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Chapter 98: The Form of an Answer
After Joon-ho’s question, Min-joon didn’t respond for a long time. His body was stiff in the passenger seat, and his fingers slowly moved on his knee, as if counting or searching for a rhythm. The parking lot’s fluorescent lights were still on, illuminating the inside of the car like an underwater scene. The only sounds in the silence were the wind outside and the rustling of leaves under the car.
“I…”
Min-joon opened his mouth, but the word was incomplete. It was as if the sentence had stopped in his throat.
“Easy. Think simply.”
Joon-ho said, his voice different from before. It had changed from a warning to a plea, as if he was holding his breath to hear Min-joon’s response.
Min-joon looked at his hand, still feeling the sensation of touching the window at the filming set. It was cold and slightly sticky. And there were the words that Park Mi-ra had said: “It’s a sacrifice.” That word felt like a mark left on his skin.
“Do you want to play this role?”
Joon-ho asked again, this time in a simpler form.
“Yes.”
Min-joon replied quickly, almost reflexively.
“Why?”
Joon-ho asked.
“Because…”
Min-joon started, then stopped again. There should be something after “because.” A reason, a motive. But it was hard to find. No, it was hard to say.
Joon-ho waited. His patience was deep, quiet like a predator waiting for prey in the water.
“Because if I don’t do this, I won’t know who I am.”
Min-joon finally said, the sentence coming out almost like a hidden confession, a betrayal of himself.
Joon-ho closed his eyes, as if that would allow him to hear Min-joon’s words more deeply. It was as if closing his eyes made his ears more sensitive.
“Continue.”
Joon-ho said.
“I… was an extra for 4 years. No one remembered my face. No one said my name. I was just ‘that actor.’ No, I wasn’t even an actor. I just… existed. Like a background, like a wall.”
Min-joon’s voice began to shake.
“And now, Park Mi-ra saw me. Not Min-joon, the person with that name, but something in me. And that was… the first time.”
Joon-ho still had his eyes closed, his face quiet, but his lips moving as if muttering something. However, no sound came out.
“So what I want… is to be seen. Not for this role, but to be seen. To have my existence acknowledged.”
Min-joon continued.
“Is that bad?”
Joon-ho didn’t respond for a while after opening his eyes. His hand went back to the steering wheel, gripping it tightly, as if trying to calm himself.
“It’s not bad,”
Joon-ho finally said, his voice lower now, a different kind of low. The low of someone acknowledging defeat.
“But…”
Min-joon asked.
“But it’s dangerous. That’s true. Because this industry doesn’t see you; it consumes you. Park Mi-ra may seem to have seen you, but in reality, she saw what she wanted in you, and she’ll try to extract it. Continuously.”
Joon-ho looked ahead, at the other cars in the parking lot, most of them empty. The evening was deepening.
“Then can’t I just not give it to her?”
Min-joon asked.
“You’ve already given it. Today, on set. In front of that window. And once you’ve given something, you can’t take it back.”
Joon-ho said.
Min-joon’s hand moved again, this time towards the car door handle, a movement to leave.
“Do you want to get out?”
Joon-ho asked, without surprise.
“Yes.”
Min-joon said.
“Then get out.”
Joon-ho said.
Min-joon opened the car door. The evening air entered, a bit cool, with the scent of concrete. He got out of the car and turned to face Joon-ho.
“Thank you.”
Min-joon said.
“For what?”
Joon-ho asked.
“For telling me. If I had thought about it alone, I might have never understood.”
Joon-ho didn’t respond. Instead, he started the engine. The car moved slowly, leaving Min-joon behind.
Min-joon watched the car, the red tail lights, the black body disappearing around the corner of the parking lot. At that moment, the parking lot seemed even emptier, as if the world had shrunk.
Min-joon didn’t go home. Instead, he took the subway, transferring at Sindorim Station to line 2, heading to Gangnam Station, then took a bus. He had no destination in mind, just a desire to keep moving, not to stay in one place, as if standing still would make him melt away.
Around 9 PM, Min-joon entered a cafe near Gangnam Station, a Starbucks, a replaceable cafe found anywhere, and the meaninglessness of it was comforting.
He ordered a coffee, an Americano, medium size, the most ordinary choice. He sat by the window and looked outside. The streets of Gangnam, people, cars, all moving somewhere, seemingly with a purpose.
His phone rang, a KakaoTalk message from a contact named “We.”
