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Chapter 94: The End of Silence
Junho opened the waiting room door. His movement was neither fast nor slow, just as it was meant to be, like an actor leaving the stage.
Minjun watched Junho’s back, his shoulders, which seemed to be trembling, but it was probably just the fluorescent light.
“Wait,” Minjun said. His voice was small, but it was enough to stop Junho.
“What?” Junho asked without turning around, his hand on the doorframe.
“Why did you tell me? I didn’t need to know this,” Minjun asked, his hand brushing against the leather sofa where Junho had sat.
Junho didn’t answer for a while. Footsteps could be heard outside the waiting room, and the sound of people passing by. This was still a filming set, a machine that kept moving, never stopping.
“I saw your expression when you watched the video,” Junho said finally, still not turning around.
“What expression?” Minjun asked.
“A desperate expression. But it wasn’t just desperation. There was something else mixed in, a sense of responsibility. No, more precisely… self-reproach,” Junho said, his voice low, as if talking to himself.
“Self-reproach?” Minjun repeated.
“You knew about this system, to some extent. But you still got involved because there was no other way. And you accepted it, knowing it wasn’t your own choice, but the only one you had. That’s self-reproach. That’s the most dangerous emotion,” Junho said.
Minjun didn’t say anything. He knew Junho was right, and that was the most terrifying part – the fact that he had already accepted it, and was already falling into the abyss.
“And you’re still falling,” Junho continued.
“I can’t stop. I don’t know how to stop,” Minjun muttered.
“That’s why I told you. At least you should know what you’re getting into. It’s better to fall with your eyes open than with them closed,” Junho said, and then he closed the door, slowly, as if seeing someone off.
Minjun was left alone in the waiting room, with the mirror, the sofa, the fluorescent light, and his own face. He looked at himself in the mirror, at the expression Junho had seen – a mix of desperation and self-reproach.
He raised his hand to touch the mirror, but stopped. His fingers moved in mid-air, hesitating. Why was he trying to touch it? The mirror was just a reflection, an illusion, a trick of the light.
Filming resumed at 3 pm. Minjun came out of the dressing room, his face remade by the makeup artist, his paleness covered, his dark circles brightened, his lips revitalized. He looked human again, or rather, like an actor.
Park Mira was already on set, surrounded by the crew, watching the monitor. Her face was focused, or rather, it was a kind of desire, a desire to get what she wanted, and that desire could only be fulfilled through her camera.
“Minjun, you’re late,” Park Mira said, her eyes not leaving the monitor.
“Sorry,” Minjun replied, his voice stable, like an actor’s voice, washing away the conversation with Junho and the mirror.
“Don’t worry, actors are always late. It’s part of their creativity, I suppose,” Park Mira said, laughing, but it wasn’t a warm laugh, it was a mechanical one, like an actor’s laugh, or a director’s.
Minjun took his position on set, in the same spot as before, in front of the window. His hand rested on the armrest, his legs touched the ground. His gaze went through the window, or rather, the glass, which was not a mirror, but showed the outside, but for Minjun, it was the same, just a reflection.
“First take, get ready,” Park Mira said.
The camera started moving, the sound of the machine, like a spider web, connecting everything, endlessly.
Lee Junhyuk appeared on stage, playing the role of the father, but he was more than just an actor, he was Park Mira’s man, and that changed everything, the same actions, the same expressions, had different meanings.
“Action,” Park Mira shouted.
Minjun made his expression, the one he saw in the mirror, desperation and self-reproach, but now with a new layer, awareness, complete awareness of what he was doing, and that he couldn’t stop.
Lee Junhyuk approached Minjun, slowly, like a predator approaching its prey, it was a scene of a father comforting his son, but it was more than that, it was Park Mira’s man approaching Minjun, the actor, it was the system approaching the individual, and in that approach, there was no choice.
Lee Junhyuk’s hand touched Minjun’s shoulder, in the scene, it was a comforting gesture, but what Minjun felt was possession, pressure, hierarchy.
Minjun’s eyes welled up with tears, but it was acting, or at least, it was supposed to be, the line between reality and acting was blurred, and Minjun couldn’t tell anymore.
“Cut,” Park Mira said.
Minjun’s body relaxed, Lee Junhyuk’s hand dropped, but the sensation remained, on his skin, in his muscles, in his nerves, it couldn’t be washed away, not with water, not with time.
