The Comedy and Tragedy of Standing in the Corner
Charlie Chaplin once said that life is a tragedy when seen up close, but a comedy in long shot. So what about the sight of me standing in the back of the classroom with my hand raised as punishment? Comedy? Or tragedy?
My arms are numb, my legs ache, and Min-su is sniffling next to me. Still, someday this will make for perfect talk-show fodder, right? ‘So there was this time I got caught tuning my textbook with a hydrogen bomb…’ After a string of excuses and justifications, I ended up back here with my hand in the air. Hahaha. Yeah… no matter how I look at it, this story isn’t going to get any laughs. This was pure tragedy.
‘The punishment feels especially long today…’
This was already the second time I’d been caught tuning textbooks, so maybe that was why. Normally the teacher would call us back after ten minutes, but today’s instructor seemed dead set on crushing my artistic soul. If I got rejected from art school because of this and ended up drawing postcard illustrations just to survive, whose fault would that be?
“Seo-ah, Min-su, you can return to your seats.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Luckily the punishment only lasted about fifteen minutes. Looked like I wouldn’t be turning into a Nazi after all.
After every class had ended and we’d enjoyed our cafeteria feast, we walked out the school gate. A familiar silver sedan was waiting.
“Looks like the manager still hasn’t been assigned yet.”
“They’re probably swamped finishing the takeover and reorganizing the system. Still, that person will be working closest with you, so they can’t just assign anyone.”
As we approached the car, Mom stepped out of the driver’s seat and helped us in.
“There are my girls. How was school today?”
“It was fine.”
“Same as always.”
The same question every day, the same answer every day. But Mom always smiled like that alone was enough to make her happy.
“Hehe, always the same? No boys confessing to you?”
“Confess? They’re probably too scared I’d beat them up.”
Mom laughed as she watched us through the rearview mirror. We smiled back at her. It really was a peaceful, happy life—the ordinary life I had always wished for.
The car wove through the forest of buildings in Gangnam and headed toward the studio in Nonhyeon-dong. Normally we would have dropped Ji-ah off at home first, but our schedule was too tight. So Yoon Ji-ah was coming to the set with us today.
The shoot was for a workbook advertisement with a “brilliant prodigy” concept. Honestly, it felt like Ji-ah should have been the one filming it… but even someone as perfect as her had one fatal weakness.
She couldn’t “act” in front of a camera.
That’s right. Yoon Ji-ah was a complete disaster at acting.
“Camera shyness? I never would have guessed.”
When I snickered, Ji-ah let out a little “hmph.”
“Shyness? Please. I’m built for business management. You’re the one who should be prancing around in front of people.”
“Prancing? You’re looking at this burning artistic soul and calling it prancing?”
“Yeah, next in line for the circus.”
“Hey now, Ji-ah. That’s not a nice word.”
“…Sorry.”
The financial monster I thought was flawless only grew pricklier once her weakness was exposed. Normally I was the one who got scolded by Mom for running my mouth. Today, it was Ji-ah who slipped up.
Yoon Ji-ah, who turned into a total klutz the moment she stood in front of a camera… Wait a second.
‘…No way.’
She didn’t secretly want to be an entertainer but couldn’t, so she was living vicariously through me, right?
When we arrived at the studio, we saw busy staff members everywhere—adjusting lights, carrying props. Their movements had a polished feel quite different from drama or variety show sets.
“Hello!”
I greeted them energetically as I walked in. The entire staff turned at once.
“…Huh?”
“Whoa.”
“What the…”
Gasps and exclamations erupted from every direction. It wasn’t quite the reaction I’d expected, but then again, the only people who knew we were twins were the Kkureogi Tamheomdae production team. The Sarang-i Pineun Jeongwon crew had only heard about it a few times and had never actually seen Ji-ah. Even if we’d brought her to those sets, they would have been shocked. This advertising team was seeing me for the first time. Of course they were flustered.
In times like these, a proper adult should step in and direct traffic, right?
“Hello! I’m Yoon Seo-ah! This is my younger sister, Yoon Ji-ah! We didn’t have time to drop her off at home after school, so she came with us. She’s quiet and well-behaved, so she won’t cause any trouble. Please take good care of us!”
Moon Young-chun didn’t watch dramas or variety shows. Even though Yoon Seo-ah was a hot topic as a child actress, the name was completely unfamiliar to a man who only watched movies. So when the client specifically requested her, he’d rubbed his temples in frustration.
A child actor, and not even in the upper grades—just eight years old. She was at the very top of the list of people he least wanted to work with on set. She was pretty. The prettiest child actor he’d seen so far. Cute? It was almost hard to believe a human could possess this level of cuteness.
But that was it.
Child actors were hard to control, had short attention spans, and would sometimes throw tantrums and ruin shoots based on their mood. At times he even thought top-star adults who lived for their own egos were easier to handle.
If the client hadn’t specifically insisted on Yoon Seo-ah, he would have gone with someone like Kim Su-jin instead. He sighed and skimmed the storyboard.
