Chapter 31 : Theater Festival (4)

“Oh…”

Two seconds of silence. Then, the murmurs of the audience.

I quickly assessed the situation.

The audience was thrown off, but they weren’t sure what had happened yet. If this had been a deliberate directorial choice, it would be disastrous. But revealing it as a mistake would be even worse.

I had to find a way to salvage the scene, to somehow shift the blame to the writer.

What was the most natural reaction in this situation?
Thinking would take too long. The audience would sense the hesitation. I had to act instinctively.

What would I do if I saw a friend fall?
I knew the answer.

My body moved before my mind could catch up. I reached out and helped Hyelin up.

And I laughed.

“Ha… what was that?”

I controlled my laughter. The Moon Rabbit would be amused by the fall, yes, but also slightly concerned. I carefully calibrated my emotions.

“Wh… What?” Hyelin stammered, still shaken.
“Come on, get up. Do you want the audience to see you like this?”

I gave her a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, a signal only she could see. I smirked and took a slow, deep breath, subtly gesturing for her to follow my lead, to match my breathing.

Her breath, hitched by the fall and the shock, steadied. The fresh intake of air would calm her nerves. I looked into her eyes, and she instinctively met my gaze.

I’m here, and you’re here.
You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.

I projected confidence, reassuring her silently.

“So, what were you about to do?”
“D… Dance!”

She had recovered.

I clasped my hands behind my back. The Moon Rabbit couldn’t offer her hand, couldn’t reveal her own awkwardness and guilt. I reconnected the severed emotional threads, clumsily patching them together. The emotion I needed now was regret.

I swallowed the bitter taste rising in my throat.

“I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“You must be hurt. I’m sorry.”

The cowardly Moon Rabbit apologized, not for Hyelin’s sake, but for her own.

Backstage, the seniors rushed over to Hyelin.

“Are you okay? Do we need to take you to the hospital?”
“I… I’m so sorry… sob…”

Hyelin, her nerves frayed, kept apologizing, tears streaming down her face. Joohyuk tried to comfort her.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Haram saved the scene.”
“It’s… all my fault…”
“Accidents happen. As long as you’re not hurt, it’s fine.”

Dojun walked over to me.

“We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

I glared at him. He had been sullen all day.

“…We’re not screwed.”
“Really? You really think so?”

His voice was low, almost a whisper. I looked into his eyes. They were filled with a fiery intensity, a hint of…manic excitement.

I closed my mouth.

Two seconds of silence.

No matter how well I had handled the situation, the audience’s immersion had been broken. And the judges would be even more critical. They weren’t going to give a high score to a play with a glaring interruption like that.

Hyelin’s fall had drastically reduced our chances of winning. That’s what Dojun meant.

“Why do you even have to say it out loud?”

I couldn’t understand his intentions. Assigning blame was never a good idea. Dojun knew that.

He smirked.

“The play’s not over yet.”
“It’s almost the end of Act 3.”
“That’s enough.”

What was he planning? His unpredictable smile was unnerving.

“I’m going to improvise. You do what you want.”

Act 3, Scene 12. The scene Hansongi and I had competed for. The Moon Rabbit saying goodbye to Kim Jinsol and returning to the moon. The climax of the play.

I was confident; we had rehearsed this scene countless times. But I was wary of Dojun. He seemed to be up to something.

The scene began.

“I’m sorry for deceiving you. I’m not the person you loved.”

The Moon Rabbit’s voice was tinged with a bittersweet melancholy. Jinsol laughed hollowly.

“What are you talking about?”
“I heard your wish from the moon. I thought it would be simple. To transform into her, to fill the void…”

The Moon Rabbit’s underlying emotion was loneliness. A familiar feeling, but now, amplified, a vast darkness threatening to consume her. Loneliness was a form of subtraction. She was becoming aware of the connections she had unknowingly formed, the void they would leave behind.

Joy mingled with sadness, colors swirling and shifting.

Bright black, dark white.
The contradiction tore at her heart.

“Don’t say such things. Come home with me.”

Dojun’s voice trembled as he denied her guilt, her sacrifice.

Jinsol knew.
He knew the Moon Rabbit was just an imposter.

But he was afraid. Afraid of returning to his empty, lonely life. Afraid of the Moon Rabbit’s sorrow, of her returning to her solitary existence on the moon.

Like a child clinging to a comforting lie, he refused to let go of this temporary happiness, this fleeting connection.

Dojun had expertly set the stage, the emotional groundwork laid. I maintained my blank expression, my voice cold.

“…I… I must have been… out of my mind…”

I waited for his next line.

[What can I do to make you feel better?]

Jinsol’s final expression of concern, his care for her well-being… and then the Moon Rabbit’s sorrowful acceptance, the end of the play.

The culmination of months of hard work.
But Han Dojun deviated from the script.

“Don’t go. You belong here.”

Jinsol, prioritizing his own feelings over the Moon Rabbit’s sacrifice. I bit my lip.

“Why… Why are you doing this?”

The Moon Rabbit’s question to Jinsol was also my question to Dojun. He responded naturally, as if this was how the scene was supposed to go.

“Is that truly how you feel?”
“Are you… accusing me of lying?”
“Yes. Everything you’ve said, from beginning to end, has been a lie.”

His eyes were filled with a red intensity, a mix of exhilaration and something… wilder.

I finally understood the source of his sullenness throughout the play. He didn’t want a calculated performance; he wanted the raw, messy emotions simmering beneath the surface.

He wanted me to break.

He would continue to improvise, pushing me, until I gave him what he wanted.
I knew what I had to do.

I immersed myself in the role, drawing on the Moon Rabbit’s emotions, her confusion, her frustration.

What would she say? How would she feel?

Why is he saying this to me?

I just told you I’m a liar, a deceiver.

I’m trying to protect you, to save you from my mistakes.

And the truth was…

I didn’t want to leave either.

I threw away all pretense of composure, letting the raw emotion pour out.

“You don’t understand anything!”
“Of course not! You never tell me anything!”

Jinsol’s accusation stung. The warmth in his eyes, the gentle concern he had shown throughout the play, was gone, replaced by a cold intensity. Sadness welled up within me.

“If… if I don’t leave… so many people will be unhappy.”
“And I’ll be happy?”
“You will be, eventually.”
“How can you be so sure? You’ve made nothing but mistakes.”

We traded blows, our words sharp, fueled by a desperate, unspoken affection. Our emotions spiraled out of control.

“Why do you keep trying to leave?”
“Because I won’t be happy here, with you.”

The Moon Rabbit’s words were a desperate gamble, a threat disguised as a confession.

Exhausted by the conflict, Jinsol whispered,

“What do you want from me?”

He had surrendered. The Moon Rabbit had won.

The anger drained from her eyes, replaced by tears. Tears of victory. They had to be.

I seized my chance, voicing the desire I had kept hidden, the selfish wish I had tried to deny.

“Then… then… come with me.”

Let’s be lonely together.

Jinsol didn’t answer. The silence spoke volumes.

See? You still have so much to lose. I only have to give up one thing.

The Moon Rabbit straightened her back, tilting her head.

“I’ll be generous and give you a choice.”

She forced a laugh, pushing away the sadness, and turned towards the moon hanging in the backdrop.

And then, she spoke,

“Forget me.”