Episode 14
Doyun told Eun Jihoon to go swimming at Jamsil Swimming Pool in the evening, as Seo Dongjin would be there during the same time slot.
[Seo Dongjin was a model before becoming an actor. Observe everything—how he walks, how he interacts with people, the way he looks at others. Learn from it all. For the next few months, live as though you are Seo Dongjin.]
Doyun had said that Seo Dongjin would dominate the drama and film industry for the next five years.
Meeting him in person, Dongjin exuded such a special aura that it was almost blinding.
Could I ever become that impressive? Could I walk with that kind of grace? Could I hold everyone’s attention without feeling intimidated?
Seo Dongjin seemed like someone who had grown up with endless love and support from his parents.
Out of curiosity, Jihoon looked him up and found an interview article. It stated that Dongjin had grown up in a wealthy household and was scouted as a model while walking down the street.
Is that why he’s so confident and self-assured?
How could someone like me, born so different, ever hope to emulate him? Just as Jihoon felt overwhelmed, Dongjin, now on friendlier terms with him, initiated a conversation.
“Don’t you want to become an actor? I think you’d be great.”
To hear the words “you should act” directly from a working actor—Jihoon’s heart pounded so loudly that he couldn’t think straight.
“You seem to have so many expressions. How do you hold so many emotions at your age?”
If you grow up constantly reading the room. If you endure hardships to the point of breaking. If you struggle just to avoid getting beaten by other kids…
But Jihoon couldn’t put any of these thoughts into words. As he hesitated, Dongjin continued.
“You’re emotionally rich, aren’t you? The kind of person who hears sad music and ends up crying. I’m jealous of that, Jihoon. I don’t have that.”
Seo Dongjin, jealous of me?
At that moment, Jihoon remembered something Doyun had said a few days prior.
[You’ll become the best. You’ve got what it takes.]
At the time, Jihoon had thought it was just an encouraging remark, a way to tell him not to lose confidence and to work harder. He had only nodded in response.
But seeing Dongjin look at him with genuine envy made him believe that Doyun had cast him not out of pity but because he saw something in him.
‘Maybe I do have talent.’
When Jihoon had been cast as the lead in his elementary school play, he hadn’t cared that his parents didn’t show up with flowers like the other kids’ parents.
While acting, he could forget about being poor, lonely, or sad.
That’s why he wanted to be an actor. If he had talent, the chances of success were higher.
The dream that once seemed so vague now felt like something he could actually achieve, giving him newfound motivation.
After that day, Jihoon worked out even harder, watched videos more meticulously, and began memorizing scripts and screenplays word for word.
A few days ago, Doyun told him to tan.
He needed to darken his skin to a bronze tone and dye his hair brown.
Before Jihoon could even get used to his drastically different appearance, Doyun handed him a script.
–A Summer’s Cantabile.
[Jihoon, this script is going to change your life.]
It was for a drama produced by the company where Doyun worked as a PD.
There was no role written for Eun Jihoon in the script—every line belonged to adult actors.
‘Does that mean my role hasn’t been added yet?’
But because it was Doyun who had said it, Jihoon chose to trust him unconditionally.
He practiced repeatedly, staying up all night, trying to understand the writer’s intentions for the drama and how to convey the emotions of each scene through his acting.
And soon enough, new realizations began to emerge.
‘Oh, so that’s why the story unfolds this way.’
He began to grasp the writer’s intent. It seemed the writer had wanted to tell a story about one man’s unwavering love.
Jihoon immersed himself in Yeonwoo’s emotions, reading the script over and over again. And today, after finishing his swim, he hurried to meet Doyun at the sauna.
“Oh, Jihoon! Over here.”
Doyun, who was sitting with a woman in her 30s, called out to him as they ate seaweed soup in the sauna’s restaurant.
“Who is he?”
“He’s my brother. Well, not by blood.”
The woman scrutinized Jihoon with a sharp gaze before breaking into a small smile.
“Hmm, not bad.”
Who is she?
Jihoon shot a questioning look at Doyun, who smiled and said,
“Jihoon, meet Writer Han Jiseon, the writer of A Summer’s Cantabile.”
Jihoon’s heart raced at being evaluated as “not bad” by a drama writer. And in that moment!
A new message appeared in Doyun’s field of vision.
[Eun Jihoon’s Success Satisfaction +50]
‘What? Why is it so modest?’
Seeing Jihoon’s success satisfaction increase by 50 points just from meeting Han Jiseon, Doyun couldn’t help but chuckle.
“What’s your name?”
“Eun Jihoon.”
“That’s a nice name. Has a good ring to it. How old are you?”
The sauna’s restaurant had suddenly turned into an audition venue.
Han Jiseon, oblivious to the fact that she still had towels wrapped around her head, scrutinized Jihoon with an imperious expression.
Despite not being a restaurant employee, Jihoon stood by the table with both hands politely clasped and replied,
“S-seventeen years old.”
“Perfect. What about school?”
“I dropped out.”
