Filming was fun.
It must have shown how much I was enjoying myself.
“Looks like a puppy on a snowy day.”
“Reminds me of our Yeppi. That’s exactly how she acted when we took her out for a walk.”
The present‑timeline crew, who had come all the way down to this remote region where the past‑timeline scenes were being shot, said those things with pleased faces.
…That’s praise, right?
Judging by how everyone kept handing me some sort of snack, it didn’t seem negative—though it was a bit odd that every comparison was to an animal.
No matter how I look at myself, I’m hardly small like a squirrel…
True, I’d become a little shorter than before I died, but the body’s frame wasn’t bad at all.
Compared to a tiny squirrel, I was undeniably big and solid, wasn’t I?
So, when I carefully voiced that thought—
“Exactly. Our Yeppi thinks the same way—like she’s a shepherd or a great Dane.”
All I got was that cryptic answer.
Well, the saying goes that anyone who gives you food can’t be a bad person…!
Of course, there were exceptions.
“Hm…”
“…”
“Hmmmm…”
“…”
One prominent exception kept making that annoying sound.
Why did he keep staring at me?
“…What is it?”
“Your hair’s sticking up there a little.”
“Oh? Ah. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Checking a mirror, I saw that the wind had mussed one side of my hair.
Once I smoothed it, Kang Chaheon averted his eyes as if he’d lost interest—though only for a moment.
What is his deal, seriously?
As if nothing had happened, he started staring openly again.
Since that disastrous first meeting, Kang Chaheon hadn’t behaved like a total jerk—but the problem was that, at some point, he began trailing me to every shoot.
…Is this some new form of harassment?
Yet he didn’t actually do anything.
Scenes with him always drew lavish praise from Director Kim, and, honestly, just delivering lines opposite him was a master class.
If I ignored the way he watched me like a specimen, Kang Chaheon was a very fine—no, an outstanding—actor.
Why people raved about him; why some said his acting alone deserved eternal protection even in death—
Yeah, I can see it. His performance is awe‑inspiring just to watch.
Still, the way his gaze got even more intense after the camera stopped—what was that about?
Minor oddities aside, I was having incredibly enjoyable days.
Even though the schedule was packed and hectic—location rental limits meant everything was crammed in—
Strangely, I wasn’t tired at all.
Everyone seemed desperate to shove food into my hands, but I felt fine.
Busier than when they worked me as an event fill‑in, honestly…
Compared to then, this was paradise.
The great advantage was getting a complete result equal to the effort I put in.
Back then I was a worthless nuisance who always heard, “Is that all you can do?”
Here, it was different.
—Director Kim’s grin is about to split his face.
—Not one unusable take. Not one.
—At this rate, we’ll wrap the location work before the rental period’s up, huh?
All I had done was work hard to fulfill the role, yet the feedback overflowed, filling me with pride and joy.
With everyone chanting “Good, good,” fatigue vanished; only excitement remained.
I wish I could stay in front of the camera forever. It feels too short…
Chae Yu‑jeong’s part ends in the past timeline.
Important for the lead’s story, yes, but only about a third of the present‑timeline’s screen time.
I didn’t regret taking the role, but the regret of it ending—that was real.
While I swallowed that regret, shoot days slipped by.
“Wow. I kept wondering where you vanished every lunch break—you were up here?”
A grumbling voice cut in.
It was Shim Saero, now playing Kwon Jiho, who had joined the past‑timeline scenes not long ago.
With that, the trio who would carry the story was now complete.
“What the—thought you two were sneaking off for good food, and this is what you’re eating?”
Kwon Jiho is the second friend Lee Seojun makes, and in the future he’ll back‑stab Seojun while pretending to be a friend.
But that’s far ahead.
Right now, the seeds are visible, yet still passable as teenage immaturity.
“They sell this at the snack bar? Lemme try a bite.”
Jiho snatched the triangle kimbap Seojun was eating and took a huge bite—then immediately spat it out with a “Bleagh.”
“Bleagh. Why do you eat this crap? Tastes awful.”
Problem was, that triangle kimbap was Seojun’s precious meal.
With no spare money, he sometimes got by like that, and Jiho had just taken a bite and tossed it.