The concept was “genius girl.” A crazy prodigy who felt pure ecstasy while solving workbooks. He was convinced the client was insane. Bringing in a concept even adults would struggle to express and then casting an eight-year-old? His mind was filled with the thought that these people had lost their minds. How on earth did idiots like this run the number-one company in the industry?
But.
‘If they tell you to shoot, you shoot. What else can you do?’
The client—the landlord of fear, the super-chaebol of the advertising world—had given the order. No pain, no pay. He wanted to scream that he couldn’t do this kind of shoot, to cry out for the sake of art… but this industry didn’t feed you with art. Reality was cruel.
As Director Moon was drowning in bitter nostalgia for the auteur he once dreamed of becoming, the studio entrance grew noisy.
‘Here it comes.’
The child actor had arrived.
But.
Not one little kid walked through the door—two of them. And they looked exactly the same.
Same height, same face, same hairstyle. Even their clothing style was nearly identical. The only real difference was their expressions. One child was bright and lively, wearing a smile so warm it could melt anyone’s heart. The other was so expressionless it made you wonder if it was even possible for a face to be that blank.
“Hello!”
“…Huh?”
“Whoa.”
“What the…”
The staff began murmuring among themselves. They had been waiting for Yoon Seo-ah, but now a doppelgänger had appeared. Of course they were confused. Even Director Moon couldn’t hide his bewilderment.
‘One was already too much. Now there are two?’
It was a slightly different reaction from the average person, but just as he was about to ask which one was Yoon Seo-ah, the girl on the left stepped forward energetically. The lively one.
“Hello! I’m Yoon Seo-ah! This is my younger sister, Yoon Ji-ah! We didn’t have time to drop her off after school…”
Her voice was clear and confident. Even with so many eyes on her at once, there wasn’t the slightest trace of nervousness. Director Moon was secretly impressed. Most child actors who came to sets either hid behind their mothers or stood there awkwardly. But this kid had walked in on her own, greeted the entire staff, introduced herself, and even introduced her sister and asked for their understanding.
It was so fluent he almost wondered if she was reading from a prepared script. It was completely natural. And incredibly adorable.
The staff’s murmuring died down. The assurance that she wouldn’t cause trouble, combined with such a polite request—it wasn’t the kind of thing you’d expect from an eight-year-old. It was so convincing they couldn’t help but believe her.
Director Moon crossed his arms and studied Yoon Seo-ah carefully. Those sparkling eyes, that overflowing confidence.
‘…Damn. I’m already getting ideas for a scenario centered around a child actor.’
But Director Moon’s artistic soul didn’t stop there. While the older sister spoke, the younger one scanned the studio with eyes that seemed to be calculating production costs. If the older one gave off the vibe of a natural-born entertainer, the younger one radiated something entirely different—a genuine article in her own right.
Several loglines for scenarios starring the two of them flashed through his mind. Where on earth had these sisters come from? He had known for a long time that heaven was unfair, but this felt excessive.
And the finishing touch?
Their mother, Chae Kang-hee.
‘…They’re insane. This whole family is insane.’
The mother looked like an elegant actress. The older sister was an adorably lovable child star. The younger sister gave off the mysterious allure of an ice-cold character. No more scenarios came to Director Moon’s mind. Their very lives were already drama and film. If he simply followed them around with a camera for a daily documentary, wouldn’t that itself be a masterpiece?
After a long string of admiration, Director Moon finally came back to his senses and spoke.
“Nice to meet you, Seo-ah.”
He approached with deliberate gravity.
“I’m Director Moon Young-chun. Do you understand today’s concept?”
“Yes. I heard it’s a genius girl concept. A kid who finds solving workbooks the most fun thing in the world.”
Yoon Seo-ah answered immediately. There wasn’t the slightest tremor in her voice. It didn’t sound like she’d simply been told about it—she sounded like she had seen it herself.
“Good that you know. But it won’t be as easy as it sounds. Making it look genuinely enjoyable is difficult even for adults. If it looks like a forced smile, it’s an immediate NG.”
Director Moon applied subtle pressure. His intention was to establish dominance. If you coddled child actors and accommodated their every whim, they quickly forgot their place. Their parents would start making demands too, acting like their child was some kind of star. So a proper show of authority was essential.
But Yoon Seo-ah didn’t shrink. She smiled and shot back.
“Don’t worry, Director. I’m good at acting.”
“…Pardon?”
Director Moon let out a stunned laugh. It was arrogant. Bold. But he didn’t dislike it. He could only hope that confidence would hold up in front of the camera too. His attitude was completely different from how he usually treated other child actors. If any other kid had said something like that…
‘Confidence is good, but overconfidence is dangerous.’
Instead, he found himself nodding with a small smile. The moment the staff saw Director Moon smile, they realized the power struggle was over and guided Yoon Seo-ah, Yoon Ji-ah, and Chae Kang-hee further inside.