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# Chapter 32: Crossroads at the Station
Gangnam Station’s platform was packed. The train came to a complete stop, doors sliding open, and we brushed Minjun’s arm lightly. Was it an intentional touch, or mere accident? Actors were skilled at distinguishing such things. Yet Minjun remained confused—uncertain where the boundary lay between his own feelings and those of others.
“I have to get off here. My friend’s waiting.”
We said it. Words we’d said before. But this time they sounded different. Like a farewell. Or a promise.
Minjun nodded. He didn’t speak. In a moment like this, he didn’t know what to say. Thank you? Too formal. See you again? Too weak. Silence was better. Silence wasn’t a lie.
We stepped off the train. In that instant, Minjun felt the train’s noise suddenly amplify—or perhaps the absence of our presence had made the world’s sounds sharper, more vivid. The doors closed again. We stood on the platform, watching the train. Our eyes met through the glass. A moment of silent connection. Then the train began moving again.
Minjun watched his blurred reflection receding on that glass barrier. It felt as though he existed in two places at once. On the train. And on the platform. Both stationary and moving simultaneously.
Gangnam’s nightscape reappeared beyond the windows. Neon signs. Crowds. Everyone seemed to be moving toward their own destinations. Yet Minjun still couldn’t say where he was going. He’d said Sillim Station, but was that truly his destination? Or merely the direction the train was taking?
The train continued. Gangnam’s streets blurred past. Stations appeared and vanished. Passengers boarded and departed. Everyone living their ordinary lives. Was Minjun the same as them, or did he still inhabit some other world?
His phone rang. Junho again. No—a different number this time. When Minjun checked the screen, his heart stopped.
We
A call. Not a text. Barely two minutes after we’d left Gangnam Station.
Minjun answered.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me. Hold on a second.”
Background noise. Voices. Café music. We were sitting somewhere, at a café.
“Yeah, my friend’s here, and…”
Our voice was trembling slightly. Like someone trying to make a decision.
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
Minjun asked. Formal speech patterns slipped out naturally.
“Yeah. But listen—you know that article that came out? About you?”
“What?”
“The photo of you in the article. You want to see it?”
Minjun couldn’t respond. He didn’t understand the intent behind the question.
“Look. Just look at it. I’m sending it to you.”
The call ended. Moments later, a KakaoTalk notification chimed. We’d sent a screenshot of the article.
Minjun clicked on it.
What appeared on his screen was his own face. A Netflix drama article: Father’s Lies. A photo of supporting actor Minjun. But this wasn’t the Minjun he recognized. The Minjun in the article looked deeper somehow. Sadder. Like a son who’d lost his father.
The headline read:
“A promising newcomer captures the weight of emotion, revealing seeds of potential.”
Minjun read that headline several times. Being described this way didn’t feel real. Newcomer. Potential. Those words belonged to someone else entirely.
Comments appeared. Just as we’d said. “Who is this actor?” “What’s his next project?” “His acting is insane.” Hundreds of comments. Thousands of likes.
Looking at those numbers, Minjun felt something strange. Was it joy? Fear? Both? People were seeing him now. That was what he’d wanted. But simultaneously, it was exactly what he’d most dreaded.
His phone rang again. We were calling back.
“Did you see it? What do you think?”
Our voice was excited. Like it was our own success.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“There you go with the formal speech again… But you’re different now, you know? People are seeing you. Do you get that?”
Minjun said nothing. The train pulled into another station. People exited and boarded. Someone passed by Minjun, reading an article on their phone. Possibly the same one. Or a different one. Minjun couldn’t tell.
“Minjun? You there?”
“Yes. I’m here.”
“Come on… stop with the formal speech. We’re friends. We are friends, right?”
There was anxiety in that question. Minjun understood exactly what we were really asking: As you rise, won’t the distance between us grow?
“Yes. We are.”
Minjun said it in formal speech. It was instinct—the instinct to maintain distance. Remaining a junior was safer than becoming a friend.
We sighed through the phone.
“Okay. Then let’s meet later? Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. Near Sillim Station. There’s that café we always go to. The Books.”
Minjun knew the place. Where we and Junho often went. He’d been there a few times himself. But he had no good memories of it. There, he’d only ever listened to stories. Never told his own.
“Is now a convenient time for you?”
