Chapter 11 : Moon Rabbit (1)

Kang Haerin announced that auditions for the play would be held this Friday.
Her words caught me off guard.

In my memory, the drama club had always followed the same system.

Third-year students, busy preparing for college or jobs, took a backseat, and the more experienced second-years took the lead roles.
First-year students filled the remaining minor roles, observing their seniors and anticipating their turn the following year.

But Kang Haerin had declared that roles would be assigned based purely on merit.

This overturned the very foundation of the drama club.
The clueless first-year students remained silent, but murmurs of discontent arose among the seniors.
Their reactions were far from positive.

It was understandable.
If a military officer told a senior sergeant and a private they’d be treated equally because they were both soldiers, who would accept that?

The senior sergeant, having paid his dues, would naturally expect the privileges that came with seniority.
Kang Haerin was essentially demanding a one-sided sacrifice from the second-year students.

The seniors, unwilling to directly challenge her authority, suppressed their complaints and started reading the script.
A small, invisible crack had formed.

***

I arrived home, hurriedly ate dinner, and opened my bag. I wasn’t patient enough to postpone reading the script.

I flipped open the first page.

***

The play opened with the cheerful chatter of villagers. A small, close-knit community.

One day, a rumor spread.
That if you made a wish to the moon at the dry well in the center of the village, it would come true.
Hearing this, the villagers began making wishes.

The Moon Rabbit, imbued with the moon’s energy and possessing mystical powers, granted their wishes.

However, due to the rabbit’s clumsiness, the results were often not what the villagers intended.

A man who wished for his hair to grow back became covered in fur. A man who wished for wealth became overwhelmed with work.
Laughter disappeared from the village.

One day, a man named Kim Jinsol wished to see his deceased lover. The rabbit, touched by his wish, descended to the village.
Disguised as Jinsol’s lover, the Moon Rabbit accompanied him everywhere.

Through this experience, the rabbit faced the consequences of its actions, witnessing the unhappiness it had caused.

Finally, overcome with guilt, the rabbit revealed its true identity to Jinsol. The play ended with the rabbit returning to the moon, determined to make amends.

***

I closed the script.
The protagonists were the Moon Rabbit and the man who longed to see his deceased lover.

Any aspiring actor would be drawn to these roles, the girl to the Moon Rabbit and the boy to Kim Jinsol.

‘The Wish-Granting Moon Rabbit’ was a comedy.
The rabbit’s clumsiness and the villagers’ suffering from their granted wishes created humorous situations.

The middle part, where the rabbit spent time with Jinsol, brought the audience face-to-face with an uncomfortable truth.

The Moon Rabbit was the heart of the play, and Kim Jinsol was the device that transformed the audience’s laughter into unease.

If either of these roles was poorly performed, the quality of the play would suffer drastically.
I finally understood the instructor’s intentions.

These roles had to be cast based purely on merit.

But a question arose.
This hadn’t happened in my past life.
The Kang Haerin I knew wasn’t one for taking risks.
That’s why even Dojun, despite his talent, had only played supporting roles in his first year.

Something must have influenced her. What was different this time?
The only thing that had changed…

“Me?”

The only difference was *me*.
Unlike the insecure Lee Haram of the past, whose first performance had been a disaster, *I* had delivered a performance so powerful that it silenced everyone.
It must have impacted the instructor.

I shouldn’t have let Dojun’s performance provoke me.
Regret, as always, came too late.
Guilt and a sense of responsibility compelled me to open the script again.

***

I hadn’t slept well, and dark circles underscored my eyes.
Hyelin fidgeted nervously as I kept nodding off.

“H… Haram, are you feeling okay?”
“I stayed up late last night.”
“M… Maybe you should go to the nurse’s office?”
“Haah… I’ll just take a nap during lunch break.”

I could have gone to the nurse’s office and legitimately taken a nap, but skipping class would reflect poorly on me. I didn’t want to jeopardize the good reputation I had carefully cultivated.

