On the 27-inch screen that doubled as both computer monitor and TV, the year-end awards ceremony was reaching its climax. Blindingly brilliant lights illuminated the lead actors from the nominated dramas one by one. Among the men in the usual tuxedos, one actor appeared on screen.
Fair skin, strikingly clear eyes. His soft brown hair glowed even brighter under the lights. In an instant, the man’s looks made the other actors seem like ordinary people. With his eyes gently curved in a smile, he beamed so brightly it felt as though the lights had been tailored just for him—his perfect face dazzling from every angle. Fans’ screams echoed so loudly they felt as if they were bursting through the speakers.
An esteemed veteran actor came out to present the award and called a man’s name. The camera zoomed in on him. The cheers from the fans were louder and longer than before, enough to halt the host mid-sentence. The named actor stood, exchanging a light hug with the actress next to him. As he walked toward the stage, he towered over the staff nearby. Broad shoulders and a sculpted chest made him resemble an athlete—despite his gentle appearance.
He had snagged the Grand Prize over seasoned veteran actors, all in his late twenties. The drama he starred in had been exported globally, marking a significant milestone for K-dramas. The filming location, once a quiet rural bus stop, had become a full-blown tourist attraction. It was an award no one could deny him.
Receiving congratulations from his peers, Yoon Do-yeong stepped onto the stage with a bashful smile. Bathed in a glamorous spotlight, he stood at the center of the stage, holding the Grand Prize trophy in his hand. Kang Hyeon’s sharp gaze, locked onto the screen, fixated on the gleaming golden trophy.
That was my role. A 12-episode web drama. But when the role was handed to Yoon Do-yeong, the production budget jumped twentyfold and the drama was expanded to 24 episodes. Not only that, it had been moved from the web to prime-time broadcast on a major network. Just by being cast, he had turned the entire project into a juggernaut. He began his acceptance speech in a rich baritone.
“I sincerely thank the staff who helped me perform to the best of my ability.”
His words entered Kang Hyeon’s ears like daggers and embedded themselves in his mind.
The production staff had heaped praise on Kang Hyeon, claiming the role was a perfect fit for him. No doubt, they had praised Yoon Do-yeong even more extravagantly. Probably even bowed before him, thrilled by the overseas shoots and raving about his performance. Maybe they had worshiped him for simply accepting the role.
“I also want to sincerely thank the CEO of my agency, who pushed for me to land this role.”
Kang Hyeon knew full well the role had been reassigned due to investor demands. He knew it in his head. But knowledge couldn’t stop the burning in his chest—it ached, throbbed, until it felt like his insides had been ripped apart. He downed his beer in gulps, hoping to douse the pain.
“I dedicate this award to my best friend, Kang Hyeon.”
Yoon Do-yeong’s eyes softened on screen. His already gentle expression now seemed sweet enough to melt hearts. On any other day, Kang Hyeon might have smiled along. But his face, still staring at the screen, showed no sign of change. His cold, stoic expression only made his gaze appear sharper, more ruthless.
An award… dedicated to me?
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Why? For what possible reason would he dedicate the award to me?
Kang Hyeon repeated the words in his head, and his eyes widened. His lips twisted into a bitter smile, breath escaping in a hollow laugh.
Did you actually believe that?
Did you really believe I turned it down because of that stage play?
It was an excuse—something he said so he wouldn’t look pathetic after the CEO told him the role had gone to someone else. Of course Do-yeong didn’t even know Kang Hyeon had been cast for it. He had kept it under wraps until just before filming started.
Yeah, that tracks.
You’ve never once twisted my words or read between the lines.
You always believed everything I told you.
Wrinkles deepened between Kang Hyeon’s brows as he stared at the screen. The corners of his eyes reddened with anger. The beer can in his hand crumpled with a metallic crunch. On the rectangular monitor, Yoon Do-yeong’s dazzling smile filled his vision.
He picked up the remote and turned off the screen.