“For me? Yeah, no problem. What about you? Don’t want to go home?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just…”
Minjun trailed off. He didn’t know what to say. That the article scared him? That people watching him made him anxious? Or that it hurt that we were starting to see him differently?
“It’s fine. Just come. I need to see you. Now that you’re the famous actor Minjun.”
There was playfulness in those words. But underneath was something deeper. Minjun felt it.
“Understood. I’ll head to Sillim Station now.”
The call ended. The train was still moving. But now Minjun had a destination. Sillim Station. The Books café. You.
Seoul beyond the window had changed. Gangnam’s glitter had faded. Apartment complexes in northern Seoul came into view. Smaller buildings. Dimmer lights. Seoul was divided this way—places with light and places without.
As the train approached Sillim Station, Minjun’s anxiety grew. Why did we want to meet him? To genuinely celebrate? Or to verify something? Or perhaps to confirm the growing distance between them?
Sillim Station appeared. The train slowed gradually. People rose. Doors opened.
Minjun exited. He walked the platform, climbed the stairs. Sillim Station’s exit. This was the college district. Near Seoul National University. Students, bookstores, cafés, bars, convenience stores. Streets built for youth.
The Books was a five-minute walk from Exit 8. Minjun headed there. 9 PM. Seoul’s night was still alive.
Outside the café, Minjun paused. Through the glass, he saw us. Sitting at a table. Looking at our phone. Probably waiting for him. Watching us, Minjun thought something odd: We’re waiting for someone too. An actor waiting for another actor to rise. To walk this journey together.
Minjun opened the door and entered.
We looked up. And smiled.
“Oh! A celebrity’s here!”
It was meant as a joke. But there was truth in it. Minjun was different now. The article had made it so. People were watching. He’d become someone.
Minjun sat across from us.
“Hello.”
“No, come on. You’re still using formal speech. What did I tell you?”
We complained, but we were smiling. The smile was genuine.
“It’s habit.”
“Habit nothing. You’re different now. The article came out, people know who you are. That makes you not my junior anymore—it makes you another actor.”
We said it. But that was a lie too, and Minjun knew it. When I rise, you descend. That’s how this industry works.
“No. You’ve done so much with musicals already.”
“Yeah. But…”
We trailed off. Lifted our coffee cup. Took a sip. Looked at Minjun again.
“You’re going to be a drama actor. You’ll do films too. So where do I fit in?”
That question was sad. Genuinely sad. Fear about our own future. Anxiety that we’d remain stuck in musicals while Minjun kept climbing.
“The money’s in TV and film. Theater tickets aren’t expensive. But dramas are different—advertising revenue, reruns, OTT platforms. There’s real money there. And fame is different too.”
We spoke it all out. A genuine confession. Our anxiety. The system’s injustice. Fear of the future. All contained in a single paragraph.
Minjun had nothing to say. Because we were right. The industry worked exactly that way—money and attention concentrated in dramas and films. Musicals were art, but economically fragile.
“But I’m happy because of you.”
We said it suddenly.
“What?”
“I mean it. I think about how you’re going where I can’t go. How you’re doing what I can’t do. It comforts me. It feels like proof I’m still alive.”
It was sad. And true. We really were rooting for Minjun. Even if our encouragement carried our own disappointment.
Minjun looked at our face. Up close, he could see the exhaustion around our eyes. Stress from recent musical auditions. The complicated feelings of watching his success.
“You’re a good actor. Genuinely.”
Minjun said it—for the first time without formal speech.
Our expression softened. That single sentence seemed to wash away all our doubts.
“Thank you, Minjun. Really.”
They sat in silence. The café’s music continued. Students at nearby tables kept studying. A couple at another table laughed together. The world kept moving. But in this moment, Minjun and we were suspended.
“But seriously, congratulations. Really.”
We said it again.
“Thank you.”
Minjun replied.
Was that the end? No. This was only the beginning. Minjun ascending. Us descending. A new distance forming between them. And the effort to overcome it. That was what was about to begin.
When they left the café, Minjun’s phone buzzed. Junho. A message.
“Heard about the audition. Congrats. See you next week. All three of us.”
Minjun read it and smiled slowly. The theater’s spotlight was beginning to shine on him. And in that light, he wasn’t alone. We were there. Junho was there.
The world had changed. Or the way he saw it had.
Either way, it was a beginning.