A One-Woman Show
It was the second day of shooting, right on the heels of the first. Because they had to cram as many scenes as possible into the weekend, the lighting crew had been on set since the crack of dawn yet again.
“Ugh, I'm dead tired….”
“This setup's different from yesterday's. Give it one more check.”
The staff topped up their caffeine—modern humanity's third essential nutrient—and traded stories about yesterday's shoot.
“At first I couldn't figure out why Director Jjang cast a total rookie on the spot. But there was a reason for it.”
“Right? Even when everyone else's energy is flagging, she somehow pulls the whole center back together.”
The main topic of conversation was Han Yeo-reum. She was the only one who hadn't flubbed a single take, and it had won the staff over completely.
“She's the only one of the three who can actually act. How does she not have an agency?”
“Exactly. But she'll land somewhere pretty decent soon enough, don't you think?”
“Like where? Boon Actors? Too cutthroat for her. She might mesh well with Jeongdam, though.”
“I heard One Frame's been scouting rookie actresses lately too.”
Plausible agency names kept tumbling out of the staff's mouths, but the lighting director just sipped his coffee in silence.
“What about you, Director? Where do you think Yeo-reum will end up?”
At a staff member's question, the director laughed as if to say, what a thing to ask. Then he answered, short and simple.
“Somewhere good.”
“That's it? Come on~!”
The staff burst out laughing at the half-hearted reply.
“I'm serious. I can feel it.”
But the lighting director stubbornly refused to smile.
“That girl… is going somewhere huge.”
His instincts, honed by years in broadcasting, told him so. Han Yeo-reum simply felt different. She glowed even without the lights.
Where yesterday's shoot had focused on the three leads, today's called for the extras as well.
Thanks to that, the set was humming with people. Amid the crowd of extra actors filling the classroom, Yeo-reum entered the scene as a transfer student.
“A transfer student right before the new semester! Hello, hello~. I'm Hina. Let's get along great!”
Chu Ga-eul stepped up close to Yeo-reum's desk and tilted her head to one side, adorably. Then, as if proposing a handshake, she thrust out her hand. Yeo-reum, watching her, wore a faintly underwhelmed expression.
“Cut!”
Director Jjang called the cut and gave a subtle shake of his head.
Strange. She just doesn't catch the eye….
Despite the pink hair, the ribbon around her neck, the white knee socks, and every over-the-top gesture in the book, Chu Ga-eul somehow seemed to melt into the background whenever Han Yeo-reum was in frame. The camera kept drifting back to Yeo-reum, sitting quietly in her seat.
“Ga-eul-ssi, that take was good, but let's pay a little more attention to the tone of your delivery, okay? Watch your emphasis.”
“Yes, I'm sorry….”
“No, no. No need to wilt over it.”
It was probably the voice. Chu Ga-eul pitched every line of dialogue so high that she certainly looked bright and bubbly, but none of it landed with any real punch.
What would it look like if Han Yeo-reum played it…?
Somewhere along the way, Director Jjang had started mentally casting Yeo-reum in Ga-eul's role. Conveniently, tomorrow's schedule included the very scene where Han Yeo-reum's character changes—the one where the background extra Pi Chae-won tries to mirror the heroine Hina's character exactly.
“Yeo-reum-ssi. Could you run the lines Ga-eul-ssi just did, word for word?”
At Director Jjang's instruction, the set went still in an instant.
…You're going to pick apart how bad my acting is, in front of everyone?
For a split second, Ga-eul's composure cracked. The face that had been smiling sweetly moments before hardened into a mask.
“If the two of you play them completely differently, the transition into tomorrow's scene will feel off. You know the part I mean, right, Ga-eul-ssi? The one where Pi Chae-won copies Hina's character beat for beat.”
“Ah, yes. I remember. Of course, of course….”
Ga-eul agreed in a low register that was nothing like the voice she'd used as Hina a moment ago. And somewhere underneath it, resentment flickered.
Does he have any idea how hard my character is to pull off? Even if Han Yeo-reum tries it, she won't be any better.
Chu Ga-eul's Hina was a far more difficult role than Yeo-reum's Pi Chae-won. The corny lines, the exaggerated gestures—there was a delicate line to walk: it had to look silly without tipping over into absurdity.
“Got it. I'll give it a shot. The exact same lines as before?”
Since yesterday, Yeo-reum's expressiveness had amounted to little more than a slight furrow of the brow or a firm upward curl of the lip—yet she rose from her seat with all the swagger in the world. Director Jjang's cue was all it took.
Fine. Let's see just how good you are.
