The Spider and the Butterfly

Gam I-hyun focused with astonishing speed, there between the seventeen-year-old director and the seventeen-year-old actor.

I climbed up onto the bed and sat. I was the spider; Gam I-hyun was the butterfly.

And so the spider and the butterfly went on living their separate lives. The butterfly's lifespan was not a long one — yet the promise was kept.

With the last of its strength, the butterfly drifted down, ever so gently, onto the web.

The spider pretended to be happy. He was not. The butterfly was dying.

But the spider wore his joy anyway — to fulfill the butterfly's dream. Because that was the butterfly's dream.

Woo Woongbae found himself thinking, once again, about what kind of profession acting really was.

Seventeen years old. Both Gam I-hyun — that monumental actor — and Lee Heeyoon, who had grown so familiar with clumsy writing that it made his skin crawl, were acting with total absorption, surrendering themselves completely to the shoddy script of a director whose nerve far outstripped his skill.

To them, the greatness of the film, the greatness of the writing, meant nothing. What mattered was the acting. There was only the acting, and nothing else.

Woo Woongbae understood, completely now, why Lee Heeyoon had asked for a performance fee. The moment payment entered the picture, Heeyoon's acting climbed to an entirely different dimension. The same was true of Gam I-hyun.

To Woo Woongbae, the aged-beyond-his-years Gam I-hyun looked like a butterfly so frail it might take flight at any moment, and his friend Lee Heeyoon looked like a spider he had never seen before. They moved like butterfly and spider. Astonishingly, he could observe them clearly enough to understand what those creatures were — clearly enough to almost become them.

Woo Woongbae threw himself into the shoot, determined not to lose a single second of it.

It was a tremendous experience, the kind that would grow him into a real director.

The shoot took quite a while to wrap. Honestly, we couldn't afford many takes to begin with, and Gam I-hyun was so seasoned that the filming itself finished quickly — it was Woo Woongbae recording the room tone, the ambient noise of the room and set, that ate up the time.

Every shoot, no matter how careful, produces faint stray noises, and he'd been told that to keep a film's flow unbroken, it was crucial that a consistent level of that ambience run beneath the entire picture.

Since this film — made by Woo Woongbae alone — couldn't patch in room tone during post-production, it had to be captured as perfectly as possible on set.

Gam I-hyun and I watched in silence as Woo Woongbae worked. Watching him at it made it all the more real. We made a film.

"All done."

After Woo Woongbae said that, I needled him.

"Could you call 'cut' with a little more authority? When you mumble it like that, the director gets spooked — you think he won't take it personally?"

"You just acted your heart out with the man, and my 'cut' is what matters?"

Woo Woongbae wore a look of utter disbelief, then glanced at Gam I-hyun as if begging him to take his side. But Gam I-hyun, true to form, was on the actors' side.

"Heeyoon's right. Louder is better. Rookie actor or director on the eve of retirement, it makes no difference — the set belongs to the director. You know that, don't you, Director?"

At the word Director, Woo Woongbae — not realizing he was the one being addressed — snapped to attention a beat too late.

"Oh — yes. Quite right, sir. Standing before a master like you, I lost my head. It won't happen again."

Gam I-hyun smiled faintly at Woo Woongbae's deference to his elders. Then he patted my back with an extremely slow hand and said,

"You've made a good friend."

"We fight constantly."

"That's what a friend is."

Woo Woongbae and I both agreed with that.

Gathering up his equipment, Woo Woongbae said, "I'll head off and start editing, then."

And with that, he left first. I figured he'd gone to give the actors time to talk.

Somehow, I had a feeling this would be the last moment Gam I-hyun and I would ever have to speak.

There was so much I wanted to ask him. Thousands of things I still had to learn about acting. And yet, when someone you've grown close to is leaving, the words that come are of an entirely different kind.

"You know, I never used to eat jokbal. Pig's trotters."

"Mm-hm."

"I eat them now. Everyone at Leader Actors loves the stuff so much. So — what would you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like to eat, Grandfather? I'll go pick it up."

"Hmm. A bowl of janchi noodles would be nice."

"I'll be back before you know it, so don't fall asleep."

At my words, Gam I-hyun nodded. Then he said to me,

"Heeyoon."

"Yes?"

"Did you truly give your life for my son?"

I froze.

I hadn't imagined he would remember what I'd said last year, all the way to the end. I shook my head hard.

"Of course not. I was just caught up in some bit of backstory back then. Like I was acting a part. I suppose I wanted the attention."

"Is that so?"

"I'm going to outlive you, Grandfather, and act longer than you, too. There are so many roles I still want to play — I'll need to live to at least a hundred and twenty."

Gam I-hyun nodded at my words. Which of the two versions he believed, I couldn't say.

Watching her husband perform through the glass, Park Seonyoung wept until she staggered, and it was only because CEO Gam Seong-beom hastily caught her that she didn't collapse where she stood.

"Sending him off while he looks that happy. Honestly. Acting must suit him better than his own wife."

She'd barely managed the joke, but tears were already dripping from her eyes.

