A Word That Can Never Be Changed
Kim Yeon-du, a reporter for PTN, stared blankly at the ending credits of Twins.
The first assignment she'd ever covered as a rookie journalist, back when her career was barely a few months old, had been the production press conference for The Butterfly Flower on the Zelkova Tree.
The Lee Yeonjae of that day had radiated the poise of a seasoned actor — an ease so natural it was hard to believe he had only just debuted.
His performance in the drama had been genuinely excellent, and her article about him had gone viral largely because of it, so she had always thought of him favorably.
Even so, Kim Yeon-du was not his fan.
She simply knew, as a matter of professional obligation, a handful of search-volume-driven keywords: 'the handsome child actor,' 'the rising star,' 'an easy actor to stan.'
But still….
Kim Yeon-du turned her head and looked around.
Everyone in the theater was on their feet, giving a standing ovation.
The crowd's attention was fixed on Director Yoon Kang-yeon, who had made Twins, and on the actor Lee Yeonjae standing beside him.
"(Seriously, he's not actually twin actors?)"
"(There's only one. It must really be a one-man, two-role film.)"
Just from the foreign voices drifting around her, she could tell how striking the film they had just watched was.
No one had felt the slightest dissonance watching a single actor play both leads — something only possible through masterful direction and editing, backed by overwhelming acting ability.
People stared at Lee Yeonjae as though they couldn't quite believe their eyes.
Those seated farther back rose onto their tiptoes, craning their necks this way and that just to catch a glimpse of the lead actor.
…So that's why they call him a genius actor.
She had only skimmed a few of his scenes for articles before; today was the first time she had properly watched Lee Yeonjae act.
The weight of the words 'genius actor' she had once typed so carelessly finally landed on her — making the days she'd idly rested her fingers on the keyboard feel all the more distant.
"(That was truly remarkable acting. How old is that actor?)"
"(He doesn't even look like a middle schooler yet. The film must have been shot ages ago — he looks so much bigger now than he did on screen.)"
"(Ah, I can't see well from here. I want a closer look.)"
The chatter of the crowd filled the gaps between the continuing applause.
And through applause that seemed like it would never end, the boy wore a serene smile — the smile of a born entertainer who had stood in places like this more than once or twice.
How long is this applause supposed to go on?
He seemed to be managing his expression well enough on the outside, but inside, he was bewildered.
He cautiously leaned toward Director Yoon, who was clapping beside him with a smile fixed in place, and whispered.
"Director. How long do we have to keep this up?"
The man replied with a grave face that he had no idea.
A genuinely, completely unhelpful answer. Well, he hadn't expected much.
I wonder if Jinbae's found a good spot to watch.
There were so many people that he couldn't locate Jinbae anywhere in the crowd.
And with cameras pointed at him, he couldn't exactly go swiveling his head around to look.
He was clapping away earnestly when someone in the seat behind him tapped his shoulder.
"…?"
"(That was an absolutely magnificent performance.)"
"(Thank you.)"
"(Is this your first time working with Director Yoon Kang-yeon?)"
"(Yes, that's right. Actually, this is my film debut.)"
His English, still conspicuously lacking, made it difficult to string together long sentences.
Worried that giving such short answers to a stranger might come across as rude, he made up for it by smiling as brightly as he could.
Please, don't start a conversation while the cameras are rolling.
He was on tenterhooks, terrified that a word he didn't understand would come up, or that he'd have to use one whose pronunciation hadn't been drilled out of it yet.
Fortunately, the person behind him responded with an admiring exclamation and a round of applause.
So seriously — how long are we supposed to clap for….
The question he couldn't ask anyone stayed lodged in his mouth.
Only after nearly ten full minutes of applause was he finally able to escape the theater.
Jinbae, who had spent the whole way back to the hotel hyper-vigilant in every direction and focused solely on getting them there safely, leapt up the moment they stepped into the room.
"Actor-nim, the film was incredible! I loved it so much. The entire time I was watching, I was just so happy to be there. It moved me that I even got to be by your side—"
"Hyung, I'm really grateful, but should we eat first?"
"Oh, right! You must be starving. I'll order room service."
It was a lovely sight, Jinbae smiling with a face gone soft as fresh tofu, but excessive praise was still embarrassing.
Director Yoon had suggested raising a commemorative toast in his own room, but Yeonjae politely declined.
Just thinking about tomorrow's interview schedule makes me want to run away.
After a leisurely week, the next three days were booked solid with interviews scheduled down to the minute.
Some of the reporters had come from Korea, but most were foreign press — hardly a schedule to take lightly.
I need to recharge first.
He was still fated to wake at dawn the next day, same as ever, for acting practice.
He ate a light dinner and lay down in bed early.
But sleep didn't come as easily as he'd hoped.
It's strange.
It felt odd, watching his own face on that enormous screen.
It was like peering into someone else's daily life, and the emotions he'd channeled back then echoed faintly, leaving him with a peculiar mood.
All sorts of impressions rose and fell, but in the end, only a single sentence remained.
please — let Lee Jin-woo and Kang Tae-il be satisfied with that ending.
"Next we have the Korean team. We'll begin in three minutes."
Ha. Thank goodness.
The moment he heard the word 'Korean,' the tension drained right out of his body.
Interviews with foreign reporters had been one long stretch of nerves.
Granted, a professional interpreter sat beside him, so there was no absolute need to answer in English.
But after four months of quality instruction, he couldn't just lean on the interpreter for everything.
