Broadcasting (1)

It was April, when flowers of every color bloomed in cheerful abundance.

And now, at last, online articles were beginning to carry the news that Sword-Bound Gentleman would soon air.

Of course, the world wasn’t exactly falling over itself to pay attention to a drama that didn’t have a single famous actor in it.

At most, people made a fuss when one of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the rookie cast happened to show up on TV or at the shoot.

But that only made us burn hotter, didn’t it?

The set, which had always been in good spirits, was blazing with more energy than ever as filming neared its end.

Right in the middle of all that was Cheong-ah.

Yep. Ignored again.

On break, she was crouched down, glaring at her smartphone with all the intensity of a hunter stalking prey.

It had been a little over half a year since last autumn.

She had known Jaekyung for that long, and yet the number of times they’d actually met could be counted on one hand.

Even then, it was usually in group settings, where there was barely any chance to talk privately.

She wanted to get close to him.

When had that started? If someone asked, she’d have to admit, with embarrassing honesty, that it had been around last fall, when Jaekyung came by with coffee as a little offering.

That was when he’d started to occupy her thoughts in a strangely persistent way.

He’d drifted into her mind when she was absentminded, kept tugging at her attention for no reason, and even the lemonade she’d drunk that day had lingered in her head for some absurd reason.

So she reached out, thinking maybe they could at least talk a little, but the other side remained so flat and indifferent that it only made her more stubborn.

So far, Jaekyung’s responses had come in one of two forms.

First: if she brought up business, he answered in a word or two.

Second: no response at all.

In modern terms, he left her on read.

Come to think of it, that second category made up the overwhelming majority.

Sometimes it felt like she was writing in a diary to an imaginary friend.

Lately, she’d become painfully aware that she’d grown oddly numb to being ignored.

At first, whenever she messaged him, she’d spend the entire time hovering over the chat window, terrified that if he replied while she still had the read message open, he’d catch her waiting, so she’d tap back out within one second of checking the messenger window—hundreds of times a day.

But lately, she’d already sensed that no reply was coming, so she just left the chat open and stared at it blankly.

Maybe he’s just not the kind of person who replies much?

She’d wondered that too.

And to be fair, the answer was no.

The proof was right in front of her.

“Heh-heh, yesterday Writer Han even sent me a coffee coupon because he said I’d had a hard time. Man! How can one person be that cool?”

“Haha, he really is a great person. I asked him something I was curious about, and he even called me to explain it.”

It was a conversation between Director Byeongki and the male lead, Jin-geon.

Both of them seemed to keep in touch with Jaekyung fairly often.

When had it been? After Byeongki had fought the boss who’d been tormenting him, he’d practically become Jaekyung’s devotee and bragged about him every chance he got.

Jin-geon had gotten close to him while gaming with Byeongki, and then one day he’d joined one of the drinking sessions between Jaekyung and Byeongki and become close that way too.

Cheong-ah’s face puffed up even more.

Why am I the only one...

Why could those people reach him and she couldn’t?

She let out a complaint that vaguely reminded one of a song lyric and groaned over it, but she knew the answer well enough herself.

A writer and an actor exchanging messages?

In the first place, it wasn’t something that happened all that often.

If anything, it was the sort of thing you should avoid, if only out of respect for the director’s authority and the atmosphere on set.

Jin-geon had a reason to stay connected, what with the difficulty he’d been having in interpreting his character, but Cheong-ah didn’t even have that.

Hyang-dan was too easy for her.

Why, why don’t I have any questions about my role???

Well, because she’d been present for the character’s creation in the first place—but there was no way she could know anything about the life she’d lived before regression.

Why don’t I have any excuse to contact him at all...?

That frustration was all that remained, and it kept spiraling into more and more thought until she’d gone so far as this.

No, wait. Why am I even waiting for Writer Han’s messages in the first place!?

It hit her like a flash of lightning.

She was on the brink of an epiphany!

But there was an ancient tradition passed down from time immemorial:

Whenever your scalp started to tingle and you felt like some great realization was about to come, something always came along to interrupt it.

“Oh right, I heard Writer Han’s been going running lately.”

*Perk?*

“He said once it gets hotter, he won’t be able to run as much, so he’s trying to do a lot now while he can.”

Running? Where?

