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# Chapter 22: The Silence After
Min-jun’s phone buzzed. A KakaoTalk notification. Seven in the morning, in the dim bedroom of his officetel. He reached for the phone without opening his eyes. The screen blazed so bright it felt like his retinas were burning.
The message was from Junho.
“Min-jun. Sleep well? Come to the office at 9. Representative Lee Su-jin wants to see you. Don’t be nervous.”
Min-jun read the message, then closed his eyes again. Don’t be nervous. That was an impossible request. His heart was already thundering in his chest. A dull, irregular sound. Like someone was tapping on his ribs.
It took ten minutes to get out of bed. His legs felt heavy. Still. Yesterday’s weight lingered. From the rooftop, from the mirror, and from the silence that came after.
The officetel bathroom was cramped. Raise your hand and you could touch the opposite wall. While showering, Min-jun tried not to look at his body. Like a mirror. He was afraid to see his own face. Afraid that yesterday’s face would still be there. The face that had held his father’s hand.
Hot water cascaded over his shoulders. Steam filled the bathroom. Min-jun closed his eyes and prayed the water would wash everything away. All of yesterday.
But water couldn’t do that.
Daestar Entertainment was already bustling at nine in the morning. When Min-jun entered the lobby, he could see actors through the studio windows. Under bright lights, they were performing their emotions. As if yesterday’s Min-jun had meant nothing. As if continuing to act the same way, with the same intensity, with the same lies was inevitable.
Junho was waiting in the lobby, holding coffee. An Americano. The one Min-jun drank. Min-jun was still amazed at how well Junho knew him. They’d been at the same company for four years, but they hadn’t spoken more than once until three days ago. That seemed strange.
“Hey.”
Junho spoke quietly, deliberately lowering his voice to avoid the other actors in the lobby. Basic rules of the entertainment industry. Don’t mind other people’s business. Or rather, pretend not to.
“Thank you.”
Min-jun took the coffee and spoke. Formal language tumbled out automatically. When his emotions weren’t sufficient, Min-jun always used more polite speech. To hide his anxiety.
“You know what the representative is thinking? Generally a good sign. Looks like she saw yesterday’s footage and the reaction was positive. The PD reported directly to her.”
Junho walked toward the elevator, Min-jun following alongside. Junho’s stride was broad and stable. Like someone who’d walked this path hundreds of times.
“Really?”
Min-jun answered. But there was no joy in his response. Only confirmation. Confirming what he already knew. Or facing what he didn’t want to know.
“Like we told you, an actor has to break. And you broke. It showed on screen.”
Junho pressed the elevator button. Floor 12. Where the representative’s office was.
“But… is that a good thing?”
Min-jun asked. The elevator rose. Floor 1, 2, 3. Numbers climbing higher.
“Right now, yes. If this drama succeeds, you’ll be seen as a new actor. A broken actor. An authentic one. That’s what you wanted, right? To be seen by someone. You’ve been seen now.”
There was something in Junho’s voice. Not congratulations. Something more complex. Understanding. And a hint of envy.
The elevator stopped at floor 12.
Representative Lee Su-jin’s office was smaller than Min-jun expected. The window was large, overlooking the Han River. But the desk was small, and so was the chair. As if the representative didn’t spend much time here.
“Actor Min. Sit.”
Lee Su-jin spoke. Her voice was low and precise. Emotionless. Min-jun sat in the chair before her. Junho stepped back. He knew he wasn’t part of this conversation.
“How was yesterday’s shoot?”
“Thank you. I did my best.”
Min-jun answered.
“What kind of answer is that? An actor doing their best? That’s expected. What matters is the result. What showed up on screen.”
Lee Su-jin looked at Min-jun. Her gaze was sharp. Like she could see inside the actor.
Min-jun said nothing. He didn’t know what to say.
“Something good came out. The PD raved about it. He said you weren’t acting in that scene—you were just existing. Like the character was really there. Like it was really happening. That kind of actor is rare.”
Lee Su-jin placed her hand on the desk. Her fingers were thin. Like a pianist’s.
“Thank you.”
Min-jun said.
“Don’t thank me. Maintain that level. You need to prove this wasn’t luck but your real ability. Everyone’s watching you now. The PD, the production company, the network. All of them. Can you deliver that level of acting again under that pressure?”
Lee Su-jin’s question wasn’t kind. It was closer to a command.
Min-jun met her eyes. For the first time. There was something in those eyes. Expectation. And doubt. As if she didn’t believe in this actor’s authenticity, yet wanted to.
“I think I can.”
Min-jun answered.
“Promise me.”
“Yes. I promise.”
Lee Su-jin nodded. A signal that the conversation was over. Min-jun stood. Junho followed suit.
As Min-jun reached for the door, Lee Su-jin’s voice came again.
“Why did you become an actor?”
Min-jun turned. Lee Su-jin was looking out the window. At the Han River.
“I… I’m not sure.”
Min-jun answered. It was the truth.
“You’ll figure it out. I hope before it’s too late. Good actors all know that.”
Lee Su-jin said.
After leaving the office, Junho and Min-jun climbed to the rooftop. Yesterday’s place. The railing. But this time there were no directors. Only two actors.
“How are you holding up?”
Junho asked. He was smoking. Min-jun hated cigarette smoke, but this moment made it feel necessary. Something to obscure. Something to blur.
“I don’t know. I’m scared.”
Min-jun answered. The moment those words left his mouth, something pressed down on his chest. Revealing your heart to someone. It still felt awkward.