That was all money, after all.
The company had presumably paid his teachers out of his training budget — and shouldn't he at least deliver value for that?
So aside from answers that required a deeper, more nuanced discussion of his character and the plot, he did his best to respond in English as much as possible.
Watching Director Yoon answer fluently in English the whole while made his chest tighten for no good reason.
And the thought that he might look more scatterbrained than that man made him genuinely annoyed.
Whether or not I ever break into Hollywood, I am mastering English. No exceptions.
CEO Jang had told him he was more than capable of making it in Hollywood, but honestly, he wasn't interested.
He could act perfectly well in Korea, so why would he need to go to unfamiliar ground — and more than anything, he couldn't see any reason he should.
CEO Jang had said that performing alongside foreign actors was a way of proving one's 'rank' in the industry.
If that rank mattered so much to the company, he wouldn't turn down offers when they came… but otherwise, was there really any need to go out of his way to pursue it?
Anyway. Interviews first.
Hollywood or no Hollywood, he just had to get through the schedule.
Seeing the next group file into the room, he rose promptly to his feet.
As he exchanged greetings, the face of a woman holding a microphone looked familiar.
Where have I seen her before?
He gave nothing away with his expression as he turned the thought over carefully.
"Hello. I'm Kim Yeon-du, a reporter with PTN. The film was truly wonderful."
The instant he heard the woman's name, an exclamation escaped him before he could stop it.
"Oh."
"Yes?"
"You attended the production press conference for The Butterfly Flower on the Zelkova Tree, didn't you?"
"…! Goodness, how do you remember that?"
He smiled at her astonished face.
It had only been the second time they'd met, so of course her face wasn't one he'd know well — but after days of nothing but unfamiliar foreigners, it stirred an unexpected warmth in him.
"You asked me the final question back then, remember? It's really nice to see you again like this."
Truthfully, he also remembered the article Kim Yeon-du had written, but saying so felt like it might come off as too self-serving, so he stopped there. There wasn't time for more small talk anyway.
They took their seats quickly, and the interview began.
Kim Yeon-du, handling her microphone with far more confidence than she had two years ago, directed her first question to Director Yoon.
"I haven't seen a film from you before where a child actor carried the lead role. Was there something that prompted you to take on this challenge?"
"I always wanted the challenge; the hard part was seizing the opportunity. As I've said before, the script for Twins was written four years ago. But I couldn't find the right actor, so I had to wait. I made other films in the meantime, but this story always sat in one corner of my heart."
The Director's face as he spoke was serious to the point of severity.
Unbelievable. The man really can act.
"Then the moment I saw Yeonjae, I knew. That if it was him, I could finally make the film I'd been dreaming of. The whole time I was preparing for shooting and talking things through with Yeonjae, I was constantly in awe. I'd thought the script was already complete — but our conversations led to a great many revisions."
"Really? Could you tell us what kinds of changes?"
At the reporter's question, Director Yoon passed his gaze over to him, as if offering him the stage.
He barely suppressed a laugh at the man's deceptively mature face, then opened his mouth.
"While Director Yoon and I were preparing for the Twins shoot, I read a post online. It was written by someone worrying over who they should marry… and there was something a little bitter in it."
"What did it say?"
"The person said that whoever they married should, at the very least, have grown up in a 'normal' environment."
"Ah…."
He understood perfectly well why the writer had chosen that word.
Marriage was something you could only commit to with any real chance of avoiding regret if you were certain the person would be with you for the rest of your life.
So of course people weighed a spouse's childhood family environment — something that shapes a person's core nature to a considerable degree.
He knew that. He even thought it was a sensible position. And yet….
"I understood the sentiment completely, but I couldn't help feeling a little bitter. The environment you're born into isn't something you get to choose, is it."
It applied to everyone — the person studying themselves half to death to land a respectable job, and the person thrown out into society as a child to provide for their family. Anyone, so long as they were human.
No one could know what actions that person might take, or what changes those actions might bring.
But there was one thing that never changed, regardless of any such future.
An unalterable word, one that no amount of personal will could touch.
A loathsome word that could never be shed, no matter how much time passed. Family background.
"Exactly what conditions count as that 'normal environment' the writer described, only they would know. But this much is certain. Whether it's me, raised in an orphanage; Lee Jin-woo, abused by his own mother; or Kang Tae-il, raised among gangsters — none of us grew up in what that person would call a normal environment."
"……."
Even if he acted brilliantly enough to earn praise from everyone around him, amassed untold wealth, and collected more awards than he could count —
the phrase describing his childhood family background would never change.
The child abandoned by his parents and raised in an orphanage.
Whether that was abnormal or normal — honestly, he didn't care.
How far he concerned himself with other people's gazes was, at the very least, something he got to decide for himself.
Wailing about how sad it was, over something already decided — that was just a waste of effort.
But once in a while, it did feel unfair.
'Yeonjae, you use chopsticks so well…!'
There had been a time when Seong Ijun, over lunch, complimented him on how properly he held his chopsticks.
That was one of the habits he had built back around the time he first started elementary school, when he was obsessively preoccupied with 'how others saw him.'
Correct chopstick technique. A back held straight. Neatly trimmed hair.
Even then, he hadn't cared how people looked at him — not for his own sake.
But he did know that if he misbehaved, the orphanage Director and the teachers who cared for him would bear the blame for it.
He hated that idea to death, so he read every relevant book he could get his hands on and corrected himself, piece by piece.
Yes — there had been days like that, once.