While everyone present was staring in astonishment, there was one person who had expected all of this from the start: the director. He was the only one sitting there beaming with a broad smile.
As expected. I knew this would happen.
He keenly read the atmosphere in the reading room. Along with astonishment, there were shock and disbelief in the mix—every sort of reaction imaginable.
It was only natural. The performance Rowoon had just shown them was truly beyond anything they’d expected.
I’m glad I picked that particular scene on purpose!
In a sense, powerful, explosive emotions are sometimes easier to perform. If you can nail that dramatic burst of feeling, you’ve already got half the battle won. The tricky part is the opposite: subtle emotions. If you fail to express those nuances, the entire scene or flow can feel dull, flattening the story as a whole. If the emotional beats don’t land, the audience naturally loses interest, and the result is the film’s ruin.
But what if the opposite is done well?
It lingers with you for a long time, making it unforgettable.
That’s when people go back a second time, then a third time—each time revisiting the film and savoring its many layers of meaning. This is exactly why “revolving-door” style re-watching has become such a trend in the world of film.
I knew my eye for talent wasn’t wrong.
Director Kim straightened his shoulders with pride. He was the one who had recognized this amazing actor! And, in only a few weeks, that incredible performer had grown even more dazzlingly skilled. At this rate, how much more outstanding would he become in the future? Kim felt anticipation surging within him.
All of the actors in this room were likewise skilled in their own right. Because they took acting so seriously, it was obvious that—even from such a brief scene—many of them realized Rowoon’s true worth. The atmosphere had already changed. Surprise, shock, disbelief, astonishment…
Director Kim could see all these fleeting emotions flicker across their eyes. He grinned in satisfaction at the actors’ reactions, feeling almost as if he himself were the one being praised.
Of course…
“…?”
The person at the center of this storm of attention was left a bit confused.
Why…why is everyone so quiet?
Had he messed something up? Rowoon quickly replayed the last few minutes in his mind.
No, that can’t be… I didn’t flub any of my lines…
He had no idea why no one was speaking. Could it be that his acting was so terrible it wasn’t even worth commenting on?
But he was sure that the “foundation stone” (the small voice inside him) had given him a nod, as if to say, “That was at least passable.”
Though, in truth, something else was weighing on him more heavily.
What’s with that guy—why is he looking at me like that again?
The person who was already bothering him was now bothering him even more. Kang Chaheon, who had practically been glaring at Rowoon before, had eased up at some point. However, now he’s staring as if Rowoon was a strange new creature. That shift began sometime after Scene 48 ended.
“All right! Let’s stop here for a moment and take a short break.”
Right then, the director—wearing a smile even friendlier than before—announced a break. The tense silence that hung over the reading room was replaced by the sound of people chatting.
“Hah, looks like Lee Seojun is the real bad guy, huh?”
“You’re telling me. Why would he just brush off someone this thoughtful and kind when he’s having a hard time?”
“Kids these days don’t know how precious friends are.”
“Wait, hold on. Isn’t Lee Seojun an old man by now? Not exactly a ‘kid.’”
“Oh, good point! Didn’t think of that.”
Suddenly, the conversation popped up everywhere in little pockets. Rowoon still had no clue what was going on.
Did Kang Chaheon’s performance seem off? Why are they suddenly calling Lee Seojun a jerk…?
Sure, he’d picked a fight the moment they met, but his acting was truly flawless. It was so smooth that it was hard to believe he’d been snarling at Rowoon just minutes prior. Once he started acting, Kang Chaheon turned into Lee Seojun incarnate, his curt gazes and grouchy quips perfectly capturing the feel of friends who knew each other well.
“But in that period of his life, Lee Seojun’s still young, right? It makes sense that younger kids don’t realize how important friendships are.”
“Yeah, that’s also true.”
Meanwhile, the other actors kept up their spirited back-and-forth.
“Wait, doesn’t Lee Seojun betray everyone later on? That’s after he’s twenty-something, right? By twenty, you’re basically an adult!”
“‘Basically an adult’—c’mon now. And is it really betrayal? He was just stressed and went off-grid for a while.”
“You’re defending him just because you’re playing Kim Jongseon’s role, aren’t you? Hey, that’s not right.”
“Hold on. Betrayal is actually Kim Jongseon’s fault, not Lee Seojun’s, isn’t it?”
Kim Jongseon is a friend to both Lee Seojun and Chae Yujeong. After noticing Seojun becoming close with Yujeong, Kim Jongseon cozies up to him. By nature, Jongseon is the type who cares about people’s status and picks friends based on that. But because Seojun is Chae Yujeong’s friend, Jongseon decides to treat Seojun like a buddy. It’s the first time the perpetually isolated Seojun gets to have real friends.
The problem is that these friends end up making Seojun’s life even tougher.
As those actors joked, Kim Jongseon ultimately betrays him—in the worst possible way, one that destroys Seojun’s dream. Despite his struggle to write something worthwhile amid his harsh life, Seojun’s final impetus to give up the pen is delivered by Jongseon.
In contrast, Chae Yujeong is the one who gets Seojun writing again in the future.
Which makes Chae Yujeong’s role, though brief, quite important. It can’t have any flaws—no matter that the actor playing it is Lee Rowoon himself.