“Perfect, even better than the third take,” Park Mira said, smiling, a genuine smile, the first one, and it was the most terrifying, because it was what she really wanted, Minjun’s pain, Minjun’s confusion, Minjun’s limit.
After filming ended, Minjun stayed on set, alone, after the other actors and staff had left, after the lights had been turned off, the space became an empty stage, as if it was its original state, a stage should be empty, it’s the foundation for the next performance.
Minjun sat on the sofa, the same sofa, the same spot, but without the camera, everything was different, everything was just wood, fabric, and technology, things without substance.
His phone rang, a text from Junho.
“Don’t forget what you saw in the waiting room, and live with that in mind, that’s the way to live, not completely knowing, not completely not knowing, but in the middle.”
Minjun read the message, again and again, and didn’t delete it, he had to remember it, it was Junho’s only advice.
He touched his face, the face made by the makeup artist, the face beneath, the bones beneath, the soul beneath, everything was layered, everything was hiding each other.
“What am I?” Minjun muttered, in the empty space, it wasn’t a question, it was a statement, a declaration of himself, and that declaration didn’t get an answer, because there was no one to answer, only himself.
“Hello,” we said.
“Hello,” Minjun replied.
“How was filming?” we asked.
Minjun didn’t answer, instead, he looked at us, at our face, at our eyes, there was something there, it wasn’t acting, it was a real emotion, but what it was, Minjun couldn’t tell.
“Do you know?” Minjun asked.
“Know what?” we asked.
“What all this is, what’s going on,” Minjun asked.
We didn’t answer for a while, and then we said:
“Yes, I know.”
“Then why are you with me?” Minjun asked, his voice desperate, like his life depended on it.
We took Minjun’s hand, the action was sudden, unplanned, but also natural, like it was meant to be.
“Because you’re not alone,” we said.
That sentence touched Minjun’s heart, it was a real sentence, or at least, it wasn’t another acting line, not at that moment, not with that hand in ours.
Minjun’s eyes wavered, his pupils moved, like he couldn’t process what he had heard, like he couldn’t believe it.
“Is that… real?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
His hand gripped ours tighter, like he was afraid of losing us, like he was afraid of being alone again.
We couldn’t answer, because we didn’t know, in this world, in this industry, the line between truth and lie was too blurred, no one knew what was real and what wasn’t.
But Minjun didn’t wait for an answer, he just focused on the fact that our hands were connected, the warmth, the weight, the reality of it, that was all that mattered.
“Is this real, at least?” Minjun asked.
“Yes,” we replied, “this is real.”
And we knew it wasn’t a lie, this moment, this hand, this touch, it was real, it was the only real thing in a world of acting and pretending.
## 1: Question
At the subway station, exit 9, the late afternoon sun was casting a yellow glow on the concrete road, Minjun stood on the boundary between light and shadow, his toes in the darkness, his head in the sunlight, like his very existence was incomplete.
“Do you know?” Minjun asked, his voice low, like he was asking himself.
“Know what?” we asked.
“What all this is, what’s going on,” Minjun asked again, louder this time, like he wanted someone to hear, but also like he was afraid of the answer.
We looked at Minjun’s face, his eyes were old, like he had lived a lot more than his age, his jaw had stubble, his clothes had the smell of old cigarettes, not recently smoked, but a smell that had been embedded in the fabric for a long time.
We didn’t answer for a while, the wind blew, the late autumn wind was cold, it touched our faces, and Minjun’s hair moved slightly, and in that moment, we knew what to say.
“Yes, I know,” we said, it wasn’t a complete truth, but it wasn’t a lie either, we, humans, always live in the middle, knowing and not knowing, pretending and not pretending.
“Then why are you with me?” Minjun asked, his voice desperate, like his life depended on it.
We took Minjun’s hand, without a word, the action was sudden, but also natural, like it was meant to be.
“Why?” Minjun asked.
We didn’t answer, Minjun’s hand was cold, pale, but it had life, a pulse, we could feel his heartbeat in his wrist, fast and irregular.
“Because you’re not alone,” we said.
The sentence touched Minjun’s heart, like a key turning in a lock, it was a real sentence, or at least, it wasn’t another acting line.
