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# Chapter 25: Our Door
At six in the evening, his phone rang.
The name on the screen was Uri. Min-jun bolted upright from bed as if someone had yanked his arm. His chest sank and soared simultaneously—a contradiction he couldn’t explain. It felt like anxiety and anticipation were playing the same song.
“Hello?”
Min-jun’s voice was careful, like a child waking from sleep.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Uri’s voice came through. Something else was woven into it—excitement, or unease, or both. Min-jun couldn’t distinguish which. His own emotions were too unsettled.
“Just here.”
It was a lie. He’d been staring at the ceiling, thinking nothing and everything at once, suspended in that contradiction.
“You see the article?”
Uri asked. Min-jun’s heart stopped. An article. In the actor’s world, that single word carried infinite weight. It could be gold or poison. Either way, it changed lives.
“No. What article?”
Min-jun sat up. His hands began to tremble. He grabbed his phone, opened the portal site, navigated to entertainment news, and searched his name.
[“The Star” Newcomer Min-jun Draws Attention as Supporting Lead in Netflix Drama… “Exceptional Emotional Expression”]
The article was positive. Exceptionally positive. The director’s evaluation was quoted directly. “This actor possesses unusual emotional depth. Particularly in scenes dealing with trauma, authenticity shines through. An actor to watch.” Comments had already exceeded 3,200. Most were favorable.
[“Actor Min-jun” Rising in Real-Time Search Rankings]
Min-jun’s hands shook. Real-time search. What did that mean? That he’d become “worth searching for”? That people had reason to look him up?
“Min-jun, you seeing this?”
Uri’s voice crackled through the receiver.
“Yeah. Just saw it.”
His voice remained low, but something else had entered it. A sense of reality. Evidence that he was actually living this moment.
“Insane, right? Netflix dramas don’t usually get coverage this fast. Normally we wait a couple weeks for viewer reactions before articles drop. But this—the drama hasn’t even aired yet and we’ve got the PD’s evaluation. That’s rare. Really rare.”
Uri explained it precisely, like reading from a textbook. But beneath it, joy was hidden. The joy of congratulating a friend’s success.
“So why’d you call? To tell me about the article?”
“Of course. Our Min-jun’s famous now. We have to celebrate.”
Uri’s voice brightened. But behind that brightness was something else. Min-jun sensed it. The recognition that his success wasn’t Uri’s success. That while Min-jun climbed, Uri remained in the same place. That inequality hung in the air.
“Thanks.”
Min-jun said quietly.
“And… what about our hyung? Did he see it?”
The question seemed simple, but it was complex. If Jun-ho saw the article, what would that mean? Congratulations? Jealousy? Something else?
“Don’t know. Haven’t heard from him yet.”
“Um… what did the CEO say when you talked? Before the article dropped?”
Uri’s question felt like searching for the answer to a complicated math problem. Like Uri was trying to fully understand Min-jun’s position.
“He said… there’s potential. But it’s not proven yet. And Sung-jun exists. He’s already famous, does lots of commercials, bigger contracts.”
Min-jun spoke slowly, as if his mouth couldn’t keep pace with his thoughts.
“That was yesterday’s story. It’s different now. The article dropped. A Netflix article. That’s a whole different league. Not commercials or ads—actual work being evaluated as art.”
Uri’s voice rose, as if trying to enlighten him. But beneath it was another question, unspoken yet louder: What about me? When will my article come?
Min-jun heard it. The words Uri didn’t say. They came through more clearly in the silence.
“Uri, did you audition for that musical?”
Min-jun changed the subject. Was it avoidance or salvation? An attempt to redirect his friend’s heart.
“Yeah. Got the results this morning.”
Uri’s voice dropped.
“Did you get it?”
Min-jun asked as if he already knew the answer, his tone already resigned.
“Didn’t make it. They picked someone else. He said my acting was fine, but that actor had something more. Whatever that ‘something’ is, I don’t know.”
Uri spoke, then sighed. How much weight was in that sigh? Rejection. Failure. Unfairness. And the obligation to continue.
Min-jun found no words. Now the article felt wrong. Like he was throwing his joy in his friend’s face.
“Min-jun, I’m really happy for you. I mean it. I… I guess I keep waiting. There’ll be other auditions. That’s an actor’s fate. Waiting, getting rejected, waiting again. But you’re different. You’ve moved past waiting. You’re an actor who exists now.”
