Chapter 3: I Found Him! (2)

Jeon Yeohu really was at a cooking academy, just as Seongsu hyung had said.

Not a certification class, but an ordinary hobby course.

By sheer luck, Park Mintae ran into a staff member in the hallway and, under the pretext of trying out a hobby class for a day, managed to enter the classroom where Jeon Yeohu was.

The moment he walked in, one person immediately stood out.

Just one.

His build was so large that the surrounding objects—and people—seemed small by comparison.

‘He looks at least 180 centimeters tall.’

The hobby class followed a simple format: the instructor demonstrated first, then each group worked together to complete the dish.

“Wow. Why are you so good with a knife? It feels like you’ve been learning for over a year.”

“Thank you. Ah—pumpkin goes this way. And that one needs to be sliced on the bias.”

“Could you maybe help me with this…?”

Yeah. He’s definitely popular.

Well, of course he would be. In a cooking class where more than half the students were women, a tall, handsome guy like that standing there so confidently—there was no way he wouldn’t draw attention.

And on top of that, his skills were outstanding.

Even at a glance, it was obvious that Jeon Yeohu’s team was finishing the fastest—and the most accurately.

‘He’s good at cooking too?’

Even the instructor, who was checking on the students in between, asked him whether he had any interest in earning a certification.

“First place for today’s class goes to Group Four.”

As if it were a given, Jeon Yeohu’s team took first place.

‘I’ll talk to him once class is over.’

But that resolve proved meaningless.

The moment the class ended, Jeon Yeohu bolted off somewhere.

Park Mintae hurried after him, but there was no comparison—someone in their twenties versus someone in their thirties.

It felt like chasing a wild cheetah.

Jeon Yeohu finally stopped at a park.

“Huff—huff—.”

By the time Park Mintae caught up enough to at least see his face, Jeon Yeohu had already blended into a group of people riding boards together.

Cooking, and now suddenly boarding…?

His behavior made absolutely no sense.

Watching what looked like a fairly serious board research group analyzing their posture, Park Mintae didn’t dare approach recklessly. Once again, he sat on a corner bench in the park and waited for Jeon Yeohu’s schedule to end.

An hour later—

“Then I’ll get going now. See you next time.”

“Okay! Let us know before you come!”

At last, Jeon Yeohu’s board practice ended.

This time, instead of following him immediately, Park Mintae approached the young men who had been boarding with him.

“Hyung went to his part-time job. The days he comes to our board research group usually overlap with his shifts.”

“Does Mr. Jeon come here often?”

“Not really. He just drops by occasionally as a hobby. He doesn’t come to practice that often, but he’s good, so he helps us out a lot.”

“I see… Then do you happen to know where he works part-time?”

“What are you asking for?”

“There are a lot of weird people these days. It’d be kind of sketchy to tell you.”

Park Mintae quickly pulled out his wallet and handed them his business card.

Luckily, they seemed to know that Jeon Yeohu was a student in the acting department, because they immediately lit up.

“So hyung’s finally getting cast?!”

“With that face, it’d be a waste if he didn’t become a celebrity.”

“Wait, where does he work again? Anyone remember?”

“A guitar shop nearby. There’s only one instrument store around here, right?”

A musical instrument shop?

After thanking them, Park Mintae immediately went searching for the place they’d mentioned.

Just as the park youths said, there was only one noticeable instrument shop in the area.

Jingle.

When Park Mintae entered, the same man from the park was sitting inside, having taken off his cap—holding a guitar in one hand.

“Welcome. Are you looking for a particular instrument?”

“Hello. Um… do you happen to know how to play the guitar?”

At Park Mintae’s abrupt question, Jeon Yeohu smiled politely.

“Huh? Oh, I guess it’s because I’m holding one. Yes, just a little—as a hobby.”

He plays guitar too?

For an actor, acting itself is the most important thing—but there are times when various skills are needed for a role.

