-ri sat on the bench in the locker room. Min-jun followed. The fluorescent light continued flickering. On, off. On, off. Like the rhythm of their emotions.
“Are you alone too?”
Min-jun asked.
“A musical actor is always alone. Standing alone on stage. Alone under the lights. Alone before thousands of spectators. They see me, but I can’t see them. The stage lights are too bright. So I always feel alone in darkness. Alone in brightness.”
Woo-ri’s voice trembled. Now she looked vulnerable. The way Min-jun had seen her through the mirror. Transparent.
“That’s why I became interested in you. You always hide something. But I could see what you were hiding. Because I live that way too.”
Time seemed to stop in the locker room. The flickering light appeared to pause. On, off—now suspended. In that frozen moment, the two looked at each other. Words weren’t necessary. Only presence mattered.
“But Min-jun, do you know something?”
Woo-ri spoke again.
“What?”
“While helping you, I’m changing. By seeing you, I’m realizing I can be someone needed by others. It’s so strange. I always thought I was alone, but when I help you, I feel like I’m not. Isn’t that odd?”
Min-jun couldn’t answer. Because it wasn’t a question. It was a confession. Woo-ri’s confession about her own feelings.
“It’s not odd.”
Min-jun barely managed to say.
“Why?”
“Because I feel the same way. When Jun-ho hyung sees me, when you help me… I feel like I can be someone needed. I always thought I was a burden to everyone, but… this is the first time I’ve thought I might be needed by someone.”
Woo-ri’s eyes sparkled. Like someone who’d discovered something. Eyes that were deep, serious, frighteningly focused.
The locker room door suddenly opened.
It was Sung-jun. He entered with a smile. But the smile vanished immediately. Because he saw Min-jun and Woo-ri sitting on the bench. Very close together.
“What are you two doing?”
Sung-jun asked. His voice had something sharp in it. Like a finely honed blade.
“Just talking.”
Min-jun answered. He instinctively moved away from Woo-ri. Unintentionally. His body reacted automatically. The reaction to sensing a threat. The reaction to sensing a predator.
“I see. So Min-jun, how have you been lately? I heard you did a Netflix audition. How’d it go?”
Sung-jun sat on another bench. There was some distance between them and Sung-jun. But Sung-jun seemed to have calculated that distance. As if he were trying to insert himself into their relationship.
“It went well.”
Min-jun answered. Briefly. Too briefly.
“That’s nice. I’ve been busy lately myself. Lots of shoots, several commercial deals. Well, I should say…”
Sung-jun smiled. But the smile wasn’t directed at Min-jun. It was aimed at Woo-ri.
“What about you, Woo-ri? What are you up to these days?”
“Preparing for a musical audition.”
Woo-ri answered. Her voice was different now. More cautious. As if she were folding in on herself before him. Seeing this, something in Min-jun felt uncomfortable. Woo-ri looked smaller. Like she was trying to shrink in front of Sung-jun.
“A musical? That’s a bit… the market isn’t great right now, is it? Visual media is much better… but you like musicals, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Sung-jun spoke. His tone sounded encouraging. But that encouragement was actually condescension. Like an adult humoring a child’s game. Cute but useless.
The fluorescent light flickered again. On, off. On, off. That flickering sounded like Min-jun’s heartbeat. Accelerating. Growing angry.
“Sung-jun hyung, I’m curious about something.”
Min-jun said. His voice was very calm. Too calm to be safe. Like the quiet air before a storm.
“What?”
Sung-jun asked. He seemed to like that Min-jun called him “hyung.” An acknowledgment of hierarchy. A confirmation of position.
“Why do you always try to belittle us?”
Min-jun asked.
The locker room froze. The fluorescent light seemed to stop flickering. Sung-jun’s face suddenly stiffened. As if all his facial muscles had gone rigid.
“What… what did you say?”
Sung-jun repeated.
“You always try to put us down. When we say we do musicals, you say the market isn’t good. When we do something, you start with ‘that’s a bit…’ Why? What did we do wrong?”
Min-jun’s voice grew louder. But it wasn’t the loudness of anger. Rather, it was the clarity of calm intensifying. Like deep water breaking into waves.
“I… I didn’t mean…”
Sung-jun stammered.
“You didn’t mean to? Then you just naturally belittle people? To lift yourself up? To protect your position?”
Min-jun stood up. Very slowly. Like a slow-motion scene from a film. He rose until he was almost level with Sung-jun. Actually, since Sung-jun was sitting, Min-jun was looking down at him. That angle mattered. It was an expression of power.
“What did I do wrong that you keep putting me down? Did I do something to you?”
Min-jun asked again.
Sung-jun stood up. Now they were at the same height. But the distance between them was shrinking. Like two magnets attracting each other. Or two pressure systems about to collide.
“What am I doing wrong?”