Uri’s words sounded like congratulations, but also like goodbye. Like acknowledging the line that had been drawn between them. One ascending, one left behind.
“Uri, that’s not—”
Min-jun started, but Uri cut him off.
“I said what I needed to say. I’ll just cheer you on. Really. And… I’ll keep going too. Someday my article will come. Someday.”
Uri’s voice faded, as if heard from far away. Or as if his faith itself was disappearing.
When the call ended, Min-jun lay in bed. His phone still in hand. The portal site still open. His name. His face. And positive articles. But they felt like someone else’s. His success felt borrowed. His joy, rented.
The phone rang again. This time it was Jun-ho.
“Min-jun, you see the article?”
Jun-ho’s voice was composed, like a news anchor delivering a report.
“Yes. Just saw it.”
“Good piece, right? Netflix doesn’t distribute press releases this quickly. But they did this time. That means the PD was really satisfied with you. This is just the beginning.”
Jun-ho spoke, then paused.
“Thank you, hyung.”
Min-jun said.
“What are you thanking me for? You worked hard, you broke yourself open, and people saw it on screen. That’s all there is. Now comes waiting for reactions and preparing for the next opportunity. You’re not an invisible actor anymore.”
Something flowed beneath Jun-ho’s words. Congratulations, yes—but also distance. Like he was acknowledging that his student had surpassed him. Yet beneath that acknowledgment was also something else: the desire to pull that student back down. Min-jun felt it. The hyung’s touch was both congratulation and pressure.
“It was only possible because of the advice you gave me.”
Min-jun said. It was truth, but also preemptive armor. An attempt to protect Jun-ho’s pride.
Jun-ho recognized it. But he accepted it, as if admitting he needed it.
“Good thinking. Anyway, let’s celebrate tonight. The three of us. Where do you want to go?”
Jun-ho asked.
“Anywhere comfortable for you, hyung.”
“Then an izakaya near Itaewon by Gangnam Station. Quiet place, good sake. Eight o’clock.”
Jun-ho set the time.
After the call, Min-jun looked in the mirror. The small mirror of his studio apartment. His face split in half—one side catching light, the other shadowed. Like a reflection of his inner state. One half: an actor succeeding. The other: a young man still uncertain.
He showered. Dressed. Left the apartment. The evening streets. Summer evening. Sunlight still clung to the buildings. People hurried home from work. Lines at bus stops. Crowds flowing down subway entrances. The world kept moving, whether Min-jun’s article existed or not.
He arrived at Gangnam Station at seven-thirty. He walked near the meeting spot. Checked his phone. The portal site still open. His name. His face. Now visible to anyone. To everyone.
When he entered the izakaya, Jun-ho and Uri were already there. Jun-ho held a beer. Uri sipped a cocktail. Both smiled at his arrival. But Min-jun knew those smiles weren’t consistent. Jun-ho’s smile held congratulation, but something else hid behind it. Uri’s smile was genuine, but it was a sad smile. The sad smile of someone congratulating a friend’s success.
“Welcome. Congrats, Min-jun.”
Jun-ho stood and patted Min-jun’s shoulder. His touch felt heavy.
“Thank you, hyung.”
Min-jun sat.
“Remember when I asked what it takes to be an actor? I said you have to break. And you did. People saw it. You’re not an invisible actor anymore. You exist in someone’s memory now. That’s what matters most.”
Jun-ho spoke again, as if talking to himself.
“You did well too.”
Min-jun said.
“In what?”
Jun-ho asked.
“Teaching me everything. How to break, how to feel, how to show it on screen. If you hadn’t been there, I’d still be in the same place.”
Min-jun spoke. It was true. But also, it was armor. A way to protect Jun-ho’s pride.
Jun-ho understood. He accepted it, acknowledging his need for it.
“Okay then. You keep climbing, and I’ll push you up. That’s what we are.”
Jun-ho spoke and clinked glasses. Min-jun and Uri raised theirs too.
“Min-jun, I really mean it. Congrats.”
Uri’s voice was low but sincere.
“You’ll get your article soon too. A better one.”
Min-jun said. It could have been a lie or the truth. Either way, it was what this moment needed.
