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# Chapter 37: The Weight of Choice
We fell silent. Left our words unfinished. A notification chimed from the phone on the table. A KakaoTalk alert. We caught a glimpse of the screen before looking back at Minjun. In his eyes, there was something both resolved and wavering all at once.
“You’re really turning down the musical? Really?”
Minjun asked slowly. The thought crossed my mind that everything we’d said might be a lie, but our expression wouldn’t allow for deception. It was far too serious. Far too exhausted.
“Yeah. Really.”
We answered. Then reached for the coffee cup. Cold coffee, already gone lukewarm. We took a sip. Grimaced. But didn’t stop drinking. Like a punishment. A small pain we inflicted on ourselves.
“Why? Wasn’t that the role you wanted?”
Minjun’s question fell into the café’s ambient noise. The hiss of an espresso machine, someone’s laughter, murmured conversation from the table behind us. Everything drifted past like background music.
We sighed. Deep, long, as if exhaling every breath we had.
“I did want it. Really. It’s been a dream of mine since my early twenties. A musical lead. On a big stage in Gangnam. Becoming the protagonist under those brilliant lights. But…”
We stopped. Looked out the window. Seoul’s streets. May sunlight reflected off glass buildings. Those reflections looked like thousands of eyes. As if everyone was watching us.
“When Sujin gave me that role, I was happy. Genuinely. For days I ate well, slept well, smiled confidently in the mirror. But once rehearsals started, something changed. I wasn’t playing the character anymore—the character was consuming me.”
Our fingers began tapping the table. Again. That rhythmic percussion. But this time, the rhythm wasn’t steady. Unstable. Trembling movements.
“The character in that musical is a lonely woman. One who waits for someone she loves, knowing he’ll never return. And I had to express that loneliness on stage. Every night. Every night living in that loneliness, crying, singing… and gradually, I couldn’t tell where my loneliness ended and hers began.”
Minjun was listening. But without realizing it, his breathing had quickened. What we were describing didn’t sound like acting anymore. It sounded like our own story.
“And one day, I realized something. That everything I did on that stage was a lie. My tears were lies. My laughter was lies. My love was lies. And what scared me most was…”
We looked at Minjun again. In those eyes was extreme fear.
“What scared me most was that even after realizing that, I still wanted to go on stage. For the thrill of that lie. For the moment when everyone watched me, when everyone applauded. I wanted to live in that illusion, even if it meant losing myself. Isn’t that insane?”
Minjun couldn’t answer. What we said hit precisely at his heart. He felt the same fear. The moment when everyone watched him—both terrifying and desperately longed for.
“So I decided to turn down the musical. Three weeks into rehearsals. I called Sujin yesterday. And you know what she said?”
We burst into laughter. But it was laughter bordering on madness. A few people in the café turned to look at us. But we didn’t care.
“Sujin said this: ‘Do you understand what you’re doing? This is suicide. Career suicide. An actor who turns down a major role in this industry never gets offered one again.’ That’s what she said.”
Minjun’s face went pale. Was this true? Then we were throwing away our career right now.
“And you know what I told her? ‘Then so be it. But I’d rather live truthfully in reality than die falsely on stage.’”
Our voice grew smaller. But within that small voice was something unshakeable. A decision. A choice. However destructive it might be, we had already made it.
“After that, Sujin said, ‘Fine. Then you’re out. Contract terminated. No severance pay.’ And she hung up.”
Minjun couldn’t move. If this was all true, we were now unemployed. Broke. And it would be difficult to join another entertainment company. Because “contract terminated from The Star” would become a stigma in this industry—a mark of a “problematic actor.”
“So…?”
Minjun barely managed one word.
“So my life might be over. And I knew that and made this choice anyway. Because…”
We looked into Minjun’s eyes again. Now there wasn’t just fear in them—there was also a strange sense of liberation.
“Because I don’t want to die. Not on stage with a lie. Not in reality with despair.”
It took Minjun time to accept what we’d said. That we had given up everything. His chest tightened at the thought that it might be because of him.
“Because of me…?”
“No. Not just because of you. I just realized, watching you, that I was walking the same path. You’re still at the starting point. That’s why this matters more. What choice you make right now. You’re right after the news broke. When people are starting to notice you. What will you do in this moment?”
We asked again. It was the same question we’d posed in Chapter 36. But the weight of that question had changed now. It had become proof of the choice we’d made, abandoning everything.
“Because of me…”
“No. You don’t need to feel responsible for my choice. My choice is mine. Your choice is yours. And I wanted to tell you this. Something no one else will tell you.”
We picked up the coffee cup again. Still cold. Like our state of mind.
“You know what success means in this industry? It’s not about making money. It’s not about winning awards. It’s about not losing yourself. Receiving all those things while never forgetting who you are. I’m only realizing now how hard that is. And you can understand it earlier. Before you lose yourself like I did.”