People are already waiting to pounce at the slightest slip. I can’t afford to give them any chance to tear me apart.
One misstep, and he could die. Literally—if this mission failed, the penalty that had been postponed would instantly apply, and Rowoon would drop dead. For that reason, he felt incredibly anxious.
“Yujeong passes away pretty young, too.”
“Right? So sad, considering how young he is…”
The conversation had veered into territory Rowoon couldn’t follow. Suddenly, he realized all eyes were on him again.
Wh-why are they looking at me like that?
Their gazes felt strangely pitying. With regretful sighs, they clicked their tongues and shook their heads at him. Rowoon’s shoulders jumped every time. Some even approached and patted the back of his hand comfortingly. Rowoon accepted their touch, wearing a big question mark on his face.
Is my acting so terrible they feel the need to console me?
He really thought he’d done okay. Did he overestimate himself?
Just as he was puzzling over this strange reaction, the break started in earnest, and Rowoon stepped aside for a drink of water. Almost immediately, his manager rushed over.
“Oh, wow, our Rowoon is getting so much love out there!”
He’d been watching everything from the side, his eyes shining. Now he was holding a camcorder in one hand—he’d insisted on bringing it to record this ‘monumental’ day.
“Love? From whom?”
“Didn’t you see how those senior actors were basically dying of cuteness just now? They’re famously picky people, but you’ve won them over already. I’m so proud of you, my little Rowoon!”
“Wait, they weren’t comforting me because I was bad at acting?”
“What, did you lose your confidence along with your memory? You used to be so cocky! Now you don’t even understand when people are praising you to your face…”
According to the manager, all that chatter among the other actors had been a sign of high praise.
“They got so invested in your performance that they’re basically identifying you with your character. It means your interpretation was perfect and your energy took hold of the room.”
Sure, it was only a reading where everyone was matching lines, but veteran actors often give such a high-level performance just through a script reading alone. Their voices alone convey facial expressions, situations, even the mood of the scene. There’s no actual stage production going on, yet people still become immersed as if they can see it.
“So you’re saying I really did that well?”
“Rowoon-ah, even though I’m your manager, I’m not the type to butter you up. If you looked at Director Kim’s face, you’d realize you’re worrying over nothing. You didn’t see him looking fit to burst with pride every time he glanced your way?”
With the break in full swing and the others off getting snacks, the manager spoke freely.
“You heard the actors, too, didn’t you? They’ve all been in this business forever, and they’re not the type to throw around empty praise. But they were obvious about how impressed they were.”
“…That’s true?”
“Yeah. Even Kang Chaheon, who’s supposedly a bit of a perfectionist about acting, hasn’t said anything negative. People say he’s got plenty of star pride, and that he can be pretty sharp if someone’s skill is lacking, but look—he hasn’t said one word.”
That much was true. When some of the others patted Rowoon’s hand just now, he couldn’t help but wonder if Kang Chaheon would make a snide remark. But he didn’t. Rowoon, not being totally oblivious, had picked up on that, too.
Even so, he couldn’t quite believe it.
—“This is nothing. All you ever do is pretend you’re busy; that’s all you’ve got to show for yourself?”
—“You claim to sing well, but do you really? You’re just a replacement, and there are tons more like you out there.”
—“Sure, you’re popular, but is that because of your songs? The people who performed them are the real reason you’ve gained any recognition. Without those artists, your work would’ve stayed buried forever.”
Those words still echoed in his mind whenever he closed his eyes. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he worked, Rowoon’s efforts had never earned him true praise in the past. The ghost of that memory continued to tug him backward.
—“This much is nowhere near enough—do better next time, got it?”
He’d only ever heard that he fell short. That if he was trying so hard, why couldn’t he do better? Sure, his talent was decent enough that he was considered ‘useful,’ but apparently it was never more than he should have been doing anyway.
Yet now…
They’re acknowledging me.
He’d suspected as much, but hearing the manager say it out loud finally made Rowoon believe it. Those days where he’d trained like a madman, skipping sleep except for the bare minimum needed for his “dream training,” all because he didn’t want to die… At some point, he’d truly poured his heart into it. And all of it was being recognized.
I don’t want to fail this time. I want to do things right. I don’t want to leave room for regret.
Right before he died in his previous life, his final thought was that there were so many things he regretted. Now that he had a second chance, he intended to give his all to everything he did so he would have no regrets.
Every bit of that effort would become the stepping-stone paving the way to his dream.
So this is how it feels…
It was a sensation he had forgotten for far too long. He couldn’t remember the last time someone recognized him sincerely and he felt fulfilled by his own hard work. Now that he felt certain he wasn’t in the wrong, Rowoon’s heart throbbed with a strange mixture of pain and pride. It was odd, but not unpleasant.
“All right, everybody, let’s gather again. Break time’s over, so let’s continue with the reading!”
Their short rest ended, and the script reading started again. He was delighted that people had acknowledged him, but there was no time to celebrate yet.
That was only the first step.
Though he’d made a strong first impression, that alone wasn’t enough to erase his old reputation as a troublemaker.
I’ll have to keep proving myself.
A single slip could still let his past infamy drag him down at any time.
“All right then, the next scene we’ll be covering is…”
Reminding himself of all this, Rowoon turned the well-worn pages of his script.
It was time to focus again.
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