I’m an Unknown Actress, But Everyone Knows Me - Chapter 86

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Team. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Episode 86

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I was flustered by the sudden attention focused on me. Professor Geum Bitkang sent me a look as if telling me to speak up.

A scene formed in my mind without difficulty. Countless former colleagues of mine who had passed by came to mind.

“Wretchedness is giving up on your dreams despite having talent because you’re struck by poverty.”

People who clearly sparkled when they stood on stage, who cried out with their whole bodies that they wanted to act, yet one by one said with sheepish smiles that they had to quit the theater group now.

Generally, we held farewell parties at frozen pork belly restaurants or pochas.

‘After a couple bottles of soju went down, instead of sheepish smiles, they’d cry with tear-streaked faces saying they actually wanted to keep acting…’

Soju bottle caps rolling messily on narrow tables, oden soup pots with all the broth boiled away, the sound of spoons dropping to the floor, faces patting friends’ backs telling them not to cry while unable to confidently say they’d pay for drinks due to this month’s tight finances, confessions admitting they were planning to quit too, shouting through tears asking how they could do this, asking if they weren’t serious about acting.

A scene too shabby to be called a farewell party for someone’s passionate dream.

This is wretchedness. Professor Geum Bitkang asked again.

“Then what about devastation?”

This wasn’t difficult either. I was someone who had endured a long period of poor and harsh obscurity. A similar moment with just a slight difference flashed through my mind.

“Devastation is being unable to achieve your dreams in the end, despite having no talent, despite struggling while facing poverty.”

I had experienced many lives that were each similar yet each different. Being unable to achieve your dreams, yet unable to give up either—that’s devastation.

At my answer, Geum Bitkang raised one eyebrow. It was an expression I’d never seen before. The hall fell silent.

“Then what about desperation?”

This time, instead of the lives around me, shall I delve into the countless scripts I had read?

I briefly pondered which character performing which action had seemed most desperate.

“Desperation is a limping mother who has gained hope that her child with an incurable disease will recover, carrying the child on her back and running to save them.”

A mother in shabby clothes with her pinned-up hair disheveled. I could feel the shadow running past torn garbage bags in the back alleys of Moon Village where streetlights barely reached and flickered. The damp, sticky smell of garbage brushed past my nose.

Knowing it won’t work, knowing it’s impossible… the poor footsteps placing hope in the possibility of saving a life echo pitifully.

“Then what about misery?”

The scene continues. Panting breath can be heard. A faint warmth is felt on the back. It belongs to the child who is still alive. The shadow that had stretched long in the dark alley disappears under the bright lights of the hospital. The shadow vanishes, and the silhouettes of mother and child become clearly visible.

“Misery is all the hospitals locking their doors and refusing to open them, sensing they won’t receive payment for treating the child even if they save them. Despite the crying mother and child outside the door.”

The warm light from the hospital cruelly illuminates the two people’s faces as if caressing them. The doctor’s hands that firmly locked the door are smooth and white without a single scar. They are clearly different from the mother’s hands that are firmly gripping and carrying the child’s thighs on her back.

The gap between their two lives can be felt clearly through the door. Only then does the mother’s body, finally feeling the cold, begin to tremble.

“….”

Dense concentration poured forth. After that, Geum Bitkang continued asking me about emotions with just one character changed.

The answers came easily. Because I had never let go of acting. Because I wanted to portray the lives of countless characters.

Brutality was staining a sword with the blood of the older brother who had given piggyback rides in childhood, his followers, and even their dependent families, all to ascend to the throne.

Servility was the prince who knew all of his uncle’s deeds but had to smile and humor him because he didn’t want to die.

Bleakness was the life of being the uncle’s puppet with no end in sight and having to watch loyal subjects die with all their limbs severed…

Situations continued with each word. Even after that, Geum Bitkang’s questions continued several more times.

“…Good.”

Finally, a smile appeared on Geum Bitkang’s face.

The surroundings were so quiet that I had the illusion that only Geum Bitkang and I were here. It seemed like even breathing sounds weren’t audible.

“Do Gyeoul. Now you try.”

