Rising Star (3)
Had there ever been a phenomenon this bizarre in the entire history of Korean broadcasting?
One month after its release, the Enflix original series Flower of Blood was devouring the entire landscape of popular culture like a runaway locomotive whose brakes had been ripped out.
Even now, while the horse-dance syndrome born from the song Seoul Style had yet to cool, the storm created by Flower of Blood — still holding the number-one spot on Enflix’s global charts — was more than enough to drive the entire nation of Korea mad.
And standing at the very center of that storm, the life of seven-year-old child actress Seo Da-young — my life — had been completely transformed.
Every morning I opened my eyes to advertising contracts with figures that had changed overnight. Outside our front door, terrestrial documentary cameras and entertainment reporters had set up camp, somehow having discovered the address. Kindergarten attendance had long since dwindled to once or twice a week.
Inside the moving van I sipped the same premium imported mineral water that top stars drank, changing three or four times a day into children’s clothes sponsored by the highest-end brands.
It was a streak of unbroken success far too extravagant — and far too heavy — for a seven-year-old life.
“Da-young, the reaction overseas is exploding right now. How does it feel? Do you actually realize you’ve become a global star at only seven?”
Under the dazzling lights, an entertainment-news reporter thrust a microphone forward with a bright smile.
“Um… I get a lot of emails written in English, so that’s pretty amazing. But I still can’t read English, so Mom reads them for me.”
I delivered the prepared answer with practiced innocence, and the staff inside the studio burst into delighted laughter at how adorable I was.
Question and answer traded places with mechanical precision inside the interview room.
By now I answered the interviewer’s questions out of pure habit, as if I had always belonged there.
Yet behind my pupils, as I looked at the interviewer, an entirely different scene was rewinding like film.
A few days earlier, in the garden of Chae-eun’s family villa where the sunlight had been especially sharp.
The words Chae-eun had spoken that day began to play again like film.
“Actually… once this project is over, I’ve decided to quit being a child actress.”
The quiet confession that slipped from Chae-eun’s lips froze the air above the lawn.
Chae-eun had stood in front of the camera to meet her parents’ expectations — more precisely, the expectations of her mother, the actress Baek Seo-jin.
Baek Seo-jin had known her daughter possessed real talent as an actress, and so she had guided Chae-eun with strict discipline.
But through this drama, and through the deep conversations she had shared with Han Ari both on and off set, something inside Baek Seo-jin had clearly shifted.
More accurately, it was closer to an “indefinite hiatus.”
If Chae-eun ever wants to act again once she grows up, she can come back anytime.
That was the compromise Baek Seo-jin had reached.
Given how much Baek Seo-jin treasured her child’s talent, completely abandoning the path of a child actress would have been impossible. Respecting Chae-eun’s wishes even this far was the absolute maximum compromise she could make.
In any case, Baek Seo-jin’s decision was entirely plausible.
It was common in the industry for child actors who had firmly stamped their names and faces into the public consciousness through a major project to take a long break until adulthood.
Before filming Flower of Blood, the lack of recognition would have made it hard to let her go so easily. But now that her face was known worldwide, the credit of having appeared in Flower of Blood was as good as an insurance policy.
…Still, she was the first friend I could truly call my own since stepping onto the path of an actress. Watching our roads diverge like this left a faint bitterness.
Even so, I had to understand and send her off with a smile.
“Still… I want to stay friends with all of you.”
Chae-eun added, fidgeting with a paper cup in her small hands.
I was about to answer of course when—
“…No way.”
Ha-eun, who had been silent ever since Chae-eun’s bombshell, suddenly shot to her feet. The rims of her eyes were already red.
Unlike us, who treated acting merely as a way to satisfy our parents’ expectations, Ha-eun had purely admired the profession of actress and had chased perfection on set more fiercely than anyone. She had wanted to become like Chae-eun.
To her, Chae-eun’s voluntary exit felt like a betrayal — the collapse of her admiration.
“…Traitor.”
“Ha-eun, it’s not like that…”
“I hate it! Chae-eun’s an idiot!”
Ha-eun finally burst into tears and bolted out of the garden. Kang Si-woo, flustered, glanced between us for a moment before deciding he couldn’t bear the awkward atmosphere any longer. “Uh, uh? Ha-eun!” he called, and fled after her.
What a pathetic guy.
When it really counts he turns that indecisive, so of course he’ll never make a good man.
Once the two children were gone, the lawn fell silent in an instant, leaving only Chae-eun and me.
I had always sensed that Chae-eun never held any great passion for acting itself, and deep down I had half-expected a day like this might come. Only I had been prepared.
I walked over to the bench and quietly sat down beside her.
“Does it hurt?”
“…A little. But I figured Ha-eun would get mad.”
Chae-eun rested her chin on her knees and smiled. It was the forced smile of a girl with deer-like eyes that looked ready to shatter if anyone so much as poked them.
