A Star Is Made in a Day
After the screening, the actors of Leader Actors were all in a state of shock.
Their usual bratty, adorable youngest—Lee Heeyoon. Until now, none of them had known what kind of acting he was capable of.
Do Jaeyeon, back from dropping Son Jion off at home, opened an internet browser and deliberated over what expression to make. CEO Gam Seongbeom was already clasping his hands together in prayer.
"Thank you, Heavenly Father, Lord Buddha, all of you. While you're at it, seeing as you've cast him so well, please work a miracle on the FlixPatrol rankings too—week two, week three, all the way to week ten……"
Meanwhile, while the CEO prayed, Vice President Gam Soohan, just back from a business trip, was watching Garden of Manyusa, forgetting his exhaustion entirely. He had cried so hard when Eun-ha died that his eyes were swollen shut.
Do Jaeyeon looked at the browser again.
Overnight, fan art depicting Seong-woon—the one tasked with dismantling Manyusa—along with the five characters including Eun-ha, had been uploaded as well.
Among them, Do Jaeyeon saved the fan art in which Eun-ha looked especially adorable and happy, and set it as her laptop wallpaper. It showed him playing a snowball fight with the older brothers and sisters who had escaped with him.
Do Jaeyeon confirmed that there had already been a substantial volume of mentions right after the release, and her face tightened with anxiety. For a hit drama, this was exactly where viewers would keep piling on.
From this point on, there was only one thing everyone involved with this drama could do. Pray.
In the end, Do Jaeyeon followed CEO Gam Seongbeom's lead and prayed to every god whose name she knew.
They say a star isn't made in a day. That's wrong. A star is made in a day. If anything, it might be more common than not.
This is about Shin Jiwon.
Shin Jiwon, already a variety-show natural, was throwing himself into it—every broadcast in existence, quite literally, was scrambling to have him on.
When I showed the company staff the DMs because it felt so unfair, they all took Shin Jiwon's side.
"Actor Jiwon really looks out for you."
"Well, he's just a genuinely good person."
"Hey, why does everyone take someone else's actor's side?"
I grumbled, but since it wasn't exactly to my detriment, I decided to accept it.
In any case, the office was a festival. They were even more delighted that I no longer had to run my own promotion, saying it was like getting to auto-hunt. Wait, no—I already did all the hunting, so how is this auto-hunting?
And around that time, a call came in for me. The name on my phone screen—Writer Choi Yujin—brought the festival to a brief halt.
"It's praise, right?"
CEO Gam Seongbeom said it with an earnest face. I left behind the three pairs of weighty eyes fixed on me and stepped into the monitoring room, the best soundproofed space we had. The moment I picked up, Writer Choi Yujin spoke.
"Heeyoon."
"Yes."
"Thank you."
"Why are you thanking me? Shouldn't it be the other way around? You cast a total newbie like me, Writer-nim."
But at my words, Writer Choi Yujin laughed.
"You learned this from Jaeyeon, didn't you. What are you supposed to say when someone thanks you?"
"Ahem—no, thank me."
"There, there."
Did she tell me I had to add that little 'ahem'? Strange woman.
Anyway, after laughing like that, Writer Choi Yujin said to me:
"Hurry up and get older, Heeyoon. I've got somewhere I want to use you."
"Around what age?"
"Honestly, your forties would be ideal, but I doubt I'll still be active then…… Still, you at least need to be an adult."
"You'll use me once I'm an adult?"
"Yes. At least once, guaranteed."
"Why only once? Use me a lot. I'm fine even being just some passerby in the background."
"You really mean that? You're not the type to say things you don't mean."
"That's exactly why it's not empty talk."
I mean it.
I like Writer Choi Yujin's writing.
But there's a blurry patch in my memory of why I like her so much. I suspect one of the dramas I filmed before regressing might have been one of her works. It's been forgotten. Like Hamlet.
And honestly, I was glad those things had been forgotten. It meant I could savor that electric thrill as if for the first time.
"Let's meet again."
"Yes."
Shin Jiwon had said the same thing. See you again.
In this industry, there's no phrase as uncertain—and yet as romantic—as "let's meet again."