Sung-jun said. Now his voice contained defense. Or attack. Both simultaneously.
“You’re projecting your anxiety onto us. Because you’re anxious, you want to belittle us. Because you feel insufficient, you want to make us insufficient too.”
Min-jun’s words hit Sung-jun’s face like a punch. Like barbed words striking his face.
“What… what…”
Sung-jun opened and closed his mouth. Like a fish gasping for water outside the tank.
“You know you’re not enough. That’s why you keep proving yourself. Taking ads, doing dramas, saying you’re always busy. But what does that prove? It only proves you’re anxious.”
The fluorescent light flickered again. On, off. On, off. In that flickering, Sung-jun’s face blurred and sharpened.
Woo-ri stood up. She grabbed Min-jun’s arm. Gently but firmly.
“Min-jun, stop.”
She whispered. Only Min-jun could hear.
But something had already burst out. Min-jun couldn’t stop it. Like a broken dam. Ten years of containment pouring out all at once. Fear about his father. His own inadequacy. And rage at himself for enduring it all.
“Why do you throw your anxiety at us? Did we do something? We’re just walking our own path quietly.”
Min-jun said one more time.
Sung-jun didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes glistened. Moisture was gathering. But it might not have been tears. It could have been tears of anger. Tears of shame. Or simply tears of shock.
The fluorescent light flickered again. On, off. On, off.
In that flickering, three people stood in their places. Min-jun and Woo-ri on one side. Sung-jun on the other. The bench, the lockers, the mirror, and the fluorescent light measured the distance between them.
“Get out.”
Sung-jun finally said. His voice was very low. Almost a growl.
“What?”
Min-jun repeated.
“Get out! Right now!”
Sung-jun shouted again. Now anger was clear in his voice. Uncontrollable anger.
Woo-ri pulled Min-jun harder. This time it wasn’t mere restraint—it was a real drag.
“Let’s go, Min-jun.”
She said. Her voice was calm. Like someone who doesn’t lose center even in a storm.
Min-jun and Woo-ri left the locker room. Sung-jun didn’t follow them. Instead, he sat on the bench and stared at his hands. They were trembling. Like Min-jun’s hands had trembled.
In the hallway, Min-jun felt how fast his heart was beating. Fast enough to burst from his chest any moment. Woo-ri still held his hand. As if keeping him from disappearing.
“I’m sorry.”
Min-jun said. They walked down Destar’s hallway. It was night. Seven o’clock. Outside the window, Gangnam’s night lights spread below.
“For what?”
Woo-ri asked.
“I… went too far. To Sung-jun like that…”
“You didn’t do anything. You just spoke. You expressed your feelings. That’s not wrong. That’s what an actor does. Expressing your emotions honestly. You did that in the locker room, and in the studio, you expressed it through your father.”
Woo-ri said.
“But…”
“But what? Sung-jun? Sung-jun is fine. Sung-jun needed to tell someone about his anxiety. You did that for him. Be grateful, not sorry.”
The elevator arrived. The doors opened. Min-jun and Woo-ri entered. The elevator began descending. The numbers grew smaller. 5. 4. 3.
“Why did you really see me? At the very beginning?”
Min-jun asked. Their reflections were visible in the elevator mirror. Different from the locker room mirror. Larger. Brighter. Reflecting more.
“I don’t know… when I saw you, I saw myself. My past self. Who I was when I first came here. That version of me was alone like you. No one saw me. No one asked what I wanted. So I kept adjusting to everyone. Trying to make everyone happy. But no one saw me.”
Woo-ri spoke, watching their reflections in the mirror.
“So I wanted to see you. I wanted to really see you. I thought someone had to see you. And… while seeing you, I feel myself being seen. I feel you seeing me. It’s really good.”
The elevator reached the 1st floor. The doors opened. Destar Entertainment’s lobby appeared. The night lobby was completely different from the daytime. It was quiet. Almost empty.
When they tried to leave the lobby, Min-jun’s phone rang. A call. The number was unknown. But he thought he might know who it was.
Min-jun answered.
“Yes?”
A voice came through. A woman’s voice. And it spoke with certainty.
“Actor Min? This is a producer from Netflix. I’ve reviewed your audition again. And our team has made a decision. We’d like to cast you for this project. The role is for the father. Are you interested?”
Min-jun couldn’t answer. Because he didn’t know what he was feeling. Joy? Fear? Or merely shock?
Woo-ri was watching his face. And she already knew. Something had changed. Min-jun’s life was beginning to change from this moment.
“Yes… thank you.”
Min-jun barely managed. The producer on the other end continued speaking. About shooting schedules, scripts, and other actors.
But Min-jun didn’t really hear the words. Instead, he looked at Woo-ri. In Destar’s lobby. Under the night lights.
She was smiling. A smile of celebration. Or a smile that knew something. Like the smile of someone who’d seen the future.