It was pathetic, really, the way she eavesdropped so intently and fed her curiosity.

If Byeongki had done it, it might have looked like the start of some shady crime, but with his face, it just looked intimidating.

Even the way he furtively listened in seemed picturesque from the point of view of someone on set.

“Well, he probably runs along the Han River course.”

At that, Cheong-ah found herself wondering whether she owned running shoes.

What she should have been wondering first was whether she even needed to go that far.

But the desire to “get close,” which had already passed beyond interest and entered the territory of stubborn pride, promptly erased several unnecessary steps from her head.

And so she resolved that, starting tomorrow, on any day when filming was off, she would go running.

Good. I need some exercise too. It’s part of being an actor...

She glanced down at her phone screen.

...Huh.

Cheong-ah’s pupils trembled as if an earthquake had struck them.

When...?

She must have been lost in thought while leaving the screen on, because before she knew it, he’d replied.

Not even an alarm had gone off, which meant the message had come in while she was already in the chat window.

Wouldn’t she look like someone waiting for a reply with no business at all?

Well, that was true, but what if he’d caught on to that intention?

She was in danger.

Cheong-ah had a brilliant idea—brilliant, in her own opinion.

Tap-tap-tap!

Her fingers flew like lightning.

Making excuses, over and over and over.

Ryu Cheong-ah had made the ugliest possible choice she could make in a moment of embarrassment.

And all the while, she thought:

But what exactly is pretty? The flowers? The people? Or...

In the photo, there was also Cheong-ah herself, with only half her face visible.

Her thoughts skittered all over the place.

Her heartbeat had gone wild at the mere fact that he’d replied, and her earlobes were turning red for no reason at all.

* * *

The spring flowers really were beautiful.

My job kept me indoors so much that when I saw something that so clearly marked the season, I couldn’t help feeling a strange little lift in my chest.

Since I’d been given a second chance at a decent season of life, I should probably learn how to enjoy things like this too.

And yet, before I could even get to that thought, my sense of self-importance got in the way and I gave up.

Broadcasting is right around the corner. What kind of rest are you talking about?

Sometimes—no, quite often—these days I’d be sitting perfectly still and suddenly feel my heart pounding on its own, sending a rush of anxiety through me.

I knew the diagnosis better than anyone else.

Panic born of anxiety.

In my life, broadcasting had always been an event that arrived as a set: expectation and despair delivered together.

I’d charge out with a strong start, only to topple over with a dull thud and suffer the kind of despair that only made the expectation hurt more by comparison.

That pattern had been carved into my body.

I told myself there was no reason for it now, but if that kind of reassurance fixed anything, why would I be tearing my hair out over it?

For a while, the breathing trouble had gotten so bad that daily life had become nearly impossible.

That was why I ran.

One of the well-known effects of exercise is that if you deliberately raise your pulse, you can trick the body into mistaking anxiety-induced heart rate increases for exercise-induced ones.

And it really did work pretty well.

Today, too, I’d felt like panic might be creeping up on me, so I came out to run—and because I was exhausted, there was no room left for anxious thoughts.

The old saying was right.

When the body gets tired, the brain stops making trouble.

Should I call it here?

The moment I breathed out in a rough gasp, my phone pinged.

I pulled it out and narrowed my eyes.

I was about to leave it unanswered when what I’d heard from Seonghun-hyung yesterday started nagging at me for no good reason.

“What? He doesn’t really answer actresses’ messages?”

“Right, there’s the issue of the director’s authority on set, and besides, if you’re going to talk privately in the first place...”

“You little punk! There’s something called basic human relationships, isn’t there? What’s with reading a message and just ignoring it? Tsk! I knew it back when you were in college! You can still be close privately, can’t you?”

I’d mostly understood that, but the next part was the problem.

“No, I mean, with male actors, sure. But if it’s a female actress, then it feels like...”

“That’s discrimination! Discrimination! Especially since your set is full of rookies, right? That kind of thing can really crush their self-esteem...”

One keyword stuck to me.

Self-esteem.

Hearing that, I was already half-drowning in panic, and on top of that I found myself worrying about that weak little glass-frog mental state of hers.

That’s what makes trauma so nasty.

Even when I was a late-service sergeant, I hadn’t exactly been careful with my behavior, and yet now I was the kind of man who worried over every little thing.