Geum Bitkang’s gaze shifted. I made eye contact with Do Gyeoul, who had been staring at me.

“What is harshness?”

Do Gyeoul moved her lips as if she wanted to say something. However, the answer didn’t come easily.

Only after a long while did Do Gyeoul’s mouth slowly open.

“Something extremely cruel and severe. Synonyms include cruelty, brutality… In Park Gyeongsu’s Frozen Ground, he said that the misfortune of poor people comes from the harshness of fate that bears heavy burdens.”

“Good. Then what about cruelty?”

“Something cruel and severe. Lee Munyeol, in his work A Son of Man, wrote about the cruelty and heartlessness hidden in Himerus’s gloomy smile…”

“That’s enough. Then what about atrocity?”

“Using the character for ‘tragic’ and the character for ‘cruel,’ it means something miserable and terrible. The superordinate term is wretchedness…”

Do Gyeoul’s voice still had precise pronunciation, but her breathing was unsteady in places. Her facial expression control was skillful, but she couldn’t hide her attitude.

Anyone could see she seemed flustered by the unexpected questions.

“Right. That’s an accurate explanation. But what I asked for wasn’t an answer straight from the definition. As an actor, you should have a new definition that you can express like an actor, shouldn’t you?”

Geum Bitkang’s voice grew a little louder.

But Do Gyeoul couldn’t answer immediately. She just stared at Geum Bitkang.

Like a child who doesn’t know the right answer.

Geum Bitkang eventually looked away from Do Gyeoul.

“Now, I think various scenes will be drawn in everyone’s minds. Some might think of classics, some of dramas they watched yesterday, and others might recall people around them.”

And she spoke loudly enough for all the students in the lecture hall to hear.

“The more properly you express those subtle emotional differences, the more audiences can accept the message in the work as it is. No matter what role each of you takes on, don’t forget what you need to convey!”

The students who had been quiet all responded to Geum Bitkang in unison. Only then did the surrounding noise return to normal.

“Han Yeoreum, what’s with you? Did you study alone?”

“I’ve seen this kind of development somewhere before. Kind of like a cringey webtoon.”

“Stop reading those… You look like an otaku.”

“You’re the one who recommended it to me.”

My classmates around me playfully teased me in small voices. Professor Geum Bitkang looked this way at the small commotion, but turned her head away with a chuckle.

In that place where everyone was making noise, only Do Gyeoul remained in the same position, staring straight ahead until the lecture ended.

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Geum Bitkang’s pace quickened. Her footsteps echoed through the hallway. Her heart was pounding. Because of that, she was even confused about what emotion she was feeling right now.

‘Han Yeoreum…’

Perhaps Han Yeoreum might properly express even this emotion.

‘That girl who presents life before your eyes with just a slight difference.’

Geum Bitkang, who had been walking forward urgently, stopped abruptly.

She suddenly felt like she knew.

The name of the emotion that was making Geum Bitkang tremble.

‘Right.’

This was anticipation. It was that overwhelming emotion that she thought had disappeared forever from Geum Bitkang’s heart.

Geum Bitkang turned her head toward the window. She could see Han Yeoreum far away on the opposite side. Like on the first day of the semester, sunlight was embracing Han Yeoreum.

‘I’ve become quite the old fogey too.’

Geum Bitkang reflected on herself while looking at Han Yeoreum. Commerce and art. Entertainers and actors. She was ashamed of herself for drawing clear lines and making judgments at some point.

Thinking of Han Yeoreum who would have delved deep into scripts even in unseen places, a smile formed on her lips.

“This will be interesting…”

Geum Bitkang muttered quietly. The numerous students who had been in that space today would have each sprouted their own emotions in their hearts.

Do Gyeoul, who was staring intently at Han Yeoreum’s back, came into view.

“Why wait until finals?”

The final play. The stage where KNUA students show everything they’ve learned over the year.

Geum Bitkang wanted to divide them into teams with the same theme and have them properly compete.

‘If we divide them into Team A and Team B to put on plays…’

Whose favor would the audience’s cold evaluation grant victory to?

Geum Bitkang’s eyes gleamed.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Team. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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