Chapter 81
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 81
Chapter Title: Midnight Practice
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The Cheongyeom Arts High mid-sized theater, empty in the dead of night.
All the lights were off, with only one illuminating the stage.
Even that light wasn’t the kind used for performances.
It was an indirect work light for cleaning or tidying up, glowing faintly hazy.
Beneath its woefully inadequate hue, too dim to fill the vast stage, one person stood.
“Hyun-woo, please……! Just stop already.”
Lee Cheong-ha, who had parted with a smiling face when her parents came to pick her up.
She stood alone, repeating the scene she’d botched earlier that day.
She must have been stunned when Huh Ji-woong called her right as she got home.
“Do-hyun, you’re close with Cheong-ha, right?”
“Huh?”
Ji-woong’s voice had been laced with worry as he explained.
“Cheong-ha suddenly called asking if she could use the theater……”
According to what Ji-woong relayed, she’d called out of the blue asking to borrow the theater.
He’d once talked with Cheong-ha herself about her stage fright.
Ji-woong had known about her stage fright from the first day of the semester.
There was no way he’d just sit idly by knowing that.
He’d told her that if she needed the theater to get used to the stage, she should call him anytime.
“If you leave me like this—I can’t go on living—”
Cheong-ha didn’t notice me at all as I entered and kept practicing.
In the silent, empty theater.
Her voice rang out alone, singing Jeong Hee-seon’s number.
It was a new song that Director Jang Jun-ho had specially composed with the music director, capturing Jeong Hee-seon’s raw emotion toward Yi Hyun-woo in the story.
“We’re happy right now—don’t try to ruin this happiness—”
I’d rushed over after hearing the news, but I had no idea what to say.
I quietly took a seat in the darkest corner of the audience, careful not to make a sound.
Cheong-ha kept practicing relentlessly, over and over.
I’d come to offer some comfort, but she was working so hard I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt.
She ran through every scene she appeared in, again and again.
Repeating the same lines, the same songs endlessly, berating herself.
“This isn’t it……. Cheong-ha. Please.”
She whipped herself like that, pounding her head in frustration.
It just wasn’t coming together for her.
“Again. Let’s try it again.”
Each time, she’d reproach herself and take her place center stage.
And kept on practicing.
Watching her desperate struggle, it hit me.
This wasn’t her thrashing about to overcome stage fright.
It was Cheong-ha, who hadn’t shown her true self in practice with the pros today.
Even back then, when I saw her mess up, I’d felt it wasn’t her stage fright.
Why hadn’t I realized it sooner?
On the way to school, Ji-woong had passed along everything Cheong-ha had told him.
She’d dejectedly poured out her true feelings to her homeroom teacher.
One line stuck with me the most.
“Ha-na does it so well. So incredibly well.”
It was about Song Ha-na.
When she first passed the audition, she must have tasted that thrill for the first time.
But that wasn’t the only emotion she felt.
Beyond something like stage fright, there was a more universal feeling.
Pressure.
The burden of carrying someone else’s fierce preparation for a hard-won spot and pushing forward.
The worry that she might not fulfill her role.
She must have mulled over daily the doubts and gazes from all the others preparing the show together.
Being selected in the audition came with the pressure to live up to those expectations.
She’d heard praise from a pro director for the first time and wanted to prove herself worthy.
And yet, Song Ha-na, who’d failed the audition, was still on the team.
Worse, Ha-na was now dazzling with absurd talent in her new role.
Anyone would feel the pressure in that situation, not just Cheong-ha.
And she was just an 18-year-old high schooler.
The weight of delivering a single line or song must have felt entirely different.
But it was something she had to overcome in the end.
Just like Cheong-ha was doing now.
She hadn’t let it show to anyone.
Not even to me—she was struggling silently to conquer that burden on her own.
“Whew. I can do this. Again.”
Cheong-ha gritted her teeth and dove back into practice.
Her face looked ready to crumple into tears, but no tears fell.
Frustration.
Anger at herself for not shrugging off even this much pressure.
And the burning desire to do well.
Pressure tangled with all those emotions in a messy knot, no doubt.
In a situation like this, all I could do was……
I sank deeper into the audience seat, out of her sight.
What I could do now wasn’t hasty advice or comfort.
Just watch quietly.
And remember her effort.
***
Monday rolled around after the weekend.
With the tryout performance just days away, practices were now daily.
Had Cheong-ha pulled herself together?
What if the pressure proved too much and she skipped practice?
I’d seen actors like that plenty in my past life, so my worry gnawed at me.
I wanted to text her, but I couldn’t without revealing I’d seen her in the mid theater.
Heart heavy, I stepped into the rehearsal room.
“Let’s have Cheong-ha walk out a bit faster in the opening scene.”
“Oh, faster? Like this?”
“Hmm. That’s a little too quick.”