All right, a reply it was.

But why is this woman writing in such long paragraphs every single time?

Because the poor thing put too much effort into it, I wrestled with the wording and finally typed out one sentence.

Han Jaekyung: I’m on a diet, so I’m fine.

A long sigh escaped me.

I decided to think positively.

Still, the quality was incredible.

The first through tenth episodes had already been polished and finished in post.

From what I’d checked, Ryu Cheong-ah really was Ryu Cheong-ah.

Her acting was flawless—absolutely beyond criticism.

Thinking of that, I decided this anxiety was a risk worth taking.

They’ll start releasing the teaser soon, and broadcasting is a month and a half away, maybe?

The first draft of all sixteen episodes had been finished long ago.

But production was always fluid, and changes were inevitable, so what was happening now was the later-stage polishing and revision.

It wasn’t anything major.

If anything, it was closer to something minor, something with very little labor attached.

The problem, as always, was people.

Ping!

Speak of the tiger, and the tiger appears.

He was talking about Cheong-ah’s parents.

Over time, I’d steadily gathered evidence through Chu Hyeokjae.

It was almost irritating, how neatly he moved exactly according to plan.

No, scratch that. Better to call it disgusting.

Was this the price of talent?

Even from where I stood—with barely any human connections to speak of—Ryu Cheong-ah’s luck with parents was of a truly appalling standard.

Still, there wasn’t likely to be much variance.

If they tried anything flashy, I’d already prepared things so I could shoot them down immediately.

Probably the time when they’ll really start making moves is... around the third week after broadcasting starts, I’d guess.

Coincidentally, that was when I’d be at my most sensitive.

The time after broadcasting starts, when Ryu Cheong-ah gets dragged through the mud. That’s probably the perfect moment for them to go around and run their little business schemes.

I would wipe it all away.

That decision had not changed.

And yet,

...There it is again.

My heart thudded a little heavily.

I frowned.

I’ve caught my breath. Maybe I should run a little more before heading back.

The moment I put my phone back in my pocket, someone called out to me.

“Ohhh, Wriiiter Han?”

They were speaking in a terribly, awfully contrived tone.

“...Ryu Cheong-ah?”

Ryu Cheong-ah came trotting over, all awkward, all flustered.

There are some faces that can freeze into the shape of a smile, apparently.

“Wriiiter Han, are you ruuuning heeeere too? What an amazing coincidence!”

“Excuse me? Ah, well... but you too, Miss Ryu?”

“Yes! I’m trrrying to get some exercise!”

What was this person doing?

She even seemed to have dressed properly for exercise, so there wasn’t anything especially suspicious about her.

...Is this self-consciousness gone too far?

Something still felt oddly suspicious.

Then Cheong-ah said,

“W-we met, so it must be fate—w-would you like to ruuun together!?”

Just as I was about to refuse out of habit, Seonghun-hyung’s words came back to me.

“You know how rookie actors sometimes get so discouraged that their self-esteem takes a hit? My mother actually told me that for real.”

What should I do?

I thought about it, then decided that if things had ended up like this, what could I really do?

It was honestly kind of ridiculous to be this picky over something as simple as running together.

“...I stopped a little while ago, so I won’t be going too far.”

“Yes! I’m a beginner too, so I can’t run much either!”

“Ah, yes.”

As I turned to start running, her gaze felt sharp enough to sting.

A groan slipped out.

I steadied my mind.

Let’s call it a check on the glass-frog condition.

I set my stance and said, “Then let’s go.”

“Yes!”

And we ran.

That was when I realized something else I hadn’t known before my regression.

“W-wait a s-ssecond! Just a littl-le more b-breath!”

Ryu Cheong-ah had absolutely terrible stamina.

At that level, I almost wondered how she’d gotten through overnight shoots at all.

* * *

“I-I’m done r-r-running...”

Seeing Ryu Cheong-ah melted down on the ground like a slumped slime made me let out a dry laugh.

If you’re that tired, you could just give up.

It was something else that she’d forced herself to finish.

And yet when she lifted her head, Cheong-ah smiled bashfully.

“But somehow I feel so refreshed now.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes! It feels like oxygen is spreading all the way to my capillaries? I think I’ll sleep really well tonight too!”

As she spoke, she gulped down bottled water.

