Chapter 9 : Han Dojun (2)

I stretched as we exited the small theater.

“Ah, that was fun. What did you think?”
“It was alright. The lead actor was good.”
“Yeah, the con man. He must have practiced a lot.”

Interactive plays relied heavily on the chemistry between the actors and the audience. The actors had to follow the script while also improvising based on the audience’s reactions, making it quite challenging. ‘Don’t Trust That Person!’ managed to maintain audience engagement without sacrificing the flow of the story.
In other words, the actors were skilled.

I hummed happily, impressed by the high quality of the performance in such a small, unassuming theater. I felt a gaze on me and turned to see Dojun looking at me with a disgruntled expression. He hesitated, then spoke.

“Isn’t that tiring?”
“What is?”
“Smiling all the time.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re not smiling genuinely, are you? Right now.”
“Am I?”

His words hit a nerve, and I forced an awkward smile. Dojun, sensing he wouldn’t get the answer he wanted, started walking.

It was 4 p.m.
An awkward silence hung between us as we walked towards the subway station.

Just then, music drifted from Marronnier Park.
I spoke without thinking.

“That must be the Arko Arts Theatre.”
“Arts Theatre?”
“Yeah, the area in front of the theater is a popular busking spot. Someone must be performing.”

I turned towards the park. I wanted to hear the raw, amateur performances of these young artists.

“Dojun, let’s listen to the busking before we go.”
“…Sure.”
“Save me a spot. I’ll get us drinks.”

I bought coffee at a nearby cafe, an iced Americano for me and a chocolate frappe for Dojun. I scanned the crowd for him.

He waved at me from between the pedestrians.
He had managed to secure a good spot.
I approached him and handed him the chocolate frappe.
He tilted his head and asked,

“Did I ever say I like sweet things?”
“You just have a sweet tooth face.”

He hadn’t told me, but I knew his preferences inside and out. The strumming of a guitar signaled the start of the performance. People started gathering.

I sipped my iced Americano and closed my eyes.
The wrapping paper concealing the past slowly unpeeled.
The sound of a cheap amplifier brought back memories.

The slightly distorted sound of a cheap amplifier, the slightly raspy voices typical of outdoor performances…
I cherished the memory of listening to these amateur performances with Dojun and discussing the play we had just seen.

Human memory was volatile; we couldn’t remember everything.
We might recall paragraphs from complex textbooks but forget what we ate a few days ago.

That’s why we carefully folded our precious, unforgettable memories and tucked them away in pretty wrapping paper. We labeled them with star stickers and displayed them prominently in our minds. We called them memories.

It was a memory.
A memory of sharing a simple cup of coffee, talking seriously about theater, while experiencing the poverty of youth, chasing the same dream.
Even when I saw Dojun become a famous actor later on, I thought, if we ever met again, we’d share a drink and reminisce about those times.

But…

Now that I was back, the memory was mine alone.
There was no one here to share this beautiful memory with.

I wanted to tell Dojun about it. About us, sitting here, sharing a coffee, engrossed in conversations about theater.
I didn’t care if he was bewildered. I didn’t care if I seemed crazy. I just wanted to share this memory. Unfortunately, as an adult, maintaining composure was too easy. The words wouldn’t come out.

My display case was full. I couldn’t make new memories without discarding old ones. But I couldn’t discard them. There was no one to retrieve them for me if I did.

I knew, but he didn’t.
That small gap was what made me lonely.
If I didn’t have these memories, I could have enjoyed the present moment fully.

Perhaps because of my changed body, Dojun treated me coldly, unlike before. We used to be inseparable.

Controlling my emotions was difficult. The urge to define our relationship consumed me. A bitter, coffee-like impulse pushed me forward.

So, I blamed it on hormones.

I turned to face him, choosing to hide my expression, unable to manage it any longer.
And then, I spoke.

“Hey, Han Dojun.”
“Yeah?”
“You hate me, don’t you?”

Han Dojun hated liars.
He loathed people who approached him with hidden motives.

Dojun never knew his mother.
He was told she passed away after giving birth to him, as if the very act had depleted her life force.

He spent his childhood traveling with his father.
The emptiness of his other hand was noticeable, but he didn’t mind, feeling complete love in his father’s firm grip.

That didn’t last long.
His father apologized, explaining that he wouldn’t be able to care for him for a while due to work. He brought a woman Dojun had never met before, introducing her as his older sister.

His father’s warm hand was replaced by his sister’s gentle one.
She told him that their father was a famous actor, loved by everyone.

Dojun understood why his father’s hand had been so warm. He received so much love that he could share some of it with Dojun.

Dojun wanted to be loved by everyone too.
That’s how his first dream was born.

Time passed, and it was parent-teacher conference day at elementary school. His sister apologized, saying she couldn’t make it due to an audition.
She was working hard to be loved by the world too.

It was okay.
He understood her desire and didn’t mind.

Just then, the back door creaked open, and his father walked in. The classroom erupted in commotion.

“Oh my god, is that Han Geunseok, the actor?”

Murmurs of excitement filled the room. His father was loved even more than he had thought.

Geunseok smiled awkwardly and patted Dojun’s head. His father’s hand, after so long, was still warm.

Time passed, and Dojun became the center of attention in his class.
He was finally loved by everyone, and it filled him with pride.

But the truth wasn’t far behind. One day, as he was leaving the restroom…
He heard familiar voices on the other side of the door.

“That Han Dojun? He’s such a jerk, isn’t he?”
“He is.”
“But what can we do? My mom told me to befriend him.”
“You too? My mom’s a fan of his dad…”

That’s when he realized.
They weren’t interested in him; they were interested in the son of actor Han Geunseok.

He thought he was ready to be loved by the world, but he couldn’t tell who was genuinely interested in him.

He began to doubt everyone’s sincerity.
Are you really seeing me? Or are you just a fan of my dad?
Consumed by suspicion, he became cold and distant.

His friends drifted away, repelled by his coldness.
Their relationships had been built on falsehoods.

He wondered about the difference between himself and his father. Why was his father loved by everyone?

The answer came quickly.
Something his father had that he didn’t.

Acting. His father’s performances captivated people.
The young boy threw a tantrum.

I want to act! I want to be a famous actor! I want to be loved by everyone!

And so, he started attending acting classes. Perhaps due to his father’s influence, he was quite talented.

His instructors all said the same thing. His ability to connect with people was a gift.

The young boy asked them, “Will people like me?”

They assured him that with hard work, he could achieve anything.

So, he worked hard.
He honed his skills relentlessly.
He disregarded childish games. He didn’t want to be a moth drawn to a flame; he wanted to be the flame.

One day, he started to see through the falsehoods of those who approached him.

His friends, just like those who had gossiped about him before, were not genuine.
Disheartened by the realization that no one saw him for who he truly was, the young boy lashed out.

Get lost, all of you!

Rumors spread through the school, and he became isolated.
And then, he started high school and met Lee Haram.