“Min-joon, how have you been? You seem really busy lately. Are you free this weekend? There’s a new musical at the theater, and I’d like to see it with you.”
Min-joon read the message and then lowered his phone. He didn’t respond, thinking he’d answer later, but later didn’t seem to be coming.
He drank his coffee, warm, almost hot enough to burn his lips, a pain that felt good, at least making him feel something.
At 11 PM, Min-joon returned to his semi-basement room. The mold on the ceiling was still there, like a part of him. The bed was neat, like no one had slept in it.
He lay on the bed but couldn’t sleep. Joon-ho’s words kept echoing, It’s dangerous. That’s true. And his own response, I want to be seen.
He looked at the ceiling, the map of mold, feeling like it was a message he couldn’t decipher.
And then, it seemed to say something to him.
You’ve already made your choice. Now, all you have to do is accept it.
The next morning, Min-joon’s phone had a new message, this time from Director Park Mi-ra.
“Min-joon, we have a reshoot today. I want the same energy as yesterday, but this time, deeper, not from emotion, but from your body. Understand?”
Min-joon read the message and held the phone for a while without turning it off. His finger touched the screen, pressing the reply button.
He typed slowly, one character at a time.
“Yes, Director. I’ll prepare.”
He sent the message, and in that moment, he knew. This was not just a reply; it was a promise. A promise to himself, to Park Mi-ra, and perhaps to the industry itself.
At 10 AM, Min-joon was back on set. The scene was the same as the day before, the window, the lighting, the camera, but it felt different. Yesterday, those elements were observing him; today, he was accepting them. There was a difference, subtle but crucial.
“Min-joon, please take your position,”
a staff member said.
Min-joon walked to the window, his steps slower than yesterday, more intentional, as if each step was deciding something.
“Okay, let’s start,”
Park Mi-ra said from behind the monitor.
“Yes.”
Min-joon replied.
And the camera began to roll.
At 4 PM, the filming ended. Director Park Mi-ra called Min-joon, beckoning him to a corner of the set, away from the other staff.
“You were better today than yesterday,”
Park Mi-ra said, her face serious, not a compliment but an observation.
“Thank you.”
Min-joon said.
“But you seem different. Your expression is different. Yesterday, you were confused, but today, you seem… resigned.”
Park Mi-ra asked, her eyes sharp, like someone who had observed humans through the medium of film for decades.
Min-joon didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. How could he explain yesterday’s conversation with Joon-ho, his choice, the consequences of that choice, the decision to live as an actor?
“Giving up is a good feeling,”
Park Mi-ra continued. “Actors resist a lot, trying to protect their emotions. But that’s a mistake. Emotions aren’t possessions; they’re borrowed, from the universe, from God, from history.”
Min-joon listened, understanding it wasn’t just about acting; it was about life.
“A good actor knows how to give up completely, to let their emotions be taken by the film, the role, the camera. And they know they can’t take it back.”
Park Mi-ra looked at Min-joon again.
“And you just did that. It’s been captured on film, permanently.”
She turned and walked back to the set, leaving Min-joon alone in the corner, in the cold shadow.
In that moment, Min-joon realized something. Joon-ho was right. Once you give something, you can’t take it back.
At 6 PM, Min-joon called Joon-ho. Joon-ho picked up after three rings.
“How was it?”
Joon-ho asked, as if continuing a conversation.
“The filming is over.”
Min-joon said.
“Did you do well?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And… I understand now that I’ve already given it. And I won’t be able to take it back.”
Joon-ho was silent for a while, only the background noise of a car engine and radio music audible.
“So, you’re an actor now. Really.”
Joon-ho said, his voice calm, as if confirming a conclusion he already knew.
“What do you mean by being an actor?”
Min-joon asked.
“An actor starts when they know what they’ve lost. Until then, they’re just a clown.”
The call ended, and Min-joon lowered his phone, looking out the window.
The evening of Gangnam was still beautiful, or seemed even more so. As if he was seeing this city for the first time.
He raised his hand, the hand that had touched the window yesterday, the hand that had been captured on film today. He looked at it, as if seeing it for the first time.
That hand was no longer a child’s hand. It was an adult’s hand. It was the hand of someone who had made a choice.
And slowly, he clenched his fist.
Inside that fist, everything was contained. All fears, all expectations, all giving up, all choices. They were compressed into one point.
He raised that fist, as if signaling to someone, or to himself.
In that moment, Min-joon knew.
He had become an actor.
And it was just the beginning.
**[End of Chapter 98]**