For example, if you’re playing a protagonist who sings well, it helps if you can actually sing. Or if the role involves playing an instrument, it’s better if you can already handle at least one.

Of course, most actors train after being cast.

But this guy?

He’d already done it all in advance.

On his own.

This kind of broad but practical skill set was an enormous advantage for an actor.

Park Mintae’s lips trembled.

Meanwhile, watching him, Jeon Yeohu thought:

‘…Is this guy insane?’

As Jeon Yeohu discreetly gripped his phone, ready to report him, Park Mintae hurriedly pulled out a business card and held it out.

“Sorry for the late introduction. I’m not here to buy instruments—I’m this kind of person.”

Jeon Yeohu accepted the card and slowly read what was written on it.

“Cha Agency, Casting Director… Park Mintae. Ah, so you’re a casting director.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“And?”

“…What?”

“…What?”

What is this?

…This sense of incongruity.

Jeon Yeohu’s reaction was completely different from how acting students usually reacted when they saw his card.

“I saw a play. ‘The Great Detective of a Country Inn,’ performed by students from Korea Arts University.”

Only then did Jeon Yeohu nod in understanding, letting out an “Ah.”

“But my name wouldn’t have been listed in the pamphlet. You wouldn’t even know which roles I played.”

“I asked the professor directly after watching the performance. Director Seongsu, your supervising professor, is a senior alumnus of my alma mater.”

Jeon Yeohu narrowed his eyes slightly and murmured,

“I see.”

Even after all that, he didn’t look particularly pleased.

‘Now I get why Seongsu hyung said he’d be a tough one.’

Clearing his throat, Park Mintae continued.

“I was quite surprised to find that the person who played all three roles I paid attention to was the same student—Jeon Yeohu.”

Throughout his explanation, Jeon Yeohu alternated between staring blankly at the card and at Park Mintae’s face.

I’m Park Mintae.

It had been a long time since someone looked at him like that after he’d made a name for himself in the industry.

Unable to endure the silence any longer, Park Mintae finally got to the point.

“The reason I came all the way here today is because I want to give you a chance to audition. The drama audition we’re holding this time is a closed audition—you can’t even apply unless you’re recommended by a director.”

So? How about it!

A closed audition! Tempting, right? You want to do it, right? You should be admiring—

“That sounds like a good opportunity.”

“Of course it is.”

“But I don’t think it suits me. Wouldn’t it be better to ask someone else?”

“Then you’ll… decline—what? You’re not participating?”

“Yes.”

Park Mintae nearly fainted on the spot.

What he was offering was a closed audition—one you couldn’t even see without a director’s recommendation.

Again. A closed audition.

What kind of aspiring actor would kick away such a golden opportunity with their own feet?

“W-Why? Aren’t you aiming to be an actor? Isn’t everything you’re doing—cooking, boarding, learning instruments—all for acting?”

That was what Park Mintae had been thinking all day while following Jeon Yeohu.

Actors sometimes need to sing, sometimes play instruments, sometimes cook—so this hectic lifestyle must all be for acting!

What an admirable youth!

And yet—rejection.

It was a choice Park Mintae simply couldn’t comprehend.

“Um…”

Seeing his reaction, Jeon Yeohu scratched his cheek awkwardly.

“It’s not that you’re wrong. It’s just… even if I explained it, it’s not something you could really understand.”

“If you explain, I’ll try to understand.”

But Jeon Yeohu shook his head—as if to say, ‘Even if I told you, you’d be the same.’

“There are many classmates who act well. It’d be better for you to look for them.”

With that, Jeon Yeohu turned his back and resumed working as if nothing had happened.

But Park Mintae didn’t give up.

He sat in a chair inside the shop—where no customers came—and started chatting about things unrelated to auditions.

Why he thought highly of Jeon Yeohu’s acting. Who his favorite actors were. Things like that.

“Oh.”

“That’s impressive.”

“Oh…”

Jeon Yeohu responded politely from time to time—but that was all.

Anyone else would’ve given up by now.