Before regressing, I never once got to hear it. This time around, I'd already heard it twice from people I'd worked with. A strange feeling.
I barely look at the internet myself, so I usually gauge a show's performance through the numbers the company passes along.
In week three, Garden of Manyusa held onto the #1 spot on domestic OTT, and it was staying within the top three in quite a number of other countries as well.
Unlike before, this time I could gauge the show's success somewhat through the reactions inside my own school. The acting students started treating me like a senior on the spot. They asked for autographs in absurd quantities. Since I wanted to leave behind as many traces of myself as possible before I died, I signed everything anyone asked for.
"Hey, you're not signing this one? It's for my mom."
"Ugh……"
It was getting to be too much, so when I started trying to weasel out, I told people I'd only sign things for parents or grandparents. My arm nearly fell off.
In any case, aside from a handful of friend-adjacent creatures like Ki I-an of the acting department, who treated me exactly as they had before my drama shoot, I returned to school without any real difficulty. Come to think of it, I suppose two friends is an acceptable number.
And once back at school, what I threw myself into most wholeheartedly was, without question, the Regular Performance Survival.
All the roles in the regular performance would be decided by audition. This performance drew a lot of alumni, more than anything else, and since many of them were working professionals, it was a prime opportunity to make an impression. Naturally, everyone had their sights on the lead role. And this year, the news that it would run as a survival competition only intensified the alumni's interest.
In practice rooms, on the sports field, in classrooms—everywhere, students were busy memorizing the regular performance script.
So while everyone was chasing the protagonist, there were of course those who aimed for the blue ocean. Most did it to boost their odds of success, but every once in a rare while, a girl with peculiar tastes would fall head over heels for a role with a single line of dialogue.
That was Jang Chaerin. A former child actress, she was often glued to Ki I-an, a child actor veteran himself.
Jang Chaerin asked in a pleading voice:
"Heeyoon. I really, really want this role. Do you think I can do it?"
"Who's even competing with you for it? Pick something else. There are plenty of roles with three lines or more."
"I like this one!"
To me, an actor's roles are water. Whatever vessel you pour them into, they take that vessel's shape.
But that's a thought about the roles, not a claim that the actor himself must be like water. An actor, I'd say, is closer to a puzzle piece—fitted into the spot that suits him. Which is why I believe the most important thing is the outward shape. Regardless of beauty, what's needed is a form that fits the empty space.
In that sense, Jang Chaerin has a mainstream appeal about her. She'd suit a weekend-drama heroine—unlucky in life but never cowed by it. The big eyes, the voice that sounds sturdy and bright. If our company's Son Jion is trendy, Jang Chaerin is classic.
The biggest problem for a girl who ought to be gunning for the regular performance's lead role is that her own taste is hopelessly niche. I let Jang Chaerin's chattering about wanting a different role wash over me and headed for the grand auditorium.
Most acting-department classes are group sessions, and even those are mostly small—there was rarely an occasion for a whole class to gather. Even Classes 1 and 2 assembling together was unusual.
But this year, for the regular performance, most of the acting students filed into the grand auditorium. Every single one of them looked back at me at least once.
Strangely, only then did I feel a certain steadiness.
Before regressing, my recognition wasn't limited to Korea—abroad, I'd run into strangers who knew me on the street. So there was a stretch of time when I couldn't quite adapt to a situation where nobody recognized me at all.
Only now did I feel like I'd finally arrived in the world I was living in. No matter how I thought about it, being a star suited me.
But that stable world of mine was cracked apart and shattered by a very small collision.
Someone bumped my arm and walked past. I spun around immediately, but there was nothing to see. I'm not a fearful person by nature, but in moments like this my legs go weak. Because I couldn't tell whether this was that someone—a presence I couldn't perceive—or just an illusion born of sleeping badly lately.
And yet, if this really was that mastermind bumping into me and moving on, it was actually a good sign. The guy whom I couldn't detect at all before—his touch on my arm had registered in my perception.
I believe that the further I read into Hamlet, the closer I'll get to the truth. Above all, I have a strong conviction that I will come to see that ringleader.
Just as I was thinking that, the explanation for the regular performance began.