The reason there still wasn’t a huge round of applause like earlier was because the audience was soaked in the aftertaste.
‘Because it feels like it hasn’t really ended, even though it has.’
Maybe it was because they wanted to see more of these characters’ remaining story. Even after the ending announcent played, the audience who had watched Team B’s stayed in their seats instead of getting up.
-The performance has now concluded. Distinguished guests, please check your seats once more to make sure you haven’t left behind any personal belongings before heading ho. The exits may be crowded⋯.
They had just watched the sa play back-to-back, so it would have been natural to feel tired, yet the audience slowed their steps conspicuously as they left.
It was that peculiar hesitation of people satisfied with a performance. A reluctance to leave behind the space that had given them a special mont lingered in the air.
“How was it?”
Geum Bitgang asked the man who had been watching from the very back row, a seat untouched by other people’s gazes.
“If it was boring again because of that damned professional habit of yours, I’ll apologize.”
The man, his cap pulled low, shook his head.
“It was interesting.”
A man who made standards such as a drama’s artistic rit, its social aning, and the quality of the actors absolute for the public.
“Very⋯ for the first ti in a long while.”
The critic, Sunwoo Seonuk.
* * *
“Gyeoul! You seriously worked so hard!”
“Right. The schedule must’ve been brutal too⋯.”
“By the way, did you ntion our nas in the interview?”
Team A of welcod Gyeoul back after she stepped out briefly to do interviews with reporters.
There was the joy of having successfully put on the play they had prepared so diligently—but there was another emotion, clearly etched on their faces.
“But honestly, I think we did really well.”
“I an, I feel bad saying this about Team B, but⋯ if we’re comparing them, obviously we—well. You know?”
“Hey! They must’ve worked hard too. Don’t be like that.”
It was the sense of victory of people who believed they had obviously won. A few of them sidled up to Gyeoul with their phones, hinting that they’d received business cards from agencies.
“Gyeoul, can we take photos and tag you?”
“Yeah! Let’s all take one and post it! Ah, seriously, we worked so hard, all of us!”
Gyeoul wanted to ask why she had to be bundled into a “we” with them. She wanted to ask whether they truly felt like they had beaten Han Yeoreum’s team.
No—setting all that aside, she really wanted to ask how long they planned to cling to her like mangy dogs.
“⋯Sure. Let’s take a photo.”
But once again, Gyeoul swallowed what «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» she wanted to say.
It was sothing she had learned over the course of her life. Following her father’s teachings, Gyeoul smiled at the phone screen.
“Gyeoul, you’re coming to the team dinner too, right?”
“We didn’t even get to hang out properly while rehearsing! I think this is a great chance for us freshn to get closer⋯.”
She could practically see the cheap calculator spinning in their heads. They looked like people trying to squeeze out anything they could by sticking close to the hottest actress right now. Gyeoul adjusted the distance between them with practiced ease.
“Sorry, I have another early-morning schedule tomorrow⋯.”
Just one sentence was enough. For accepting kindness—and for refusing it.
And then ca this, every ti.
“Ah! Why are we like this? We were so thoughtless.”
“Right. You’ve got schedules you couldn’t do because of the play.”
“We’re sorry⋯. We haven’t even debuted yet, so we don’t know anything, really⋯.”
It was their role to smooth things over with jokes. Gyeoul turned away, leaving behind an appropriate smile. The corners of her lips, which had been raised just monts ago, returned to their original place without a trace.
As Gyeoul walked toward the van, the manager, who had gone out to et her, made a fuss the mont she saw her face.
“Gyeoul! Let’s hurry up and go so you can rest properly. You went from filming straight to the final play—I was so worried you’d collapse because of that schedule, honestly. Look at you, your face is half its size now.”
“It’s okay. I’ll get so sleep on the way.”
“Alright. You really worked hard, truly.”
Gyeoul closed her eyes in the back seat of the van, where a soft blanket had been neatly folded. Like Yeoreum earlier, she tried draping it over herself like a general’s cloak, but she couldn’t feel anything.
‘⋯Idiots.’
The loud applause had been nothing more than praise for the existence called Do Gyeoul. Not a single genuine impression of the play itself had co out of anyone.
The audience’s evaluation of Team A’s performance was rely, “They’re better than expected.” No one said it was fun.
‘The ones who lost are us.’
Then why did I lose?
Because I wasn’t the Juliet people wanted? But I perfectly realized the original work. Then what kind of Juliet do people want, exactly? You’re not supposed to step outside the fra to begin with. No—there were monts when I did step outside it. I walked freely, without caring about the fra. Like Han Yeoreum. From start to finish, I did it like Han Yeoreum—so why did I lose. Why. Why. Why?
‘The reason⋯.’
After finishing her interview and heading back to the waiting room, Gyeoul overheard the audience talking.
“Team B’s directing was seriously⋯ I an, you could just tweak the lines a bit and turn that into a full drama.”
“When the friar ca out at the end, didn’t it remind you of when Catholicism first ca into Korea?”
It wasn’t just background murmuring. Every single word people said pierced straight into her ears.
“When they concentrated the lines on the Nurse, Juliet cos out at the start and goes, ah. She only says one line, but your eyes just snap to her.”
“It was fun. I thought I’d be bored watching the sa thing again⋯. I’m glad I didn’t leave.”
The atmosphere was different from when Team A’s play ended.
When Team A’s performance ended, everything had been filled with nothing but stories about Do Gyeoul. But after Team B’s performance, the audience was talking about .
Why the play was good. How the actors’ performances were. What emotions they themselves had felt at the ti.
‘From where, exactly, did I go wrong⋯.’
Along with an intense sense of defeat, Gyeoul felt hollow.
She hadn’t felt anything while watching Yeoreum’s stage. All she could do was rember the information flowing in visually.
That was why it felt even more suffocating. She had no idea what, exactly, she was supposed to imitate from that stage.
‘Do I have to be Han Yeoreum?’
Tiny things she would never be able to grasp were slipping past her, flowing straight into the audience’s hearts.
Not a single audience mber spoke about Team A’s .
As if it had been a dud.
As if it wasn’t even worth rembering.
Han Yeoreum had been Juliet, and Do Gyeoul was Do Gyeoul. Under the blanket draped over her knees, Gyeoul’s heart cooled, inch by inch.
* * *
“Yeoreum, you did great!”
“We lost, but we fought well—.”
Coming down from the stage, Team B of smiled refreshingly despite the lukewarm applause. As if no one had expected them to beat Do Gyeoul in the first place.
Only Myeong Jeha quietly t my gaze.
Our classmates were still riding the heat of the stage, talking excitedly about what they wished they’d done better.
“My heart was pounding so hard in the middle, I almost flubbed my lines.”
“That part was hilarious. Do you think people noticed your pupils shaking?”
“With eyes this small, how would they notice⋯. It looked natural.”
But I knew the result.
「Mission: The Image in Your Head」
Keyword: Image
You have risen as an iconic rookie! Congratulations. You have succeeded in engraving your uniqueness. Let’s raise your level decisively at this pace.
Success Condition
[You have reinforced ‘iconic rookie’ to an audience of over 100,000 people.]
Rewards
[Popularity] Increase
[Title] Acquired
Dok Gomin’s Muse / So Yesol’s Muse / Acting-Prodigy Rookie
User Comments
0 comments from readers