She's got nothing but the dead-fish stare, right? Ga-eul decided to treat this as her chance to shake off the nameless anxiety and restlessness that kept flaring up inside her. Watching Yeo-reum fumble through an awkward, stilted Hina would let her find her rhythm again.
“Action!”
But the moment Yeo-reum transformed her expression—faster than the word had even finished leaving the director's mouth—Ga-eul saw it with her own eyes.
…This isn't it.
The formless anxiety that had been gnawing at her began to take shape. Han Yeo-reum swallowed both Pi Chae-won and Hina whole, embodying them both at once.
Without a trace of awkwardness.
Tae-yang spread out his workbook over lunch break again today. The circles were so densely packed that by the later pages, only the problems he'd gotten wrong were marked with checks. As he plugged formulas into the math problems, a trickle of noise began to seep into his ears.
“You know our auditorium? Apparently they're filming something there right now. Another web drama.”
“Oh yeah, I heard about that—I've got a sunbae working as an extra. They say the lead actress is seriously good. Wanna go watch?”
“You mean Ju Jun-seo? The crowds were swarming him. We'd never get close even if we went now.”
“No, not him. A girl. What was her name again… something like yours, Tae-yang.”
Even if she's good, so what. Tae-yang smirked inwardly and spun his mechanical pencil around.
What people should be watching is Han Yeo-reum's acting.
He still remembered her audition performance from months ago, clear as day. Han Yeo-reum, delivering a monologue that ran past five minutes all on her own—wasting not a single breath, crumbling not a single word. He wished people could see that sooner rather than later.
“I remembered! Han Yeo-reum!”
Which was why his body shot up out of his seat before his brain caught up.
“What did you just say?”
“Um… Han Yeo-reum….”
“An actress???”
The classmate froze as Han Tae-yang strode over and demanded an answer. He felt certain he'd done something wrong.
“Uh… the web drama… at the auditorium….”
Before his friend could even finish, Han Tae-yang yanked open the classroom door.
BANG—!
The explosive sound sent everyone in the room into a panic. Han Tae-yang sprinted for the auditorium. It was already packed solid with onlookers. He shouldered through the crowd toward the front, and just as he broke through, the director's action call dropped.
“….”
At the center of the set stood a face Tae-yang knew. Bathed in light, Han Yeo-reum was pouring out line after line without a single hitch.
“It's supposed to be a three-year club commitment~ so I've really been agonizing over this. Hing. The concert band's strongest at the school next door, but being a manager for the volleyball or basketball team would just be way too much work. Oh, wait. What else was there? The ear-cleaning club sounds kind of boring, right? Maybe I'll start a shopping club~ What's a shopping club, you ask? I just invented it this second. After school, we should all—”
It was a one-woman show, plain and simple. Drifting alone among the actors standing frozen in place, Yeo-reum unleashed an avalanche of dialogue.
Every single word was a light ball, tossed to the auditorium floor, rocketing up to the ceiling, falling back down and bouncing along.
“Her memory is insane….”
Someone beside Tae-yang breathed out in awe. The longer Yeo-reum's monologue ran, the more quiet gasps of admiration rippled through the crowd.
“Cut! Okay—!”
The director was the one to bring the endless stream of lines to a close. At some point, the onlookers had all raised their phones—filming not Ju Jun-seo, but Han Yeo-reum. Click after click clattered dizzyingly through the auditorium. Tae-yang left without a word.
“Honestly… Han Yeo-reum.”
He was going to have to ask her for an official signed photo one of these days.
Before anyone realized it, the shoot was sprinting toward its finish line.
“Jun-seo, you've really worked hard. We're almost done now. Truly!”
“Yeah, got it.”
The final shoot was the two characters' farewell scene. It had to be filmed during the sunset's magic hour, which left them a mere forty minutes. The staff buzzed around accordingly, and Ju Jun-seo found himself gazing out over the battlefield of a set, remembering.
…This feels exactly like a runway right now.
However immaculate the stage looked—like a finished work of art—what happened behind it was always like this. Frantic, urgent, every second precious, everyone tripping over their own feet. All that effort, poured out for one flawless minute of walking.
Come to think of it, it's not so different from drama shoots.
Watching the lights being recalibrated, Ju Jun-seo recalled the glow he'd seen from the runway. A web drama shoot he'd dreaded to death had, without his noticing, stirred up nostalgia.
“Both of you, step into frame—!”
They were right on the edge of magic hour. Ju Jun-seo took his place before the camera, one step apart from Han Yeo-reum. Orange sunset light washed over one side of her face, and her brown eyes caught the glow, turning a strange, iridescent color.
“Okay! Let's roll!”
Director Jjang's voice, thick with excitement, boomed out. The camera light blinked red, and the crack of the slate rang through the air.