Chapter 50
“Why do you act? Well… I guess there are two main reasons.”
Lee Joo-ah said, her face slightly flushed. They had just finished filming Chalk and Window and had genuinely come out for some beer. Joo-ah wore her hat pulled down low to avoid being noticed, but because her face was so small, it almost seemed swallowed by the hat.
Still, maybe because of her perfect proportions or her top-star aura, people sitting in the bar craned their necks in curiosity at the face hidden under the hat. We quickly entered the room before anyone could recognize her.
This hat-swallowed look… it felt strangely familiar. Come to think of it, Lee Joo-ah had known me back then. Hadn’t we even met in college?
Back in my college days… it was only Sora. That doesn’t mean I ignored anyone else as a potential romantic interest. It just means that outside of the brief moments I spent with Sora—during free periods or evenings—I had no time to think about anything else. Life was chaos.
My father had gone bankrupt, and the family was struggling financially. On top of that, my mother had a heart attack, and the medical bills piled up. I don’t even know how I survived each day. I worked part-time jobs until late, but I struggled to graduate from college anyway.
“I’m not good at expressing myself. My mind is full of so many thoughts that I never know where to start, so I usually end up saying nothing or saying something completely off. You know that, right?”
“Ah….”
“So I thought I needed to learn how to express myself.”
Joo-ah took a sip of beer. This was almost the first time we had sat face-to-face like this. Most of our conversations had been over the phone due to our schedules, and whenever we met, it was always about work.
“And the second reason?”
“The second… I wanted to make a lot of money.”
“If you make a lot of money? What for?”
With a slightly shy tone, unlike when she spoke about the first reason, Joo-ah said:
“If I make a lot… I’ll buy an amazing house and car. Really expensive ones that people would look up to. I’d stack money in my bank account, and then…”
“And then?”
“Then… I wanted to call the person I like over. Give them the car keys and say, ‘Just come as you are. No need to struggle anymore. No need to worry. Everything’s fine.’ That’s what I wanted to say.”
“…….”
“I should have told them that back then, right?”
Joo-ah giggled. We were both getting a little tipsy.
“You’re rich now, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why work if you have money?”
“I….”
Thanks to Manager-nim, I gained confidence.
I realized thanks to Manager-nim. I just wanted to look cool!
Thank you, I realized it all because of you, Hyun-jae.
Lately, I feel addicted to saying “thanks to.” And why wouldn’t I be?
My life had always been filled with “because of.” When you have no money, that’s normal. No matter how kind family, friends, or lovers are, there’s always a sense of “because of” lurking somewhere in the heart.
Do you know how much we struggled raising you?
We wanted to go to sushi restaurants, but because of you, we had to eat school meals.
Because you’re poor, we, even as college students, are dating at snack bars. Know that?
“Because of” always leads to more “because of.” I became a target of “because of” and wanted to throw it elsewhere. A statement starting with “because my family has no money” eventually looked outward, at the world or even life itself. Life was always full of pain, apparently.
So “because of” feels empty. Complaining only wears you out. Feeling sorry for yourself only makes you small.
But “thanks to” is always fulfilling. It’s exciting just to hear it. You can keep saying it, and keep listening, and it’s still satisfying.
Isn’t that interesting?
Because of you, I live like this.
Thanks to you, I live like this.
The content is similar, but how can the emotions be so different?
Getting tipsy, I shared a bit of my inner thoughts with Joo-ah. Then she said:
“Then I’ll tell you. It’s all thanks to you.”
“Thank you.”
“No, I’ll say the real ‘thanks to,’ not just a simple thank you.”
Joo-ah laughed softly.
“After I become the best in the world, I’ll say, ‘This is all thanks to Hyun-jae.’ How about that?”
“That… sounds great.”
It would feel ridiculously good. Actually, it already did. Just hearing someone say that…
“You mean I could tell every person I meet, every journalist in interviews, that ‘My acting life has no meaning without Hyun-jae’?”
