“From afar, those bubble wrap shoes seemed like they’d suit you well… Don’t you think they actually do? By the way, how is it going? Have you gotten much closer to the sunbae you admire?”
“…I guess I really get along with Seohan-hyung.”
Knowing it was a question meant to change the subject, Suhyeon still responded, pretending not to have noticed.
The desire to show off achievements is unrelated to age.
Although not the type to boast openly, Suhyeon didn’t turn down an opportunity to shine.
“We have a lot in common, so there’s a lot to talk about.”
“It’s impressive considering he’s an actor who’s not easy to get close to regardless of age.”
Suhyeon slightly curled his lips into a smirk.
Sangil’s praise always precisely scratched where Suhyeon wished to be praised.
This felt much better than vague compliments, and every time he felt this way, Suhyeon realized anew how great his manager’s communication skills were.
I really need to learn that.
This was the conversation style he relied to the most when talking with Seohan.
As annoying as he could be, there was much to learn from his manager.
“Actor Seohan will become a good connection. That’s great.”
“I’m not just after making connections… but I do want to get closer to Seohan-hyung.”
They exchanged looks and smirked slightly.
Knowing their intentions aligned, it was time to move toward their goal again.
* * *
After his short meeting with his manager, Suhyeon focused on his conversation with Seohan until the end of their meal.
Their personalities and reasons for becoming actors were different.
However, they were serious about acting, and their ways of creating roles and methods of expression were similar.
It was only natural since Seohan was the model Suhyeon referred to when laying his foundations.
Thanks to these commonalities, they quickly became friends even within the brief lunchtime.
At first, it was uncomfortable without Sangil-hyung around… but now it’s quite nice.
Was this what they meant by “so happy that one could feel full without eating”?
Satisfied after a fulfilling dessert, Suhyeon moved gracefully at the PD’s call.
As soon as he got close, PD Lee Bongchun pushed a script toward him.
“Ah, Suhyeon, you’re here. I’m thinking of adding a crying scene here…”
“Yes.”
Suhyeon obediently answered and checked the script.
Below the action directive “Yeonwu quietly looking at a birthday gift and a cake with a single candle,” the phrase “a single tear?” were scribbled with a crude drawing.
Why do they keep making the kid cry…?
Although he answered obediently, Suhyeon actually had a lot of complaints about the PD’s instructions.
It became clear he was being asked to perform an unplanned crying scene not included in the script.
It’s all for the sake of improving the quality of the work.
For an actor seeking to raise his profile through a project and a director focusing on the work’s quality or commercial appeal, it wasn’t always possible to look in the same direction.
Especially for an actor like Suhyeon, with at an uncertain age and experience, the PD generally preferred to eliminate any potential negatives by having the actor repeat what they were good at rather than exploring their range of acting.
It was typical exploitation, which might be good for the work’s success but was akin to peeing on one’s feet for the actor.
In the fiercely competitive entertainment industry, a versatile multi-player who excelled in various fields was more appreciated than a master of one.
A person who becomes famous through one aspect is easily forgotten by the public the moment that image fades.
But to break the stereotype of being an actor good at crying by myself… Hmm.
Suhyeon pondered this while keeping his gaze on the script.
Should he go against the PD’s words and try something?
Like other actors expanding their image through their next work, perhaps it was better to capture the public’s attention with tears in this drama and show a different acting in the next project.
Many thoughts passed through his mind, but in the end, Suhyeon had to admit.
It was as difficult to find a PD or director who would care that much for a young actor as finding a needle in a sandbox.
In today’s era, PD Bongchun is considered quite radical.
A minor actor had to be at least a middle schooler to be recognized for their acting.
For six-year-old Suhyeon, it was a distant future.
Besides, there’s no guarantee that someone who syncs with me like Seohan-hyung will appear in the next project. If I don’t grab the chance now, it will become more solidified later.
Suhyeon shifted his gaze from the script and looked at Bongchun with clear and innocent eyes.
The trust in “You can do it, right?’ pricked him.
“Can you do it?”
“Yes!”
Suhyeon cheerfully answered and smiled brightly.
He felt a bit sorry, but he preferred taking a gamble over following the safe directives of a PD wishing for safety.
***
“Alright, are you ready? Cue!”
“Yeonwu, it’s time.”
“Teacher…?”
As soon as the PD gave the signal, Seohan pushed a slice of cake with its wrapping peeled off toward Suhyeon.
He planted a birthday candle on the cake, avoiding the gaze of the child.
“Today’s your birthday.”
“Ah…”
“Happy Birthday.”
Suhyeon blinked his eyes, staring dully at the cake.
His eyelids fluttered like a butterfly in a close-up shot.
“Yeonwu,” who had been absent from school, had forgotten it was his birthday until “Kichan” mentioned it.
To be precise, “Yeonwu” had never once considered his birthday to be anything special.
“This is something Chaeun brought to give you today. She was sad she couldn’t give it to you in person.”
“Chaeun did?”
Staring blankly at the gift package that came out of the bag, Suhyeon dumbly repeated the question.
“Chaeun,” the class president, had once been the main bully tormenting “Yeonwu” but began to understand him little by little through “Kichan’s” mediation.
And by the middle part, she became “Yeonwu’s” closest friend.
It was a story yet to be filmed because of the schedule.
It’s supposed to be time to cry now…
Quietly accepting the gift, Suhyeon suddenly turned his head toward Seohan without fixing his gaze on anything specific.
