Chapter 34 : 99% Water, 1% Coffee

“Have you ever considered… quitting theater?”

Kim Dohyung’s words hung in the air, the temperature in the room seeming to drop several degrees. Park Saeron, sensing the weight of the statement, raised an eyebrow.
I replied calmly,

“That’s… a rather rude thing to say, even if you did preface it with a compliment.”

He had just praised my acting, and now he was suggesting I quit? The abrupt shift in tone was jarring, his intentions unclear.

“I apologize. I’m just a very direct person.”

He ran a hand through his hair, a sheepish expression on his face. He knew he had overstepped.

“I didn’t mean to offend you. I actually think very highly of your acting.”
“I know. But I still think you owe me an explanation.”

Dohyung rubbed his nose, nodded, and then said,

“As a film director, I can assure you, your talent is better suited for film than theater.”
“Suited for film?”
“Yes. Do you know what struck me most about your performance?”
“What?”
“The subtle nuances of emotion that transcended the distance between the stage and the audience… and a certain… unsettling quality.”

He took a sip of his coffee.

“Your emotional expression in the final scene was… remarkable. But also… disturbing. I kept thinking, ‘Why do I feel this way? What is the source of this unease?’”

Admiration and unease shouldn’t coexist when evaluating a performance.

Such a contradiction naturally sparked curiosity. And Kim Dohyung quickly identified its source.

“And then I realized… you’re holding back.”

His years of experience as a director allowed him to see through the facade, to recognize an actor’s limitations. The scene Saeron had described as improv… Haram’s emotions in that scene had run much deeper than what Dohyung had seen on stage.

“It’s like reading a novel that’s been abruptly discontinued. I like closure. I want to see the full extent of your range, the depths you’re capable of reaching.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t see how that relates to quitting theater.”

He wanted to see the full range of my emotions, the rawest, most vulnerable parts of myself. It was the desire of an audience member, not a director. I didn’t understand the connection to quitting theater. Dohyung nodded.

“I’m worried you’ll become… complacent in theater.”
“Complacent?”
“Theater has its own unique way of conveying emotions. The exaggerated movements and vocal projection, the dynamic interplay between actors performing live… it all comes together to create a specific kind of art.”
“Right.”
“But when the balance of power is uneven, we call it…holding back. You’re holding back for the sake of your fellow actors. And I don’t think that’s a good thing.”

I frowned. Had I ever deliberately held back in a performance? I couldn’t recall ever doing so. I had always pushed myself, striving for the best possible performance.

“I don’t understand. I’ve never held back. And I don’t consider myself superior to the other members.”
“You have… a raw, powerful intensity. And you’re suppressing it.”

He took a sip of his coffee, then continued,

“Theater is a marathon. You pace yourself, you work with your fellow actors, you conserve your energy. If Usain Bolt ran a marathon, would he sprint like he does in the 100-meter dash? No, he’d pace himself, like any other marathon runner.”
“So, you think I’m a sprinter?”
“Yes. You’re built for short bursts of intense energy, not long, sustained efforts. That’s why I think you should quit theater. Even the strongest runner can forget how to sprint if they get too used to pacing themselves.”

I finally understood. This wasn’t criticism; it was a recruitment pitch. He was confident in his assessment of my talent and wanted me for his film.

I touched my lips thoughtfully.

“Why should I listen to you?”
“I don’t say this to just anyone, but… I’m intrigued by your potential. I have a significant supporting role in my upcoming film. It’s still open.”

It was a fantastic opportunity. My fingers trembled slightly. To bypass the usual struggles and land a supporting role in a film directed by a renowned director… it was a dream scenario.

A brief silence followed. Dohyung sipped his coffee.
I gathered my thoughts, then smirked.

“You seem to like coffee, Director.”
“I do. Can’t function without it.”
“Did you know that the quality of water is more important than the beans when it comes to the taste of coffee? It makes sense, since it’s mostly water.”

Dohyung frowned, intrigued.

“That’s interesting.”
“So, what are you drinking? Water or coffee?”
“Coffee.”
“Exactly. Even though it’s mostly water, we still call it coffee. Because that’s what we want it to be.”

I smiled gently.

“But I see it as 99% water, 1% coffee.”

99% water, 1% coffee.
Don’t confuse what you want to see with what it truly is.

It was a polite rejection. Dohyung seemed to understand.

“I see. My apologies. I was too hasty.”
“Thank you for the offer, but… I’d rather cherish the memories I’m making with my friends.”

The camaraderie of the drama club, the shared experiences, were more appealing than sacrificing everything for a chance at stardom.

Dohyung finished his coffee.

“If that’s how you feel, I can’t force you. But can I ask one more thing?”
“Sure.”
“That 99% water, 1% coffee analogy… Does that mean there’s at least 1% you are considering?”
“Of course.”
“Then, how about we grab coffee after you’re done filming your independent film? I know a great place.”

I chuckled and nodded. He was more competitive than I had initially thought.

Summer announced its arrival with the buzzing of cicadas. Sleeves, no longer needed, were discarded, and students bared their arms. But even that wasn’t enough to combat the sweltering heat, and the fans, previously hidden, were brought out.

I lay sprawled on my desk, exhausted. My centrally located desk was a dead zone, the fan’s breeze tantalizingly out of reach.

The air conditioner was reserved for exceptionally hot days, a measure to conserve electricity. I knew it wasn’t the teacher’s fault, but I couldn’t help but resent them.

‘I bet the teachers’ office is freezing.’

I felt a pang of that uniquely adolescent injustice, a feeling I had forgotten as an adult.

A cool breeze suddenly brushed against my face. I turned to see Hyelin holding a portable fan, a worried expression on her face.

“Y… You looked… hot…”
“Wow, an angel.”

Hyelin blushed at my words.

“Wh… What are you talking about? I’m… I’m not a child…”
“Sharing your fan on a hot day like this? You’re an angel.”

She clearly wasn’t immune to cheesy compliments. I filed that information away and buried my face in my arms, smiling. She suddenly spoke up.

“Oh, right! Isn’t there a… drama club… celebration today?”
“Yes, we should spend that prize money. It’ll burn a hole in our pockets otherwise.”

We had won second place at the Seoul Theater Festival. Despite our strong finish, Hyelin’s fall had cost us points. But second place was enough to qualify for the National Theater Festival.

“You… sound like… my dad…”
“Really? Your dad gives good advice, then.”

Hyelin glared at my teasing. She looked so much like a grumpy squirrel that I couldn’t help but smile.

Just then, our homeroom teacher walked in. Hyelin and I straightened up in our seats.

Unlike usual, the class immediately quieted down. Our teacher was holding something we all wanted.

The world was fairer than we thought. Adults might have air-conditioned offices, but children had… this. A thrill of anticipation ran through me. A two-month vacation, a luxury adults could only dream of. Summer break was coming.