Chapter 24 : The Meaning of white (8)

I sometimes had nightmares.

A pitch-black void where I was utterly alone. The air, thick and heavy, made it difficult to breathe.

It was a dream. I knew, I was acutely aware, that this place wasn’t real. Ironically, this awareness only intensified the dream’s reality.

Splash.

An ominous sound, and a man’s figure materialized from the darkness. He looked around, saw me, and started walking towards me.

I watched him approach, my expression blank. I didn’t move, not even when his tar-like hand wrapped around my throat.

I stared at him, even as I felt the air being squeezed from my lungs. And I laughed.

I looked at the faded scars on my wrists.
“That’s pathetic. If you really wanted to die, you should have severed your carotid artery. It would have been over in seconds.”

I looked at the faint ligature mark on my neck.
“And that… If you really wanted to die, you should have jumped from a rooftop, like your mother. Now you just have more painful memories.”

His grip tightened at my words. I smiled.

“Why are you being so childish?”

You know better than this.

You know the most efficient way.

You know how foolish this is.

His grip loosened. He lost his form, dissolving back into the darkness.

I laughed, mocking this creature of falsehood.

Oh, right.
You didn’t really want to die, did you?
Coward.

Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating my room. I yawned and rubbed my eyes.

The rhythmic thud of a knife against a cutting board echoed from the kitchen. The sound stopped, and my mother entered my room.

“Time for school, sweetie.”
“Ugh, already?”
“Yes. Your sister is in the shower, so go eat breakfast.”

I stretched and reached for the light switch, then stopped. April sunlight was stronger than March’s, filling my room with a soft glow.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
Enough light for one person to live by.

I was staring intently at Saeron’s script during a break before rehearsal when Na Yeseul sat beside me.

She hadn’t gotten a role, but she was invaluable in helping with props. She wiped her fogged-up glasses – a side effect of our strenuous warm-up routine – and looked at me.

“What’s wrong, Haram?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You’ve been sitting here with that serious expression on your face. That’s not like you.”

I realized why she was concerned. I must have looked like I had a serious problem. She wasn’t entirely wrong.

I had made a bet with Saeron. If I lost, he would kick me – a roundhouse kick to the shin, to be precise. He later explained that he was curious if my leg would actually break. In short, Park Saeron, that monster of curiosity, was planning on kicking me with full force.

Looking at his thigh, which was the size of my head, filled me with dread. Even if I tried to reason with him, saying it would affect filming, he’d probably just postpone filming.

Goodbye, my beautiful legs.

Anyway, all these problems would disappear if I could just figure out the meaning of “Hundred” before summer break. That’s why I had been poring over the script whenever I had a free moment, but…

“Hundred” remained stubbornly indecipherable. It was like being a scientist told that an asteroid would hit Earth in a month, desperately searching for a solution.

It was a serious problem for me, but not for anyone else. So, I reassured Yeseul,

“I made a bet with someone about the interpretation of this script, and I’m stuck.”
“Really? Let me see.”

I handed her the script. Sharing a script with a third party was usually a bad idea, but Yeseul had no reason to exploit it, and Saeron didn’t seem to mind.

Yeseul scanned the pages with incredible speed. She flipped through them at an inhuman pace, as if she had mastered speed reading. She finished, sighed, and said,

“This is incredibly vague.”
“Isn’t it?”

Her assessment mirrored my own. I felt a sense of camaraderie, a shared burden. She frowned.

“It’s like… every possible interpretation and plot development is crammed in here. Whoever wrote this is…weird.”

Her words perfectly captured my own feelings. It was comforting to have someone share my pain.

“You’re spot on. Especially the ‘weird’ part.”

Yeseul chuckled.

“I love reading, so… What are you trying to figure out?”
“The title, ‘Hundred.’ I want to know what it means.”
“That’s tough. There’s no clear answer. It’s like it was intentionally designed to be open to interpretation.”
“Intentionally?”

I closed my eyes, trying to grasp the elusive meaning. I felt like I was so close, just a thin veil separating me from the answer.

But my concentration was shattered by the sound of clapping. The instructor was signaling the start of rehearsal.

“I think I have an idea now. Thanks.”
“Glad I could help.”

I thanked Yeseul for the unintentional hint.

Before rehearsal started, Kang Haerin walked over to me.

“Have you thought about what we discussed last week?”
“I have, yeah. Still getting the hang of it.”
“It takes time to break old habits. Don’t push yourself too hard.”
“Okay.”

Rehearsal began. The second-year seniors started the scene.

Kang Joohyuk and Baek Junsu, playing Male 1 and Male 2, set the stage, their portrayal of drunken villagers conveying the backstory effectively.

Joohyuk’s monologue in the next scene was captivating. He was a skilled actor.

His monologue ended, and it was my turn. I took a deep breath and walked onto the stage.

I looked into Kang Joohyuk’s eyes. I started to see things I hadn’t noticed before.

I had been too focused on portraying my character, forgetting to pay attention to my surroundings.

Acting with Gu Yuri had been a revelation. I had been acting, but I hadn’t been performing. Theater wasn’t about showcasing individual talent; it was about telling a story.

So, I erased myself from this small world. It was as easy as breathing.

How did I act?

My body remembered the lines and the blocking. All I needed was emotion. I injected a minimal amount, just enough to be convincing.

I focused the rest of my attention on my surroundings, reading Joohyuk’s thoughts, listening to his breathing.

We synchronized our breaths. Literally. I inhaled when he inhaled, exhaled when he exhaled.

The human body instinctively inhales before taking action. I delivered my lines just as his lungs filled with air. This slight pause, this half-breath, would give him the space he needed to react.

“Oh, Moon Rabbit, please cure my baldness!”

I sensed a flicker of surprise from him. He was thrown off by the change in my performance. I intentionally drew out my lines, giving him time to readjust.

“Hmm… You want me to make your hair grow back? What’s in it for me? Why should I bother?”

I continued to adjust my performance, becoming less prominent, more attuned to my scene partner. The Moon Rabbit’s presence was less pronounced, but the scene flowed more smoothly.

Kang Haerin suddenly realized she had been chewing on a piece of tissue. She spat it out and frowned.

‘There’s no in-between with this girl.’

Rehearsal had gone well. But everyone, except Lee Haram and Han Dojun, looked confused.

Haerin understood. She would have felt the same way in their shoes. They had all felt more comfortable during the rehearsal, but they couldn’t pinpoint why.

Haram had adjusted her performance so subtly that even her scene partner hadn’t noticed. Haerin was impressed by her control and focus.

It had only been three days since she had pointed out the flaw in Haram’s acting.
Haram had not only addressed it but turned it into a strength.

“I don’t know what to make of her anymore.”

How had such a talented student ended up in her drama club? She sensed someone watching and turned to see Hansongi, her gaze fixed on Haram.

Hansongi bit her lip. Haerin had hoped it was anger, frustration, anything but… this. Looking at Hansongi’s slumped shoulders, Haerin sighed.