“Wouldn’t that change too much? It wouldn’t be original anymore.”
“I should say, ‘My life exists because of Hyun-jae.’”
“But ‘acting’ is missing. You call it your acting life, right? Saying it that way, neither you nor I could get married.”
Joo-ah frowned under her hat, her eyes flashing.
“Do you plan to get married?”
“Not for now.”
I wasn’t thinking about marriage, not even dating. A lot had happened, but only three months had passed since I broke up with Sora. When I heard the word marriage, all I could think was, “I guess I’ll do it someday.”
Joo-ah took a big gulp of beer, finishing half her glass in one shot. How could it go down so smoothly through that tiny throat?
“Hmm….”
“Team Leader Yu, we’re friends now, right?”
Two days before the concert, Yeon-hong said this to me. We had agreed to have a drink, but he needed to protect his voice before the concert, so we met at a cafe instead.
“Yes, of course.”
“Then can we speak casually?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“No, Team Leader, you have to speak casually too. Say ‘Okay, hyung.’”
“…I’m five years younger, so that might be a bit too casual.”
“Your mental age feels fifteen years older than mine. You could even say, ‘Hey, you bastard,’ and it would be fine.”
“…….”
Since the workshop, Yeon-hong’s demeanor had subtly changed. It was like those persistent neighborhood guys who keep asking you to go to PC rooms or billiards. That was exactly the feeling he gave me.
He insisted on speaking casually, so I eventually started calling him hyung (older brother). He smiled brightly, enjoying it.
“Do you have anyone you call hyung among your team?”
“No.”
“Awesome, I’m number one. The first to speak casually.”
I had already spoken casually with Joo-ah first, but I didn’t mention it.
“What’s the big deal about this?”
“This? How many people would love to flaunt their friendship with you? You’re the celebrity of celebrities. I have to brag too.”
“…….”
Yeon-hong seemed to write something on his phone, then said, a bit more seriously:
“We’ve decided to sing Quetapin as the first song of the concert.”
“Oh.”
“But will people understand my intent behind the song as well as you do? The lyrics are a bit stream-of-consciousness.”
I said,
“Why not just explain it? Tell people what the song means.”
I hadn’t thought too deeply about it. But…
“Oh.”
Yeon-hong’s eyes widened.
“That’s right. Why didn’t I think of that before?”
‘Why didn’t you think of that? Because you can’t let go of being spoiled.’
Before going on stage, Yeon-hong thought: Hyun-jae always gives big realizations even in a short conversation. Maybe I’m only now ready to hear it because I met someone like Hyun-jae. I’m convinced he’s right.
Had there ever been a chance to explain the feelings behind this song? Yes, many. Reporters had even asked directly, “What does this song mean?” but he didn’t answer.
Why? Explaining felt petty. Leaving the interpretation open made fans treat it like some universal truth, which he liked. He had poured his weak and cowardly self into the song, yet hoped no one would notice.
Still, like his mother who passed ten years ago, he hoped there would be someone who could understand his true feelings no matter how poorly he explained them. Someone who could ignore his weakness and cowardice, yet still say, “You’re a remarkable person.”
There’s no one like that in the world. Expecting it from fans is impossible. Singers don’t sing to be understood—they sing to bring joy.
‘Then why do I keep thinking of Hyun-jae?’
Somehow, he seemed to understand everything… everything…
Yeon-hong stepped onto the stage. Applause erupted as he greeted the audience. Normally, he would have just screamed without any intro.
Today, he didn’t start singing immediately. He took the mic and spoke slowly.
“Before I start the song, I have something to say. Don’t worry, it’s not a break announcement… haha. I just realized I’ve never shared the behind-the-scenes story of my songs.”
The audience quieted. Were they waiting for covers instead?
‘I don’t know. Hyun-jae said it’s a good song.’
“Seven years ago, I was prescribed a drug called Quetapin. That was after I tried to jump off my apartment rooftop and got caught by the security guard.”