But Park Mintae didn’t.

He’d found a raw gem—and give up on the spot?

His long-standing pride as a casting director wouldn’t allow it.

Besides, despite what he said, Park Mintae was certain Jeon Yeohu wanted to be an actor.

He’d seen it—in the way his eyes wavered whenever acting or auditions were mentioned.

Park Mintae stayed until the shop was about to close.

In the end, failing to persuade him, he placed his business card and some audition notes on the counter and said,

“I’ve worked in this industry for a long time, and I’m confident I’ve developed an eye for people. I’ve seen handsome kids, pretty kids, mentally tough kids, talented kids—but this is the first time I’ve clung to someone like this. Maybe… it’s because I felt something in your acting. And I believe that something is talent.”

“……”

“And real talent—no matter how much you say you’ll give it up, you can’t truly abandon it. I think you know that better than anyone.”

Jeon Yeohu’s previously calm gaze wavered.

“I’ll take my leave now. I’ll leave the script and audition schedule here. Come if you feel like it—if it’s not that you truly hate acting.”

After leaving the card behind, Park Mintae let out a deep breath.

Honestly, he’d pushed pretty hard at the end…

‘But I’d regret it deeply if I let that guy slip away.’

*****

On the way home after finishing my part-time shift,

I pulled out the crumpled business card from my pocket and read it.

“Park Mintae…”

Did I hate acting?

“There’s no way.”

I used the card to block the bright glow of a streetlamp.

The first time I encountered acting was in sixth grade.

My role on stage wasn’t even a protagonist.

I was Tree No. 1—with no lines.

And yet, I was happy.

Because the only world where I could exist as a tree—where it wasn’t strange for me to be a tree—was that stage.

From then on, my dream job had always been actor.

But the cracks in that dream began in my first year of middle school.

That was when the dreams started.

Every night, without fail.

Dreams of a far-off future—of me as an actor, falling endlessly into darkness, regretting ever becoming one.

If it had happened just once, I would’ve brushed it off as nonsense.

But it continued.

Every single day.

365 days a year.

Middle school. High school. Freshman year of college. Sophomore year. The military. Junior year.

And even now, as a senior, I still have that dream every single night.

Falling into darkness itself no longer scared me.

What terrified me was the version of myself in that dream—the one who regretted choosing acting. Even after entering the acting department through grueling entrance exams, even while refusing to sleep night after night, I still had that dream.

Back then, I at least held onto a faint hope.

Maybe once I enter college, these dreams will stop.

It wasn’t like I had superpowers or could see the future.

But in my freshman year, that hope was utterly shattered.

One of the actors I’d met in my dreams was a classmate in the same department.

That was proof.

Proof that these dreams weren’t meaningless nonsense or a mental illness—but something that might actually happen someday.

Proof that they were prophetic dreams.

If that were true, then if I became an actor, I would die regretting it—just like the man in my dreams.

I would come to hate acting.

I was foolish for not being able to give up, even knowing that future.

But I knew it.

Acting was something I would eventually have to abandon.

That’s why, whenever I stood on a stage during college, I chose roles with the fewest lines possible, and deliberately avoided showing my face.

Because the moment someone recognized me, praised me, or said they became a fan—

I felt like I’d never be able to quit acting, no matter what happened.

Yet as the years went by, regret tightened its grip on me.

I wanted to let go of acting less and less.

‘I should’ve given it up cleanly from the start.’

I deliberately skipped acting practice. I didn’t manage my reputation. I never took profile photos like my classmates—just hovered around the edges.

I learned cooking. I learned instruments. I even learned martial arts.

But I couldn’t deny it.

All of it had started with the thought—

This might help with acting someday.

Park Mintae, casting director.

‘I actually already knew that name.’

There was no way I wouldn’t.

He was the one who, in my dreams, told me he regretted helping me succeed as an actor—every single time.

So I absolutely couldn’t go to this audition.

Absolutely not.

Not even if it killed me.