As I blinked sleepily, someone called my name.
A friendly girl who got along with everyone in class.
Nayeon, was it?

“Temporary President, someone’s looking for you and Hyelin.”
“From the drama club?”

I saw a familiar face at the back door, a senior from the drama club. I took Hyelin with me.

“Senior Songi, hello.”
“Hey, girls. Sorry for calling you out during break time.”
“It’s okay. What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk about the roles. Have you read the script?”
“Yes, it’s quite good.”
“Then this will be easy. Would it be okay if a second-year took the Moon Rabbit role?”

I tilted my head with a crooked smile. Senior Hansongi was blatantly asking us to give up the lead role.

“Aren’t the roles decided through auditions?”
“Yes, but this is a special case. There’s a tradition of second-years taking the lead roles. It was the same when we were first-years.”
“I’m not sure what’s going on, so I can’t give you a definite answer. I think the instructor had a reason for changing the casting process.”
“Junior, it’s just a hobby, right? Can’t you just let us have it this time?”

I used my ignorance as an excuse to avoid answering, but she was persistent. It seemed she wouldn’t leave until I agreed to give up the role.

Just then, Dojun, about to enter the classroom, noticed us.

“Hey, Lee Haram. You’re going for the Moon Rabbit role, right?”
“Oh, hello, Junior Dojun. We were just talking about that.”

Dojun frowned.
He realized she was a senior drama club member and said,

“Yes, hello. Talking about what?”
“The male lead is practically guaranteed to be you, Dojun. But a second-year should play the Moon Rabbit, don’t you think? For better chemistry. So, I was asking them for a favor.”

Dojun’s eyebrows shot up at Songi’s words. Then, seemingly understanding the situation, he gave a wry smile.
I sensed trouble and tried to interject, but he beat me to it.

“Wait a sec…”
“So, you’re asking them to give up the role because you don’t think you can outperform Lee Haram in an audition?”
“What did you just say, junior?”
“Why don’t you spend your time reading the script instead of making excuses?”
“…You’re quite rude, junior.”
“Who cares?”

He replied dismissively, scratching the back of his head. The fact that he maintained his polite speech while being so rude was baffling.

Dojun’s attitude seemed to have struck a nerve.
Songi yelled furiously. Her voice echoed through the hallway, attracting curious students who peeked out of their classrooms.

“Hey! What did you just say?!”
“Have you forgotten already? I said, ‘Who cares?’”
“Is that any way to talk to a senior?”
“I’ll treat you like a senior when you act like one. You have a loud voice, I’ll give you that. But your emotions are over the top. Practice more.”

I pressed my hand against my head, trying to ward off the impending headache. That socially inept idiot had done it again.

“What’s going on here?”

Joohyuk, having heard the commotion, walked over and asked about the situation. I quickly explained what Songi had said and how Dojun had gotten involved.

Joohyuk’s expression hardened as he listened. He stepped between Songi and Dojun.

“Hansongi, that’s enough.”
“B… But he’s the one who’s wrong!”
“And you think you’re not to blame?”

Joohyuk’s voice dropped, and Songi bit her lip, tears welling up in her eyes. As Joohyuk led her away, he turned to Dojun.

“Dojun, you need to control yourself. Regardless of who’s right or wrong, there’s basic courtesy you need to maintain. If this happens again, I won’t be able to respect you either.”

Thanks to Joohyuk’s intervention, the situation was resolved, for now.
I let out a long sigh and looked at Dojun.

“What are you going to do now?”
“It’ll work out somehow.”

Despite his eccentricities, Dojun wasn’t usually this unreasonable. Songi’s words must have really gotten to him.

The commotion would undoubtedly spread rumors.
Dojun, seemingly unconcerned, yawned and lay his head down on his desk.

Sure, he didn’t care.
But I did. I was the only thing that had changed in this life, so the responsibility fell on me.