The night deepened. Glasses accumulated. The izakaya counter filled with steam and food aromas. Charcoal smoke. Ginger. The deep scent of soy sauce. And voices. Laughter. The mumbling of drunk people.
Jun-ho talked more as he drank. About his age—34. Still only playing second leads. His career stalled. And sometimes, he hinted that he envied Min-jun’s success. He never said it directly, but everyone heard it. In the silence.
Uri barely spoke. Instead, he watched Min-jun. As if he’d become an audience looking up at someone. It was a sad expression. But also brave. The bravery of facing his own emotions.
“Min-jun, what comes next?”
Jun-ho asked, his voice drunk.
“What comes next?”
“You have to prepare for the next opportunity. When this drama airs, people will see you. And you have to be ready. For the next role. For breaking again. Actors have to keep breaking. One success isn’t enough. You break forever.”
Jun-ho spoke, then sighed. As if all his energy left with that breath.
“I’ve already broken enough, and now I have to keep breaking?”
Min-jun muttered. It sounded like a joke, but it was the truth. He didn’t even know what state his inner self was in. Shattered? Or continuously shattering?
At eleven, they left the izakaya. The street was night. Gangnam’s night. Neon signs glowed. People walked. Lines outside clubs. Everyone searching for something. Pleasure. Connection. Or themselves.
The three parted at the subway entrance.
“See you tomorrow.”
Jun-ho said.
“Yes. Thank you, hyung.”
Min-jun replied.
“I should be thanking you. Really. And… Min-jun.”
Jun-ho grabbed Min-jun’s arm. His eyes were serious. Like he was about to say something important.
“Yes?”
“Never be arrogant. This industry rises fast, but it falls faster.”
Jun-ho said.
“I understand.”
Min-jun replied.
Uri and Min-jun parted in silence. No embrace. No words. As their hands separated at the subway entrance, something important slipped away too. The time the three had shared. Everyone knew that was now the past.
Min-jun returned to his apartment after midnight. He lay in bed. Stared at the ceiling. Still white. Still ordinary. But now it felt like someone else’s ceiling. As if he were living a different life.
He turned on his phone. The portal site was unchanged. His name. His face. But now a new article appeared below.
[Actor Min-jun Celebrates with Fellow Actors… “A Time of New Beginnings”]
Min-jun didn’t read it. Instead, he checked the comments. Thousands of them. Most were congratulations, but some were different.
[Why is a mere newcomer getting so much attention?]
[Sung-jun is better looking anyway. Why him?]
[Who is this person? Never heard of him.]
Reading those comments, Min-jun realized he was now visible to everyone. Good visibility and bad visibility both. He had to be ready for attacks.
He put the phone down. Closed his eyes. But sleep didn’t come. Instead, something else did. Fear. And behind that fear, something else. Desire. The desire to keep rising. To keep being seen. And terror at not knowing where that desire would take him.
At two in the morning, Min-jun was still awake. Staring at the ceiling. He picked up his phone. Opened KakaoTalk. Looked at Uri’s profile. The last message was from days ago. Before Uri got the rejection. Min-jun typed.
[Uri, you sleeping? Let’s meet tomorrow. Just… I want to see you.]
The reply came instantly. Uri must have been awake too.
[Yeah. Tomorrow. In the afternoon.]
Min-jun put the phone down. Looked at the ceiling again. Still white. Still ordinary. But now it wasn’t his whole world, just a ceiling. Beyond it lay a larger world. The eyes of audiences. Camera lenses. And thousands of voices calling his name.
At the edge of the chapter, Min-jun still stood at the edge of that world. Between the desire to climb and the fear of falling. And in that moment, his phone rang. An unknown number. Who calls at two in the morning? Min-jun didn’t answer. Instead, he waited. For the voicemail.
The message was simple.
“Hello. This is Lee Su-jin, CEO of “The Star” Entertainment. Sorry to call at this hour. Before this drama airs, there’s something I need to tell you. Can you come to the office tomorrow at eight in the morning? Alone. And… don’t tell anyone about this. Not even actor Jun-ho.”
The call ended. Min-jun’s heart started again. Dull and irregular. As if someone were knocking on his ribs. This time, the knock was stronger. As if someone outside was signaling for him to come out.
Min-jun looked at the ceiling again. And in that moment, its color seemed to change. Not white, but gray. Like a signal that a storm was coming.