“Fear is good. Without it, an actor becomes arrogant. Arrogant actors die.”
Junho drew deeply on his cigarette. Smoke drifted slowly from his lips.
“Are you scared, hyung?”
Min-jun asked.
Junho laughed. Not a genuine laugh. Or rather, genuine but mixed with other emotions.
“I got over fear a long time ago. Now what scares me is having no fear. I don’t know when I stopped being afraid of anything. That’s what terrifies me.”
Junho rolled the cigarette between his fingers. Ash fell.
“How old were you when you started acting?”
“Twenty-six. You?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Then you can still learn. Me? I don’t know. Except for teaching.”
Junho smoked again.
Min-jun looked at him. A thirty-four-year-old actor. Eight years experience. Several times close to being a lead, but always remaining the second lead. There was something absent in that actor’s eyes. Shine. Life force. As if someone had drained something from inside.
“What if… a new role came along? A kind you’ve never done?”
Min-jun asked.
Junho lowered his cigarette. His eyes met Min-jun’s. Suddenly something came alive in them. Anger. No, despair.
“It’s already too late. At my age, with my experience, I can’t change. People have already defined me. ‘The good guy actor.’ ‘The second lead actor.’ That’s it.”
Junho’s voice trembled. For the first time, Min-jun heard his real voice.
“You can’t do it?”
“I could. But no one sees me as a new actor. That’s the reality of this industry. Once you’re defined, it’s permanent.”
Junho finished his cigarette. He tried to stub it out with his finger. But it still burned.
Min-jun stepped forward. And took Junho’s hand. The hand holding the cigarette. It wasn’t a natural gesture. Actors didn’t touch each other like this. Especially not actors of the same gender.
But this moment required it. The warmth of another hand. Confirming someone’s presence. That you’re not alone.
“You can still do it, hyung. Look at me. Yesterday I couldn’t see my face in the mirror. I avoided it. But you… you made me look. You helped me see. Doesn’t that change something?”
Min-jun spoke. His voice was small but certain.
Junho looked at Min-jun’s hand holding his. Like someone drowning in a current, being pulled back to shore.
“Maybe.”
Junho said. His voice returned. Its original tone.
At three in the afternoon, Min-jun met Woo-ri in the locker room. She was standing before the mirror. Like yesterday. But this time she wasn’t looking at herself. She was searching for someone.
“Hi.”
Min-jun said.
Woo-ri turned. There was something in her expression. An emotion different from yesterday. Less anxiety. Instead, something solid had formed. Resolve. Or despair. Something between them.
“Did you see the representative?”
“Yeah. Good reaction.”
“I talked with Junho hyung too. I think all three of us are changing.”
Woo-ri stepped away from the mirror.
“What’s changing?”
Min-jun asked.
“I don’t know. But I know the breaking continues. You broke yesterday. Junho hyung has been broken for a long time. And I… I’m breaking too.”
Woo-ri looked at Min-jun.
“What’s breaking?”
“The thought that I have to be enough. I’ve lived for so many people. Mom, Dad, my brother, everyone in this industry. But who am I living for? That thought came to me. When I saw you yesterday.”
Woo-ri’s voice trembled.
“What did I do yesterday?”
Min-jun asked.
“Nothing. You just existed. In your pain, in your fear, you just existed. Without pretense. That was enough.”
Woo-ri said.
Two actors stood in the locker room. With a mirror between them. But the mirror seemed unimportant now. Instead, the air between them mattered. The understanding in that air. The recognition in that air.
“Thank you, Woo-ri.”
Min-jun said.
“Don’t thank me. You gave me something too. A little courage.”
Woo-ri answered.
At six in the evening, Min-jun returned to his officetel alone. Climbing the stairs, he heard his footsteps. The sound of each step. Echoing in the empty building. Like someone was following him. But it was only his shadow.
The small room. A bed, a desk, and a bathroom without a mirror. Min-jun lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
There was a crack running across it. A long, jagged line. Probably from a previous tenant. Or from the construction. Min-jun traced it with his eyes and thought about his own fractures. The ones no one could see.
He picked up his phone. Opened SNS. His account had little activity. Few followers. But new comments had appeared. On the Netflix drama’s official account.
“Watched yesterday’s shoot. Who is this actor? The acting is insane.”
Another comment:
“Found the actor’s name—Min-jun? Following. Can’t wait for the next episode.”
Min-jun kept reading. An hour. Two hours. Hundreds of comments. Everyone was looking for him. Or rather, looking for his role. Not him, but the character. The son grieving the father he’d portrayed there.
He set the phone down. Looked at the ceiling’s crack again. It seemed to be saying something. Breaking. And how new light enters through the fractures.
Outside the window, Seoul’s nightscape spread before him. Millions of lights. Each one a heartbeat. Behind each light was someone. Someone’s hope. Someone’s despair. Someone’s breaking.
Min-jun raised his hand. It didn’t tremble like yesterday. Instead, something else moved through it. Responsibility. The feeling of needing to exist for someone. The feeling of needing to break for someone.
His lips moved. Barely a whisper.
“What comes next?”
Not a question. A declaration.
The next morning, Min-jun received messages from Junho and Woo-ri.
Junho: “PD wants to shoot you again. Bigger scene. You’ll get the script tomorrow.”
Woo-ri: “Congratulations. But now the real work starts. More breaking. You okay with that?”
Min-jun didn’t answer. Instead, he stood before the mirror. This time, he looked at his face. Yesterday’s face. The face that had held his father’s hand. It was still there. And he knew it was his.
That wasn’t someone else’s face.
It was his own.