She even made a satisfied sound—“Aaah!”—as if she’d just had the best time of her life.

Did she really enjoy running herself to death that much?

“Oh, would you like some too, Writer Han?”

She held the bottle out to me like she was passing me a burden.

She smiled bright enough to make it feel like she was urging me to drink.

To be honest, the situation was rather uncomfortable.

But was my discomfort a valid reason to keep this Ryu Cheong-ah at arm’s length?

Was it fair to an innocent Ryu Cheong-ah for the future I remembered alone to erupt into the present like this?

No. Of course not.

I still thought I’d been betrayed.

But the one who’d betrayed me wasn’t this Ryu Cheong-ah.

And if I was being honest, neither was the Ryu Cheong-ah of the future the kind of person to whom the word betrayal really applied.

Not a single one of the things that had happened around Ryu Cheong-ah had been her fault.

How selfish is it to blame someone who was simply trapped and broken by other people’s desires?

The ones who had done wrong were somewhere else entirely.

I knew better than anyone that all of this was, in the end, my own emotion.

Suddenly, I remembered an old conversation that no longer existed.

“Jaekyung. I know I don’t have the right to say this, but let’s stop ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠now.”

“Stop what?”

“That stuff with Ryu Cheong-ah. If she’d tried to hold out, you could’ve been in danger too. You know that now, don’t you?”

“...”

“...I’m sorry. You come before Ryu Cheong-ah to me. So let’s leave it at this.”

I knew it.

My feeling of betrayal was just another name for self-disgust.

The reason I resented it was because that day, I hadn’t seen Ryu Cheong-ah as someone who should ask me for help—I’d seen her as someone I had to protect, even if it meant breaking her apart.

It was the moment when my insides sank.

“Oh, aren’t you going to drink?”

At that, I finally pulled myself together.

“I am. I was just catching my breath.”

I took the bottle and drank deeply, pouring water into a body that had been wrung dry.

It felt like life.

But after dumping that much water into a stomach that had shrunk from exertion, I felt unpleasantly full.

“You did well. Get home safely.”

I was turning away as I said it.

“Th-th...”

“Yes?”

Ryu Cheong-ah asked carefully,

“C-can we! Next time! Can we run together again?”

“You want to do it again? You look pretty exhausted.”

“You have to build up by doing it!”

I let out a helpless laugh before answering.

There were some things I understood.

“...Do whatever’s comfortable for you. As long as it doesn’t interfere with filming, I don’t mind.”

It had never been easy to be harsh with Ryu Cheong-ah.

Especially not when she smiled like that.

“Re-really? Really, really?”

“Is that so surprising?”

“No!”

Ryu Cheong-ah sprang to her feet, bright as sunlight.

“T-then I’ll see you next time! When the schedule opens up, I’ll make sure to tell you! I-I definitely will!!!”

With that, she bowed and jogged away.

Every so often she’d turn back, look at me, and smile.

My heart beat unpleasantly at the sight, and only then did I realize it.

Ah.

One reason for my anxiety ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had been revealed.

I’m taking something from that person’s life now.

I was going to take her parents away from a Ryu Cheong-ah who still knew nothing.

Whatever the moral weight of that act, the simple fact that I would do it without asking her consent meant that, in my own eyes, I wasn’t so different from the people who’d bound her to misery.

Maybe that had been what I disliked, deep down.

Of course, there was no hesitation.

It was too late for that already.

Right now, being entangled could still be to our advantage, but I had already seen how this ended if it went any further.

So even if the relationship became uncomfortable, wasn’t this better for both of us?

Let’s count it as something exchanged.

I would use this one encounter to build the foothold that would let me claw my way up from the bottomless pit I’d once been trapped in.

And with this one bit of discomfort, you would walk a road that hurt you a little less than before.

That was a decent trade, wasn’t it?

I left the track and headed back.

Fortunately, time passed too quickly for me to sink into thought.

Post-production work, script revisions.

And every now and then, those runs with Cheong-ah.

That was how I lived until now.

“You worked hard today too!”

“Yes, you too.”

“It’ll be airing next week already! Just thinking about seeing my face on TV makes me feel so weird...”

“You’ll get used to it. I’m sure of that.”

“...Hehe. You think so?”

Broadcasting was now only a week away.

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