‘Wait, what did Yeon-hong just say?’
In the front row, 30-year-old Dong-jun blinked. He had only recently become Yeon-hong’s fan. After failing the civil service exam for the third time and wasting time searching job sites, he stumbled upon Yeon-hong on YouTube Shorts.
Yeon-hong had struggled through odd jobs and only at 33 became recognized by the public. That gave Dong-jun comfort: it was okay to be late.
He had watched Yeon-hong casually recounting begging on budget trips while unemployed, thinking, “Wow, this person is really strong. That’s nothing to him.”
The songs were good too. He didn’t fully understand the lyrics Yeon-hong wrote himself, but they were fun. He decided to buy a concert ticket.
He never expected to hear something like this.
Yeon-hong spoke lightly, as if recounting yesterday’s dinner.
“I used to think I was amazing. I made cool songs and sang them even cooler. But nobody noticed me. I felt so embarrassed. I was claiming to be great alone. So embarrassed that I thought I had to die, disappear from the world.”
In a hall of 6,000, not a single breath was heard. Yeon-hong didn’t even sing, yet captivated the audience.
“After failing to die, I felt this way: ‘I’m almost thirty, lying in my room achieving nothing… this can’t be the real me. Soon, the real me will appear. And my fans say my songs are good. Isn’t there something wrong with the world? My time will come.’ But actually, I knew. It was all an excuse, a way to escape. That ugly reality is the real me. So…”
Yeon-hong raised his hand.
“Quetapin is a song I wrote to fight my cowardly self.”
Then the guitar started.
“I pretended not to care because I hated being humiliated. Open the drawer and take the medicine. The end of the world comes every day, and laughter outside the window points fingers. You, talking about love?”
‘What… is this?’
Dong-jun couldn’t move, sing along, or even sway. Yeon-hong’s voice pierced his heart.
He thought of the past few years of his life.
He had failed the civil service exam three times. The first was just a test; he had no feel for it. The second, the questions were strange. The third, he wasn’t in good condition.
He didn’t even want to look at job sites. They all seemed weird. “I’m supposed to work at a company that’ll appear in a short YouTube clip? Something’s wrong,” he thought, wasting time playing games.
After failing to die, I felt this way: ‘I’m almost thirty, lying in my room achieving nothing… this can’t be the real me. Soon, the real me will appear.’
Dong-jun had probably said similar things to his family, friends, and himself.
The 30-year-old Dong-jun had imagined himself in a suit, working at a respectable company. Seeing himself at 2 a.m., eating instant noodles and watching YouTube, he felt this wasn’t the real him. He believed the real him would someday achieve greatness.
But actually, I knew. It was all an excuse, an escape. That ugly reality is the real me.
Yes. He knew it inside. But how could he admit it? He had tried for three years and failed. There was nothing left. Who could proudly say, “This loser is me”?
I pretended not to care because I hated being humiliated.
Now he understood what that meant. But isn’t everyone in the same situation? Everyone…
‘No, there are people who aren’t.’
Right in front of him. Singing on stage. It was no longer a “complicated song with high notes.” It was a precise arrow piercing each of Dong-jun’s thoughts.
He had thought Yeon-hong lived in a different world, with a steel-like heart, calmly working even without results.
But no. Yeon-hong also suffers, just like Dong-jun.
The only difference: Dong-jun kept pretending, eating noodles at dawn, while Yeon-hong stopped pretending and wrote songs while crying.
Dong-jun hadn’t expected to feel this at the concert. He listened, completely absorbed. How long had it been?
Yeon-hong said:
“Be brave. People say to be brave, but courage doesn’t just appear. I recently met someone who gave me great courage. I made this song thinking of that person.”
That person? Who could give someone like Yeon-hong courage? Dong-jun was unbearably curious. That person could probably give him courage too.
“First time live! OST of the movie Chalk and Window, Quetapin!”
