Chapter 21 : The Meaning of white (5)

The three of us sat together, caught in a web of misunderstanding.

I took a large gulp of water, but my parched throat remained dry.
The Water didn’t taste good. Perhaps it was the awkwardness, or maybe because water was just inherently tasteless.

The blonde woman introduced herself.

“I’m Gu Yuri. I’m Dojun’s… Noona. You must be his… girlfriend?” (TL Note: Noona is a term of endearment for older sister, used by males)

I shook my head vehemently.

“No, we’re just classmates.”
“Oh… I see. For now.”
“Not ‘for now.’ We *are*, and *will be*, classmates. Just classmates.”
“Right. Some people like… open relationships these days. My, you’re a modern one, aren’t you?”
“That’s not it either.”

Gu Yuri’s mind was already filled with fantasies. My explanations were futile.

‘Why am I the only one explaining?’

I glared at Dojun, who, for some reason, was blushing and avoiding eye contact.
What was wrong with him?

“…Oh my?”

Yuri’s reaction only deepened the misunderstanding. I gave up trying to explain.

“I’m Lee Haram, Dojun’s classmate. We’re in the drama club together.”
“Really? I work in the industry too. Should we drop the formalities?”
“Sure.”

I’d do anything to escape this awkward situation. I readily agreed.

But it was a trap. The moment I agreed, a sly smile spread across her face.

“Okay, then… daughter-in-law.”
“Excuse me?”
“I practically raised Dojun, so it’s only fitting, right?”
“I don’t see the connection.”
“What? You don’t want me to call you that ? It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Not really. We are just friends.”
“Daughter-in-law it is, then.”

Her smile was unwavering.
It seemed the nickname was here to stay. Dojun ran a hand through his hair.

“It’s not like that, Noona. Stop teasing her.”
“Oh my, do you have any idea how shocked I was when I walked in?”

Yuri feigned offense, expertly playing the role of the concerned older sister. This woman was good.

“Who’s the vixen who bewitched my innocent little brother? I mean, you’re pretty, so I get it. But Dojun isn’t exactly the type to carry…protection… Should I buy him some? So many thoughts went through my mind…”
“Noona, seriously, stop.”

Dojun cut her off. Yuri winked at us.

“So, if what you’re saying is true, why are you wearing Dojun’s clothes, daughter-in-law?”

Daughter-in-law. It was official.
As I tried to formulate a response, Dojun spoke.

“Lee Haram wanted to start a revolution against umbrellas, and I got dragged into it.”
“A revolution?”
“Han Dojun…”

I glared at him, but he continued, undeterred.

“Apparently, umbrellas are dictators who oppress our freedom to enjoy the rain.”

Yuri burst out laughing. My face burned red.

“Ahahaha, you’re funny.”
“I… um… thanks?”
“I like funny people. Let’s exchange numbers. I’m a pretty successful actor, you know.”

She held out her phone. I took it and entered my number. She saved my contact as “Daughter-in-law.”
This nickname was going to haunt me forever.

Just then, the dryer buzzed. I rushed to retrieve my dry clothes. My escape from this hellhole.

Once I was out of here, I would live to tell the tale of my heroic resistance against the enemy’s relentless interrogation.

I felt their gazes burning into my back as I gathered my clothes. I was definitely imagining things.

***

After I left, Gu Yuri turned to Dojun.

“That’s her, right? The girl you wrote about in your diary?”
“You have zero respect for privacy. I’m changing my door code.”
“Who do you think takes care of your apartment? I deserve some compensation.”

Dojun frowned.

“How much do you need? I’ll tell Dad.”
“I have plenty of money. I want something else.”
“You and your twisted curiosity.”
“What can I say? I can’t resist a good mystery.”

Yuri grinned shamelessly. Dojun sighed and shook his head.

“I was wondering who the ‘genius’ was, the one who managed to melt the cold heart of Han Dojun. She *is* interesting.”
“I’m not that cold-hearted. Even my dad praises me when I do something well.”
“That’s true. But did you know? The Han family has incredibly high standards when it comes to a ‘genius.’”

Yuri stood behind Dojun, resting her chin on his head. She closed her eyes, seemingly reminiscing.

