Pen and Paper Translations

Do you know the phrase “yujong‑ui mi”—“the beauty of a well‑rounded end”?

It means finishing what one has begun and harvesting a fine result.

The ending is every bit as important as the first impression.

Just as people say “all’s well that ends well,” the flip side is that if the result is poor, even the process may be devalued.

That can’t happen.

Rowoon might have plunged so deeply into the acting that he enjoyed every shoot more than anyone, yet he still knew what mattered.

His goal, after all, was the successful completion of the commission.

To achieve that—

I have to wrap up my role perfectly. The stronger the last memory that the lead has of Chae Yu‑jeong, the more dramatic the emotional payoff later. I cannot slip at the finish.

Every single scene’s polish was crucial—especially for a figure like Chae Yu‑jeong, whose very presence pulls the narrative tight.

In a sense, Yu‑jeong is the embodiment of “dream.”

To Lee Seojun, he is a symbolic being—the lone positive figure in a gutter‑like life, the human form of Seojun’s aspiration.

But Yu‑jeong dies in the end.

While Seojun is battered and broken by the cruel world, Yu‑jeong’s health fails after battling a sickness and he passes away.

Seojun, struggling just to breathe each day, never learns until it is too late—exactly as people often lose sight of their dreams while scraping by.

That’s why the final scene is vital; Yu‑jeong practically personifies the last axis of the protagonist’s conflict…

Seojun wants to chase his dream but breaks against reality. Yu‑jeong pities him, regrets what’s happening, yet ultimately understands and accepts.

Through Yu‑jeong, we witness the lead’s surrender.

From that point the tightrope between dream and reality tilts irrevocably to one side—this is the pivotal scene of the whole film.

Hoo…

Even if he set aside the regret of finishing the past‑timeline—that last scene had to achieve true “yujong‑ui mi.”

The problem: Rowoon still lacked confidence about it.

Maybe it showed; the moment shooting wrapped, Kang Chaheon asked:

“What’s up?”

“…Sorry?”

“What’s with the grim face again?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Extremely.”

Chaheon flicked his eyes toward a pile near Rowoon’s feet—an even bigger mountain of snacks than usual.

“When did they all drop these off…?”

Everyone kept pressing food on him; sensing his worry, they must have doubled their efforts.

“What’s the issue? Did a scandal break?”

“What?! No—absolutely not!”

“Then is it that filming’s ending? Want your part expanded?”

“Of course not…”

What does this guy think of the original owner?

Odd, yet given what he’d heard, not entirely baffling.

“Director Kim’s been fretting, watching your every move.”

Ugh.

Even the director was worried now.

Hold on—this man is a huge star.

One nobody ever faults for acting.

Normally Chaheon was an intimidating presence, but right now that stature looked useful.

“Um, I have a question…”

“A question? About what?”

“Well…”

Nothing to lose by asking—and the result was unexpected.

After hearing Rowoon’s dilemma, Chaheon casually suggested:

“Then let’s rehearse it.”

“Pardon?”

“Let’s run it together. Easier to find the emotion with two than alone.”

“…Huh?”

“Hang on—I’ll borrow a camera.”

“…?”

Rowoon had hoped Chaheon wouldn’t laugh at him; somehow things had escalated.

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“…Is this really okay?”

“Why not? You said something’s not clicking.”

From his face and tone Rowoon had expected sarcasm, but Chaheon neither scoffed nor belittled the concern.

Is he serious?

“If you don’t want to, forget it.”

“No—I do. I’d like that…”

Whatever Chaheon’s personality, his talent was undeniable; Rowoon had felt it each time they shared the lens.

Practicing with such a partner could only help.

“So why is the last scene hard? You nailed tougher ones.”

Tinkering with the small handy‑cam he’d snatched with lightning speed, Chaheon asked.

“Honestly, I’m not sure I can match your performance properly.”

At that admission Chaheon wore an odd look—as if he’d just heard a dog recite poetry. He rearranged his expression smoothly.

“So the problem’s that you can’t sink into it?”

“Right. The final scene is Seojun and Yu‑jeong’s clash.”

Two days from now they would shoot it in the hospital: Yu‑jeong comes to help; Seojun refuses, angry.

“Seojun blows up and sends him away.”

“Exactly. And I… can’t quite understand that part.”

“Why not? If your only family collapses, college is the last thing on your mind.”

“True, but…”

Yu‑jeong is practically the incarnation of Seojun’s dream.

In the hospital he hears Seojun’s fury and despair—and ends up respecting the choice.

That’s the snag: why does he accept it?

The scene also reveals another layer of their relationship: Yu‑jeong, himself frail, sees his own condition in Seojun’s ailing mother—and glimpses his family in Seojun’s self‑sacrifice. So he understands and releases him.

“You still don’t buy it?” Chaheon frowned deeper.

“Does my interpretation feel off…?”

“No, it’s fine. But you can’t grasp family love?”

The expression on his face said, How can that be?

“Look, couldn’t Seojun pursue both? Why must one be sacrificed? And as a friend, shouldn’t Yu‑jeong push harder?”

“Not necessarily. From Seojun’s viewpoint, Mom matters more. He even says: ‘Will a dream feed her? I need that one meal so I can pay the bill and keep my mom alive.’”

“And after he saves her? He’ll lose both dream and family—his mother dies soon anyway.”

“That’s knowledge outside the script. Seojun doesn’t know.”

“Dream lost, family lost—that’s too tragic.”

Chaheon’s face grew complicated.

“…They said the youngest always doted on you. Maybe it wasn’t gossip.”

He muttered something cryptic, then ruffled his unruly hair.

“Your analysis is good—the subtext, the angle, all solid. Actors should wrestle with scenes. But—”

He paused, then resumed.

“The more tangled it gets, the simpler the answer might be.”

“Meaning?”

“Family love.”

“…Huh?”

“Writing and family hold Seojun up. His mother is the pillar.”

That, to Rowoon, was almost terra incognita. Despite all the growth from training and co‑stars, this emotion remained beyond reach.

A family like that exists?

One you’d sacrifice yourself for without hesitation?

How?

Once, Rowoon had thought so—for family, for their approval, to be needed. He sent every paycheck home, living shabby himself. Even when Garion imploded and he longed to rest, he couldn’t.

Because I had to send money.

What began as love, in hindsight, felt only duty and debt.

Had it even begun as love? He had strived to prove usefulness, worth—terrified they might stop calling.

If that’s love, isn’t it sad?

A past long gone, yet still gripping his ankle.

He could throw himself into a model‑student role easily, but one emotion stumped him.

No—maybe it’s not inability but refusal.

Perhaps it wasn’t Seojun he wanted to save, but the younger, foolish self who’d lost everything chasing love that never returned.

Seeing Rowoon still unconvinced, Chaheon said quietly:

“You don’t have to understand everything.”

“Won’t the acting go flat then?”

“You can substitute another feeling. Do you think every actor who plays a killer is a latent murderer?”

“Well, no.”

“If family love feels distant, approach from elsewhere. You called the mother his pillar, right?”

Chaheon explained calmly.

“She’s the only one supporting him. Not because she’s family—she’s simply that one, irreplaceable presence. Losing such a presence isn’t an option.”

It half‑clicked.

“That presence doesn’t have to be family. Could be a friend, a lover. If Yu‑jeong stands for Seojun’s dreams and hopes, maybe the mother symbolizes something similar.”

In that instant, for some reason, Rowoon thought of Cheonghwa.

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T/N: My poor, poor Rowoon… You deserve the world.