“Then…… how about this?”
“Haha. Yeah, that’s perfect.”
Cheong-ha’s plucky voice rang out right away.
Relief washed over me instantly.
Thank goodness.
Cheong-ha was already there, practicing.
Her usual bright smile, her vibrant energy as she worked with the cast.
Who among them could possibly know?
The tears she’d shed alone over the weekend.
She gave nothing away, sought no pity, just smiled brightly—no one had a clue.
“Hey, Do-hyun!”
Cheong-ha spotted me standing quietly after entering the room, matching her blocking.
“Hold on a sec!”
“You like Do-hyun that much?”
“N-no, it’s not like that!”
Fielding the cast’s teasing, she bounded over with a huge grin, waving wildly.
“Have a good weekend?”
“You bet. You too, Cheong-ha?”
“Yeah! Hee-hee. Fully recharged.”
Up close, the image of her crying in the mid theater hit me harder.
She stood there fine, but my chest still ached for no reason.
I held back the urge to bring it up right then—couldn’t let it slip here.
I cleared my throat and forced a smile.
“Good to hear. You look great.”
I answered as normally as possible, not wanting to dismiss her hard work.
My upbeat response lit up her face even more.
Soon, Director Jang Jun-ho and the full cast gathered, and practice began.
Like last Friday, they broke it into scene cuts.
I tensed up more than necessary, stealing glances at Cheong-ha.
“Alright, Woo-hyuk, Cheong-ha—let’s run it.”
And finally, Cheong-ha’s turn came around.
Please, no mistakes this time.
Overcoming pressure wasn’t easy.
She’d endured that painful time alone over the weekend, but I couldn’t be sure.
It was better to assume it wouldn’t click right away.
If the flubs kept coming and Cheong-ha started to crack, I vowed to step in then.
“Hyun-woo!”
But today, my assumptions shattered spectacularly.
Cheong-ha was stronger—and more talented—than I’d given her credit for.
It felt like a glimpse of the queen who’d one day conquer Broadway.
***
Two days before the tryout.
At the Korean Art Hall stage, the ‘Pyeongchang-dong 777’ team prepped for rehearsal.
This wasn’t the special tryout rehearsal with Cheongyeom Arts High students.
It was the A-team—real main cast—running their tryout rehearsal.
Expectations were high.
This final rehearsal would be near-performance level.
Director Jang Jun-ho had long ago okayed me observing other teams’ practices anytime.
Cheong-ha’s performance last practice had spurred me on, sure.
With break leaving me free, I figured I’d study.
I’d come watch whenever my team’s schedule didn’t overlap.
Coming daily meant I was on nodding terms with the lobby staff now.
I slipped into the theater easily today too, picking a spot with a clear stage view.
The brief bustle settled, and with Director Jang’s cue, the final rehearsal kicked off.
Pros doing their thing really was on another level.
I watched the A-team’s practice and rehearsal, script on my lap, pen in hand.
Ah, there’s a way to release the fist like that.
Insights dawned as I watched; ideas flowed naturally. I jotted them in the script.
My script was already crammed from prior observations, so I’d brought plenty of Post-its today.
Yi Hyun-woo really was a perfect fit for Moon Woo-hyuk.
My analysis wasn’t limited to my role as Choi Mok-soo.
My part was small to begin with, not much to note.
Obviously, I had to break down the leads.
Key supporting roles, villains too.
In the end, I analyzed every role.
Moon Woo-hyuk’s Yi Hyun-woo was no exception.
Watching the actual main cast Yi Hyun-woo, I got why Jang picked Woo-hyuk.
Woo-hyuk’s character nailed a vibe super close to the pro’s.
“You’ve been suffering too, Father, all this time.”
Huh?
I’d been thinking how similar Woo-hyuk was, but today felt off.
Did Woo-hyuk give that vibe?
I recalled Woo-hyuk doing the same scene while watching the pro.
Something was different, though I couldn’t pinpoint it.
Why? What’s off?
I stared hard, hunting the difference.
One thing was clear: the pro’s emotion hit way harder.
Woo-hyuk’s Yi Hyun-woo lacked that—thud—resonance.
Note it down first. Thud…… Why does this emotion land……
I buried my head and scribbled furiously in the script.
***
The next day.
A-team’s tryout done, it was our team’s final rehearsal.
Whew. Over.
My role died relatively early in the show.
After Act 1, I shed the cumbersome costume quick and headed to the seats.
To watch the rest from the audience once my part wrapped.
And there it was—the scene in question.
“You’ve been suffering too, Father, all this time.”
Moon Woo-hyuk delivering the line I’d clocked as different in the pro’s version yesterday.
Got it.
Seeing Woo-hyuk’s now made it crystal clear.
The gap between the pro and Woo-hyuk’s two ‘Yi Hyun-woos.’