“Your dad, and you… you never praise anyone as a ‘genius.’ Even when they clearly deserve it. But in your diary, I saw you break that sacred vow. I just *had* to see her for myself.”

Dojun nodded, a serious expression on his face.

“Lee Haram is a genius.”

He recalled a conversation with his father.

‘Son, we’re not geniuses.’

His father hadn’t been all sunshine and rainbows. He had showered him with love, yes, but he had also taught him how to view the world with a cold, discerning eye.

When Dojun first started acting lessons, his father, seeing his arrogance, had told him,

You and I, we’re not geniuses.
Our talent is merely an imitation of true genius.

Geniuses were those whose overflowing talent accumulated within them until it exploded outwards, like a dying star.

When Dojun had asked if such people truly existed, his father had worn an expression of profound sadness.

‘Your mother was one of them.’

Naturally, Dojun’s standards for “genius” became impossibly high. He had never met one, so he couldn’t even imagine what one would be like. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that *he* wasn’t one.

And then, he saw Haram’s acting, and he finally understood what his father had meant. He had seen it, that raw, untamed power, exploding outwards. It wasn’t crafted; it was innate.

The emotion he felt towards Haram was akin to awe. That’s why he had tried so hard to prevent her from reading his diary. He didn’t want her to see his assessment of her.

Yuri, watching him, smiled and checked her phone.

“Daughter-in-law’s name is Lee Haram, right?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder what kind of performance captivated our Dojun so much.”

A faint tinge of green, the color of jealousy, colored Gu Yuri’s feelings towards the girl who had captured Han Dojun’s attention.

***

The preliminaries for the Youth Theater Festival were in mid-May. Time was flying by. Excluding the time needed to prepare props and costumes, we only had about a month left for rehearsals.

We rehearsed endlessly. With constant feedback and revisions, the quality of our play was noticeably improving.

Kang Haerin, however, was frowning.
She had identified an unexpected problem.

The problem was Lee Haram.

Honestly, Haerin had been worried at first. Haram’s performance at the initiation ceremony had been… unsettling. A raw, untamed power that was almost overwhelming.

It hadn’t felt suitable for theater, but Haerin wasn’t concerned.
She believed she could refine that raw talent and shape it into something extraordinary.

Haram had allayed her fears during the audition, delivering a polished, controlled performance that was a far cry from her initial raw display.

So, Haerin had been optimistic.

But now, watching the rehearsals, a hidden flaw had emerged.
It wasn’t that Haram’s acting was bad.

‘Or rather, it’s *too* good, in a way.’

After a rehearsal, as Haram was catching her breath and drinking water, Haerin called her over.

“Haram, can we talk?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way. Your acting is good. But it’s… not good for the *play*.”
“Huh?”

Haram looked confused, so Haerin showed her the recording of the rehearsal. Haram could see it now, the dissonance in her scenes. She frowned.

“What’s wrong with it?”
“There’s a difference in skill level. Look at this part.”

The awkwardness that permeated the play vanished whenever Dojun appeared. His scenes were dynamic, adding depth and dimension to the performance.

“The play comes alive when Dojun is on stage.”
“Do you know why?”
“No.”

Kang Haerin raised her hand.

“Hit my hand.”

Haram hesitated, then complied. A sharp clap echoed through the room. Haerin pointed at her palm.

“That’s what theater is. Working together, creating something dynamic. Try it again.”

Haram hit her hand again, but this time, Haerin didn’t resist. A dull thud echoed as Haram’s hand bounced off Haerin’s limp palm.

“That’s what’s happening in our play right now. Your acting is excellent, but the others can’t keep up. You’re not in sync, so the performance feels flat.”
“I understand.”
“Dojun can keep up, so your scenes together work. But the others can’t. You need to learn how to adjust your performance to match your scene partner.”

Haerin watched as Haram returned to rehearsal. She had a headache. Haram’s acting, while technically proficient, had a flaw when it came to collaborative performances.

Actors usually learned to work with their scene partners naturally. But Haram seemed to lack that skill entirely.

How should she describe Lee Haram’s acting?

It was like watching someone who had only ever practiced in front of a mirror.