## 2: Descent
The stairs leading to the subway platform were in front of us, concrete stairs descending into the darkness, deeper, darker.
Minjun went down the stairs, holding our hand, step by step, slowly, like he wanted to prolong the moment, like he wanted to stay in this time forever.
As we went down, the sunlight from above grew farther away, replaced by the artificial light of the fluorescent lamps, which wasn’t warm, just bright, a cold brightness, the essence of this city.
We reached the platform, the subway smell surrounded us, a mix of metal, oil, and human body odor, and beneath that, a faint smell of rot, of decay, but it was too subtle for anyone to notice.
“This is our world,” Minjun muttered.
“What?” we asked.
“Here, this subway station, this platform, this darkness, this is our world, up there is the sunlight, but we’re here, always here, deeper, darker,” Minjun said, his eyes looking far away, like he saw something that we couldn’t.
“Why are you here?” we asked.
“Because I couldn’t live up there, the light is too bright, I’d be exposed, but here… here I can be no one,” Minjun said.
The subway arrived, the sound was loud, terrifying, like something was waking up from the underground, like a big animal was emerging from the darkness.
The doors opened, people poured out, and we got in, Minjun still holding our hand, the train was crowded, but we found a spot to stand.
The doors closed.
And we went into the darkness.
## 3: Basement
That night, Minjun arrived at his basement room.
When he opened the door, the first thing that hit him was the silence, but it wasn’t complete silence, it was a mix of sounds, footsteps from upstairs, TV noise from next door, water flowing through the pipes.
He looked up at the ceiling, there were mold stains, black, green, and a bit of pink, like a map, a map of some unknown land, or a map of some disease, or a map of a soul.
“Where is this map leading to?” Minjun muttered.
“Maybe nowhere,” we said.
Minjun laughed, it was a sad laugh, like he had realized the sadness of his life, again.
He lay on the bed, the only furniture in the room, the bed creaked, like someone’s sigh.
He took out his phone, the screen lit up, and he read Junho’s message again.
“In the middle.”
The words repeated in his head, like a mantra, like a prayer, or like a curse, living in the middle, not completely knowing, not completely not knowing.
Minjun’s eyes looked up at the mold stains, they seemed to be moving, like they were alive, like they were slowly devouring the wall, devouring the room, devouring him.
He looked out the window, the Seoul night view, the countless lights, each light had someone living under it, each light was a hope, or a despair, or both.
“Are those people also living in the middle?” Minjun asked.
“Maybe,” we replied.
“Then why are we here?” Minjun asked.
We couldn’t answer, because we didn’t know.
## 4: Hand
Minjun opened his hand, the hand we had held, it was empty now, but the sensation remained.
Warmth, weight, reality.
He moved his fingers, slowly, like they were still connected to something, like they were still holding onto something.
“At least I’m not alone,” Minjun muttered.
It didn’t matter if it was true or not, what mattered was believing it, at least for now.
He closed his eyes, hoping not to dream, but knowing it was out of his control, everything was already decided, and he was just acting on top of it.
He repeated the words in his head, Junho’s message, “in the middle”, like a mantra, like a prayer, or like a curse, living in the middle, not completely knowing, not completely not knowing.
## 5: Night
The night deepened.
The mold stains on the ceiling turned into shadows, no longer a map, just a simple mark, a sign of something, but what, no one knew.
Minjun moved under the covers, turning, like his body didn’t fit his skin, like his skin was rejecting his bones.
But slowly, his movements stopped.
His breathing deepened.
And he fell asleep.
An imperfect sleep, a sleep that was half-awake, half-asleep, where dreams and reality mixed, but it didn’t matter, because everything was already mixed up anyway.
The night continued.
Time passed.
And Minjun was there, in his basement room, under the mold stains, under the Seoul night view, believing he was not alone.
In the middle.
Always in the middle.
—
Epilogue
At dawn, Minjun’s phone rang, a call from Junho.
Minjun couldn’t open his eyes, like his eyelids were sealed with lead.
The phone kept ringing.
And Minjun didn’t move.
Outside the window, the first light of dawn was entering, the darkness was slowly receding, but this basement room was still dark.
Like the light couldn’t reach here.
Like this room was a completely different world.
And maybe it was.
Maybe Minjun had already crossed over to the other side.
And we just hadn’t realized it yet.
In the middle.
Always in the middle.