“Hey. Quit eating junk—let’s go downstairs. My treat.”
“Forget it. Just go.”
“Aw, come on. You mad? That stuff’s disgusting. Let’s go downstairs; I’ll buy something good.”
Episodes like that kept repeating.
Seojun disliked Jiho’s thoughtlessness and self‑centeredness, yet also felt oddly relieved—because Jiho didn’t pity his poverty like everyone else.
It was the same that day.
“Eh? What’s this—do you keep a diary?”
Like usual, with no particular plan, Seojun and Yu‑jeong had gone to the roof at lunch; this time the uninvited Jiho tagged along.
While Seojun was ostracized by rumor and Yu‑jeong’s vibe made him hard to approach, Jiho used his nerve and shamelessness to be the class social butterfly.
For once, he’d ditched the others and popped up on the roof.
“Jiho, give it back.”
“Wow, Seojun’s tougher than he looks, huh?”
“I said give it back.”
“Hold on—I’m reading. Let’s see what Lee Seojun writes… ‘He felt a deep fatigue. The paths shown by the stars were always ambiguous, mere illusions unreachable to ordinary folk. But so what? If you can seize it easily, can you still call it a star…’ Huh? This isn’t a diary at all.”
“I told you to give it back.”
“Hey, Yu‑jeong, look. He writes stories! Doesn’t suit him at all, right? Isn’t it cringe?”
As Jiho messed around, Seojun stood up, chasing him.
Usually mature beyond his age, Seojun now wore a face just like any teenager’s.
“I think it’s interesting, actually. Jiho, you need to read more books—your Korean scores are bad. Stop teasing him.”
Three very different personalities—yet they shared their own kind of good time.
Especially for Seojun, this was when he gained his second reader in Jiho.
No one recognized his struggle and isolated loneliness; writing let him create a world of his own. Jiho became the second person to read it.
But the fun didn’t last.
Senior year loomed, and their paths split.
“I’m losing it. Mom says I have to get into Y‑University. Like it’s up to me! Hey, Seojun—weren’t you not going to college?”
Strictly speaking, he couldn’t rather than wouldn’t.
No tuition money—and if he had that much, it should go to debt. University had never been an option.
“I’m going to work. I’ve got a place that’ll hire me full‑time after graduation.”
“Man, lucky. Maybe I’ll ditch college and earn money like you.”
While Jiho grumbled thoughtlessly—
“I don’t think it’d be bad for Seojun to go to college,” Yu‑jeong ventured.
“How could he? His attendance is barely passable, his grades are trash—he’s clueless at studying.”
“Jiho, didn’t I tell you to watch your mouth? And why couldn’t he? There are alternative admission tracks.”
Yu‑jeong said Seojun might still have a chance.
Seojun was puzzled: Jiho might be clueless, but Yu‑jeong knew his circumstances inside out.
“Why bring up college all of a sudden?”
“Because I don’t want you to give up on your dream.”
“…Dream?”
Writing was the result of struggling to breathe in a suffocating world.
Only inside those stories could he escape pain and hardship.
In real life he had nothing, but in fiction it was different.
So he loved writing; it was his refuge and hope.
“If you decide it’s impossible before you even try, all that’s left is a bleak, predictable ending.”
Those words moved Seojun.
Reality was harsh, but Yu‑jeong helped him—researching admissions, persuading teachers, preparing documents.
Just when a new hope seemed possible—
—Seojun… try not to be too shocked, but… your mother collapsed.
His dream crashed again.
The one and only mother he had had fallen ill.
With teeth clenched, Seojun bolted from school.
“Cut!”
Director Kim called it after Kang Chaheon burst out of the classroom set.
“We’ll take a short break, then move to the next scene!”
The heavy mood, in tune with the intense scene, relaxed. Actors chatted, shaking off tension.
Only a few more scenes and the school set is done, Rowoon thought.
The end of school meant his role was almost finished—after this, Chae Yu‑jeong appears for barely a few more minutes.
He would be lying if he said he wasn’t sad…
But first—how do I handle the closing scene?
Something more important was right in front of him—the final scene was coming up fast.
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