Then, he smiled a pure and radiant smile, so childlike yet something unseen from “Yeonwu.”
“Thank you, Teacher.”
Faced with an unexpected response, Seohan couldn’t spit out his original lines and fell silent.
The area, previously filled with the sound of breathing and machinery, grew even quieter as the breaths halted.
This was an unexpected rebellion from the child actor.
“…What are you thankful for?”
As Suhyeon’s lines changed, Seohan also adapted to the situation.
Reacting with a slightly delayed timing, he smoothly continued the scene, feigning surprise.
Having rolled from the bottom of the acting world, Seohan’s reaction was natural.
“Everything. Every day feels like a dream since I met Teacher.”
“Is that so…?”
The original, “The days feel like a dream since meeting Teacher… I’m scared,” transformed from a tearful line to one that fully expressed Suhyeon’s emotions.
Instead of a pitiful look, Seohan gave a warm and comforting smile.
There was no significant change in their dialogue.
The content proceeded as planned, only with slight adjustments in the connection and sentiment.
However, as the tone and expressions changed, the scene planned by the PD moved away from “forcing an emotional response from the audience.”
It calmly portrayed Yeonwu’s inner growth and the fact that he, too, could smile like any normal child.
“…Cut.”
The PD didn’t stop the film but observed their acting.
Instead of pointing out flaws in the actors’ performances, he closely examined the recorded scene and immediately called over the camera director and some staff.
“Quite mischievous.”
While the executives were in a meeting, Seohan looked at Suhyeon sitting next to him and struck up a conversation.
A peculiar joy was blossoming in his eyes.
“The director wanted a crying scene, I believe.”
“Mmm…”
“Why the sudden change?”
Seohan calmly waited for Suhyeon.
Despite the young hoobae unexpectedly changing his lines with an ad-lib, he was more curious about why he had made that choice rather than reprimanding him.
“The Yeonwu I imagined isn’t like that. Yeonwu gets scolded by his mom every day and is always sick, but still, kids grow up.”
Suhyeon shared his thoughts by struggling to use simple words.
The biggest reason for attempting the ad-lib was not just because he disliked being praised solely for his crying acting, but also because he wasn’t satisfied with the “Yeonwu” the PD had envisioned.
The PD thought of “Jang Yeonwu” as a character who was weak, powerless, and would die without help.
Considering Yeonwu’s motif was a child who died and was abandoned, you can think that way.
Bongchun was obsessed with the Seongsudong case because he was a neighbor of the victim.
He regretted not helping despite having the ability to do so.
To PD Bongchun, “Yeonwu” was a pitiful child who died exposed to his mother’s violence amidst the indifference of those around him.
…That’s your interpretation, PD.
However, the “Yeonwu” analyzed by Suhyeon was different from the victim of the case.
Beyond the simple relationship between a homeroom teacher and a student, there was “Ha Kichan,” who felt human affection toward “Yeonwu.”
Initially hostile, but over time becoming friends, the class president “Kim Chaeun.”
Since there were those who taught him what affection and kindness were, “Yeonwu” couldn’t be the same as the victim.
Having filled his emotional hunger with his parents’ attention after regression, Suhyeon knew the difference between the two children better than anyone else.
“So, I think Yeonwu wouldn’t have cried.”
“That’s right. That’s a good interpretation.”
Listening quietly to Suhyeon’s chatter, Seohan agreed with him.
“If you think about the whole story and not just this scene, your interpretation seems more accurate. That’s impressive.”
“And I thought if it was Seohan-hyung, somehow, you would accept it.”
Suhyeon added words of flattery, watching Seohan with admiration.
It wasn’t empty talk.
If it had been Taebin instead of Seohan, the chances of getting a NG were high, and it would have been necessary to adjust accordingly.
The likelihood of being caught by the PD was high.
For a newcomer child actor, getting caught in advance was too much pressure.
Therefore, it was an attempt possible only because it was a scene with Seohan.
“Seohan and Suhyeon, come over here.”
Before they knew it, PD Bongchun, who had finished the meeting, called them.
His face, settling from fatigue, somehow looked brighter.
“I have one good news and one bad news, which one do you want to hear first?”
“…The bad news.”
“I’ll tell you the good news first. Seohan, after today’s shoot, you have no shooting schedule for the next four days. I’ll inform you through your manager as soon as the weekend schedule is confirmed.”
Bongchun announced the good news first, ignoring Suhyeon’s choice.
For Seohan, who hadn’t had a break since the crank-up of Promise of the Blue Summer, this was a much-welcome time for recharging.
I had my phone and computer taken away, so I can’t even use the internet. Should I bother Sangil-hyung?
On the other hand, Suhyeon was daunted by the sudden free time.
A child’s time was too long, and a day with nothing to do felt akin to floating in space.
“The bad news is that we plan to significantly revise the latter part of the dialogue.”
“…What?”
The PD explained the earlier meeting to the surprised actors.
The “Yeonwu” played by Suhyeon became more convincing in the storyline, so they decided to change accordingly.
“If we’ve adapted the real case like that, it’s impossible for the main character’s personality to remain the same. It took me a while to wake up to that.”
He readily admitted his mistake and patted Suhyeon on the shoulder.
For Suhyeon, who was even prepared to be scolded for challenging authority, this was an unexpected kindness.
Really awake, aren’t you…?
Could focusing solely on one work make someone like this?
Suhyeon watched Bongchun, who had acknowledged his acting and decided to revise the script.
Even though he had seen him up until now, somehow, he felt unfamiliar.