Minjun looked at our hands. They were trembling. Hands mixed with extreme fear and extreme liberation. Our hands looked exactly like his future.
“I…”
Minjun started to speak. But didn’t know what to say. Should he reassure us? Should he say our choice was right? Or should he ask what he should do?
“Don’t decide now. Not in this moment. Don’t move emotionally like I did. Think about it a bit more. What role is CEO Sujin giving you? Will it destroy you or build you? And ask yourself. What do you really want? Money? Fame? Or proof of who you are?”
We stood. The café chair scraped back. The sound was loud. A few people nearby looked at us again.
“I have to go now. Go home and think about what I’m going to do. I think I need to start working part-time. Oh, and…”
We looked at Minjun one more time. There was something final in our eyes.
“Don’t tell Junho about this. Junho’s a good person, but this needs to stay between us. Understand?”
Minjun nodded. Even though he didn’t understand, he nodded.
“And Minjun. Really. Congratulations. You’re going to be an actor. A real actor. Don’t forget what you shouldn’t lose in the process.”
We picked up our bag. Walked toward the café exit. The glass door opened automatically. And we disappeared into Seoul’s streets. Into the sunlight.
Minjun sat there for a long time. In the chair we had occupied. At the cold coffee we had drunk. At the phone we had left behind (wait—did we leave the phone?)
No. We had taken it. We picked it up at the end.
Minjun looked at the table. The seat we had occupied was already cooling. As if we had never been there. As if it had all been a dream.
But it wasn’t a dream. The dark circles under our eyes were real. Our trembling hands were real. And our words were real.
Minjun ordered coffee. An Americano. The same as what you had. And drank it. Cold coffee. The same temperature as what you drank. As if to taste the emotions you had felt.
His phone rang. A text message. From an unknown number.
“Hey. It’s me. Lost my old number. Save my new number. And I’ve left the company now. Turned down the musical too. I’m regretting it right now. But it feels like the right thing. And please, don’t make this choice. You need to be wiser. Promise me.”
Minjun saved the number. And read the message again. Three times. Then replied.
“Understood. Please take care of yourself. And… I’m rooting for you.”
He sent the message. And set the phone down.
At that moment, the café door opened again. And a man walked in. Junho.
Junho saw Minjun. And walked over to the table. As if it was a planned meeting. Minjun couldn’t tell if Junho had followed him, or if he’d just happened to come to this café.
“Minjun. You were here.”
Junho sat in the chair. The same chair we had occupied. Like a relay.
“Hyung… how did you know?”
“I’m an actor. I’m good at reading people’s movements. You’ve been unstable since yesterday. So you probably wanted to see us. And this café is where you two usually meet.”
Junho said. And looked at Minjun’s face. Junho detected that something had changed in Minjun’s expression.
“Did something happen? Between you and them?”
“No. Just… they congratulated me. Because of the article.”
Minjun answered. It was a lie. But Junho pretended not to know. Or maybe he really didn’t know.
“Good. Then you need to prepare now. The role CEO Sujin gave you. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s definitely a big one. And you need to do well with it. The next article needs to be even better.”
Junho said. And lightly patted Minjun’s hand. A gesture of encouragement. But Minjun felt the weight of that hand. Junho’s expectations. Junho’s pressure.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Still with formal speech? You’re an actor now. Can’t you be more comfortable with me?”
Junho said with a smile. But beneath that smile was a kind of anxiety. Like a senior worried his protégé might leave him.
Minjun looked at Junho. And realized something. That what we said was true. That success in this industry means receiving everyone’s expectations while not losing yourself. How impossible that is.
And Minjun gained another realization. That we came to the café not to help his choice, but to warn him about it.
“Hyung…”
Minjun began slowly.
“What should I really do from now on?”
Junho’s expression softened as he heard the question. As if he’d finally heard the question he’d been waiting for.
“You just need to focus on not losing yourself. Everyone’s expectations, every role, every success and failure. They’re all going to try to define you. But you’re not the sum of those things. You are you. As long as you remember that, you’ll never break.”
Junho said. And at that moment, Minjun realized something. That Junho was already losing himself. That’s why he was telling Minjun this. That Junho had already walked this path, and lost something important on it.
“I understand, hyung.”
Minjun said. And this time he maintained formal speech. Because at this moment, formal speech was more truthful. Minjun knew that maintaining distance between himself and Junho was the only way to protect himself.
The café’s piano music continued to flow. A sad melody. The same music from Chapter 36. As if time was repeating itself. As if all of this was an endless loop.
And Minjun realized. That the stories of us and Junho were his future. It was a warning and, at the same time, maybe an unavoidable fate.
But if that was true, he could still choose. Whether to accept that fate, or reject it like we did. That choice, at least, was his.
Minjun’s fingers began moving on the table. Like ours. That rhythmic percussion. But Minjun’s fingers weren’t trembling. They were steady. Like the hands of someone who had already made their choice.
【 End of Chapter 37 】