CEO Gam Seong-beom, who was leaking tears and snot in equal measure, finally managed to speak.

"Father..."

But that was all he could get out — three syllables, nothing more.

"Youth."

And so it was Park Seonyoung who said what both Gam Seong-beom and Gam I-hyun most wanted to say.

"Romance."

I left the hospital room soon after. I was just about to go buy the janchi noodles when Park Seonyoung caught my arm. After sending her son off to fetch the noodles instead, she took my hand ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in both of hers and said,

"Heeyoon. I have to tell you this quickly, before you start worrying."

"Tell me what?"

"After Grandfather is gone, I... I don't think I'll be able to set foot in that house for a long while. I just won't be able to go there."

"..."

"So I'm going to stay for a time at the place where I grew up. Could you look after the house while I'm gone? Oh — and you may live there as long as you like."

"Just until I'm of age."

"All right. Until you come of age."

Park Seonyoung knew I had nowhere else to go. She was making sure, at the very least, that I'd have a roof.

She pulled me into a tight embrace. "You can have your friends over whenever you like — but no drinking. Understood?"

"I don't drink. I'm a model student."

"Yes, yes."

Park Seonyoung answered with a smile.

While we waited for Gam Seong-beom, she and I talked about this and that.

"Heeyoon. Your grandfather really did... he really did do nothing but act. Even when we traveled, I always went alone, you know? Though if he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠found the time, he'd show up wherever I was. Fourteen, fifteen hours on a plane, one day with me, then fourteen hours back... So I learned to let it go and lived with it."

As I nodded along, Park Seonyoung went on.

"I know you'll live the same way, Heeyoon. But listen — it would be good to have something else you love, too. Just one thing."

"Like Grandpa had Grandma?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Grandfather definitely had something he loved. Enough to fly fourteen hours for a day trip."

The moment Park Seonyoung showed signs of dissolving into fresh sobs, CEO Gam Seong-beom — who had returned with janchi noodles for exactly as many people as were present — spotted us and rounded on me.

"Good grief. The woman's only just stopped crying and you're setting her off again?"

"What, I'm right, aren't I?"

"You, I swear..."

"A grateful little bastard?"

"Hey — wow. Nailed it. How'd you know?"

"I've been called that before."

An insufferably grateful little bastard.

Thinking about it now, it's actually kind of funny. So grateful, and yet a bastard. Such a bastard, and yet so grateful.

Park Seonyoung shook Gam I-hyun awake, gently but firmly, and everyone gathered around to eat the noodles together. Gam I-hyun ate so heartily you'd never have believed he was a sick man.

And two days later, Gam I-hyun left this world.

Park Seonyoung went back to her family home, taking her prized Pungsan dog with her, and the empty house became mine for a while.

After the funeral, all I wanted was to shut myself in my room, but Do Jae-yeon wouldn't allow it. Park Seonyoung had declared it unacceptable to leave a kid alone with his grief, so the company people had more or less moved in with me. Somehow, I had even less freedom than before.

I had to keep my door at least cracked open until I fell asleep each night.

It wasn't that I was grieving that badly — these people had simply gotten the wrong idea.

Woo Woongbae had been buried in editing for over a month. He'd blown off every school assignment to work on nothing but the film, and the media production teacher had even given me an earful about it.

"Good grief, a couple of talented ones, hitting it off like that. Why's he got to keep our department's kid from showing up at school?"

"Honestly, you're excited about it too, aren't you, sir?"

"I am fully prepared to evaluate it objectively."

The media production teacher's face, as he said this, was brimming with anticipation.

Our school was full of idols to begin with, plus plenty of students who were actors or trainees who hadn't debuted yet, so early departures and absences were more or less taken for granted.

And relying on that, Woo Woongbae would skip school at the drop of a hat, or show up only to leave early again, his head forever in the film — leaving me to hunt down that missing piece all on my own.

It had become clear that no one knew who the top student of Class 2 was.

Ducking in during breaks to look around wasn't going to turn anything up.

Which meant I had no choice but to resort to something certain — and completely insane.

That day, I had just finished first period at school. We had a heavy load of foreign language classes, and this happened to be one of them.

Then, second period.

In the middle of class, I shot up out of my seat.

I left as if heading for the bathroom, then made my way toward the small auditorium where Class 2 was holding its lesson.

I slid open the front door with a rattle and stepped inside.

"Lee Heeyoon? What are you doing? Why?"

The acting teacher in the middle of Class 2's lesson asked me that, but I only gave a brief bow and walked to the front, where the lectern stood.

Then I scanned the small auditorium, packed with an unusually large crowd — nearly forty students.

"I asked what you're doing!"

"Sorry."

"Lee Heeyoon!"

I went through the faces one by one. A face I knew. Another face I knew. Another.

Most of Classes 1 and 2 were faces I knew — or at least, faces I'd brushed past. I might not know all the names, but the faces were impossible not to know. We'd been glued together like that even before admission, and we still shared plenty of classes.

I checked every single face, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sparing no one. Even when the teacher told me to leave, I didn't listen.

A face I knew. Still a face I knew. This one too.

And then —

One single face.

I didn't know.