She really was such a mature child.
Unlike a fake kid like me.
There was no doubt her genius-level talent lay in acting — the kind directors coveted and audiences raved over. Yet what made Chae-eun’s eyes sparkle whenever her schedule freed up was the secret sketchbook she filled with manga and animation characters.
Should a person do what they’re good at, or what they love?
Even I, who had lived decades across two lifetimes, still didn’t know whether that question had a clear answer. But one thing was certain.
“If you made a choice you won’t regret, then that’s enough.”
At my calm words of comfort, Chae-eun turned her head and looked at me. Then she smiled — a clear, pure smile as if she had just gained the whole world.
“Yeah. I won’t regret it.”
And then she turned the question back on me.
“Da-young. What about you?”
“Huh?”
“Then… will you never regret walking the path of an actress?”
“Da-young? Was the question a little too hard?”
The reporter’s voice snapped me back to the present. The memories of the past scattered at once into the bright lights of the studio.
What had the question been again?
I answered the interviewer with whatever came out of my mouth on reflex.
“No. I just… thought I want to become a good actress.”
“Hahaha. Da-young has a quirky side too, doesn’t she? It’s almost hard to believe the same child who gave such intense performances in Flower of Blood can be this cute. Still, that one answer — that you want to be a good actress — really lands with sincerity.”
Even as the interview wrapped up amid cheerful laughter, the heavy stone lodged in my chest refused to disappear.
Chae-eun’s confession had sent a deep ripple through me, who had been walking the path of an actress without much thought.
Am I… really acting because I love it?
There was no need to think deeply.
The answer was no.
The only reason I was quietly enduring this grueling child-actor schedule was that I didn’t want to disappoint my mother, Han Ari.
The guilt of having stolen the real daughter from Han Ari’s family by reincarnating into this body.
That guilt was what kept turning me into the good child who simply met her mother’s expectations.
That didn’t mean I hated acting. But if someone asked whether I truly loved it…
I couldn’t answer right away.
Then Chae-eun, what do you want to do once you quit acting?
I don’t know yet.
You don’t have anything you want to do?
Nuh-uh. It’s the opposite — there are too many things I want to do. I want to be a manga artist, and a voice actress. I want to draw animation, and I want to be a game developer too.
Still…
I want to live doing the things I love.
After filming ended and the spotlight went dark in the waiting room.
In the waiting-room mirror, a seven-year-old kid dressed in glamorous clothes stared down at me with lonely eyes.
“…Da-young.”
At the familiar voice I lifted my head.
Mom — Han Ari — was leaning against the doorway, smiling quietly.
Even under the brutal schedule, those eyes always hid every trace of fatigue whenever they looked at her daughter. That warmth stabbed me right in the chest.
Useless worry.
I just needed to stay the good child who met Han Ari’s expectations.
“Let’s go.”
“…Okay.”
I gathered my bag, took Mom’s hand, and walked down the broadcasting-station corridor.
On the giant lobby screen, highlight clips from Flower of Blood still played on loop, and passing station staff whispered as they looked at us.
But I paid attention only to the warmth of Mom’s hand tightly holding mine.
“Mom. What’s the next schedule?”
At my question Han Ari glanced down at me while we walked. Then she gently shook her head.
“That’s it for today.”
“…Really?”
“Yeah. The written radio interview that was supposed to come after this — Mom pushed it to next week. Our daughter worked hard today.”
Without meaning to, the corners of my mouth lifted and a small laugh slipped out.
“It’s been a while. Having no schedule like this. I’m happy I get to be with Mom for once.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“…Da-young. Can Mom ask you just one thing?”
Han Ari’s voice was quieter than usual.
At that tone I reflexively looked up at her.
“Yes. What is it?”
“Da-young… are you happy being an actress?”
Ding.
The heavy silence was broken by the chime of the arriving elevator.
The elevator that would take us to the next place.
The tail end of 2012.
Before anyone noticed, the seasons had raced on without mercy, and a sharp, knife-edged wind now swept through the streets.
Yet unlike the cold air, the world itself was burning hotter than ever.
Familiar carols began to pour endlessly from street radios and speakers, and every glass display window of the big department stores blazed with colorful Christmas trees.
Couples in thick coats walked hand-in-hand, breathing white puffs into the air, while children fell asleep counting the gifts they would receive from Santa — the year-end season.
Korea, too, was busy wrapping up a turbulent year and preparing to greet a new sun.
And.
The stars that had burned the brightest and hottest across Korean popular culture this year were about to gather for the grand festival that would crown that final night.
Actors and directors, singers and entertainers.
And every top star who had received the public’s love with their whole body this year — all of them assembling in one place for a single honor.
The undisputed highest authority in Korean comprehensive arts.
The 2012 Baeksang Arts Awards.
At last, the curtain began to rise, slowly.