“To become an actor? You should’ve stayed in school. But then again, that’s none of my business. What about an agency?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Then it’ll be tough to find work. How tall are you?”
Even though Han Jiseon was a famous drama writer in the industry, her face wasn’t widely recognized outside of it.
But here she was, in matching sauna clothes, bombarding Eun Jihoon with imposing questions in the middle of the Yeouido sauna. Naturally, they drew glances from passersby.
Doyun quietly observed the situation.
A great visual and natural emotional richness were certainly vital talents, but they weren’t enough to make a good actor.
‘No matter how talented someone is, if they freeze up under pressure on set, it’s over.’
An actor wasn’t just someone who performed in a pristine, well-lit studio.
Sometimes, they had to create an “aura” with their entire body, even in harsh environments.
The question needed to change.
Instead of asking what preparations were made to become an actor or how much effort was put into it, the real question was how committed and passionate they were about the role—and why.
And, unsurprisingly—
After learning a bit about Eun Jihoon’s background, Han Jiseon posed a seemingly ordinary question.
“Why do you want to become an actor?”
Most aspiring actors would answer with something generic like wanting to take on various roles and experience different lives vicariously.
Even Doyun expected Jihoon to give such a response.
Not because it was polished or sophisticated, but because honesty, however mundane, might work better.
But then—
“I want to buy a house.”
“What?”
“My parents were poor, so we moved around a lot when I was young. Watching that, I made a decision. When I get married someday and have a family, I’ll make sure we never have to move around like that.”
“Really? That’s why you want to become an actor? Jihoon, actors need to have artistry, you know.”
Somehow, Han Jiseon had transitioned from being a drama writer to offering life advice as a mentor.
Leaning back in his chair, Doyun quietly observed Jihoon.
‘He has the talent to learn ten things from being taught just one.’
Eun Jihoon wasn’t just giving a common answer. He was acting.
Of course, it wasn’t a complete fabrication. His poverty was real, and his wish for a stable home was likely genuine.
But at this moment, Jihoon had become Yeonwoo from A Summer’s Cantabile and was answering in character.
Yeonwoo meets Hyein, who comes to Jeongdongjin to recuperate, and falls in love with her, a love as fateful as destiny itself.
However, the happiness they share is fleeting.
When Hyein recovers, Yeonwoo impulsively follows her to Seoul, only to be overwhelmed by the city’s exorbitant housing costs and living expenses. He realizes he could never be with Hyein, a wealthy girl, and is devastated.
The Little Prince said the desert is beautiful because somewhere within it lies a well.
Similarly, Yeonwoo endures the ridicule of being a country bumpkin in the glamorous city of Seoul because somewhere within it is Hyein.
[You don’t need to know that I’m here. Just shine brightly, that’s enough.]
When Hyein returns to college, walking with her friends, Yeonwoo doesn’t approach her.
To him, Hyein had become like a star in the night sky—beautiful but unreachable.
Seeing her healthy and happy, Yeonwoo smiles with tears in his eyes.
That’s the ending of Episode 2.
By analyzing the scripts Doyun had given him, Jihoon had grasped Yeonwoo’s essence and infused it into his response.
‘Clever. Very clever. I like it.’
Smiling faintly, Doyun watched Jihoon’s performance.
“But to the one I love, I want to be a home. A place they always want to return to.”
Jihoon blinked with sorrowful eyes, his expression tinged with longing.
Han Jiseon hesitated to respond, then turned to Doyun and shrugged.
“Wow. I almost cried just now. He’s like an old soul in a young body. Where did you even find this genius?”
Despite Han Jiseon’s praise, Doyun remained nonchalant, shrugging in return.
‘It wasn’t perfect.’
While Jihoon’s emotional immersion deserved full marks, his pronunciation had a slight drawl when enunciating vowels.
“Things like projection and acting in front of a camera will come quickly. I’ll train him myself.”
“I think his projection is fine as is. Jihoon, one last thing—can you cry?”
Such a request was a common occurrence during auditions.
At final auditions, requests like “cry” or “act ecstatically happy” often came up.
Even if the judges sat in a line with their arms crossed, observing a candidate shed real tears or jump with joy wouldn’t easily earn them a pass.
But the problem was—this was a sauna restaurant.
Right then, a child around three years old started wailing at the front of the restaurant, demanding ice cream.
The mother, determined to discipline the child, sternly said, “You already had some earlier.”
“Waahhh! I want more, pleeaase!”
“If you keep crying, I’m leaving without you.”
“NOOOO! MOMMM!!!”
When the mother pretended to leave, the child wailed even louder.
In this market-like chaos, how was Jihoon supposed to gather his emotions and cry on command?
Or so it seemed.
At that moment, tears began to well up in Jihoon’s large eyes.
[Mom, please don’t leave me! I promise I’ll be good!]
Recalling the day he had been abandoned by his birth mother, Jihoon let out heavy teardrops.
Watching this, Doyun rubbed his brow with his fingers.
‘That wasn’t acting.’
—
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