Beer was spilling from the crushed can. The fizzy liquid ran over his hand, bubbles rising and flowing down his skin. Watching it in silence, Kang Hyeon stood up.
The small, 10-pyeong room suddenly felt full with just his presence. Despite his slender build, his long legs made him seem even taller. He walked past the gray-walled room, the single bed, the table that doubled as a desk, and toward the small sink. He poured the beer down the drain. Turned on the cold water. Washed his hands. Then splashed water on his face.
The icy water cooled the feverish heat that had overtaken his mind. Leaning against the wall beside the sink, Kang Hyeon stared blankly into space. Slowly inhaling, he worked to calm the boiling in his chest.
The world is built so that those who have, get to have it all. Someone like me nabbing a lead role was never realistic to begin with. Even supporting roles were more than I deserved.
If I just take whatever roles I’m given, eventually I’ll be recognized for my acting. And someday, maybe in middle age, my time will come. Acclaimed supporting actor—that was the dream, wasn’t it?
Suppressing his emotions, Kang Hyeon forced reason to the surface. He walked to the table and turned on the lamp. Sitting down, he opened the new drama script he had just received. His role this time was the female lead’s unruly little brother. He didn’t have many lines, but the character’s cheeky dialogue was charming. He would bounce off the female lead in back-and-forth banter, bringing out her personality.
His lines were marked with highlighter. He tried saying them with expressions that suited the role. But despite the short lines, he couldn’t concentrate.
To snap out of it, he slapped himself hard across the cheek. A burning sting turned into a deep, numbing ache. With his handprint still fresh on his face, he forced himself to focus on the script.
His eyes were sharp as they scanned the script. After reading it several times, he began pouring over the lines of the other characters from the very first page. As he finally managed to focus, Kang Hyeon’s gaze turned serious. His lips moved along with the lines, and as he grew absorbed in another character’s dialogue, his expression brightened.
He marked the roles he liked with a blue line. Gesturing with his hands and nodding along, he was falling into the rhythm—until the sound of a ringtone rang out. It wasn’t the default sound but an elegant classical melody, and Kang Hyeon’s expression immediately hardened. He was still using the ringtone Yoon Do-yeong had set for him years ago when he got a new phone. His eyes locked onto the caller ID.
The three characters [Yoon Do-yeong] glowed unusually bright in the dark. The ringtone kept ringing for a while before cutting off, leaving silence in its wake. Then came the chime of an incoming message.
His phone screen lit up, displaying the message briefly before fading out.
[Hyeon-ah, I’m outside your place.]
Moments later, a clunky doorbell echoed through the room. Soft knocks followed. Kang Hyeon’s gaze drifted toward the door. He stared as if trying to pierce through it, then shifted his eyes back to the stream of incoming messages.
[I didn’t even go to the after-party. Where are you? I want to see you.]
His eyes, which had been sharp as blades, trembled at the last sentence. The anger that had been ready to explode only moments ago quietly subsided, replaced by a weighted pressure pressing against his chest. Emotions, pushing aside logic, were once again muddling his judgment.
After a brief hesitation, his hand lifted the phone.
Yoon Do-yeong, a child actor once hailed as a prodigy. To be blunt, his acting was flawless—there was nothing to criticize. He had nailed the romance genre and tugged at every viewer’s heartstrings. If Kang Hyeon had played that role, it would never have exuded that overwhelming sense of lovable charm.
He admitted it.
As a fellow actor, he gave Do-yeong’s performance his full praise. On screen, Do-yeong made his heart race. He had waited eagerly for his calls, which came almost every day.
But he couldn’t take it anymore—how Do-yeong blurred the lines between reality and fiction.
Kang Hyeon’s fingers hovered over the phone’s keypad.
[I watched the awards.]
[Of course, I knew you’d win.]
[Congratulations.]
With that, he paid his final respects as an old friend.
[Where are you? I want to see you.]
He stared at the reply that came instantly. A wave of heat surged through his trembling eyes. As tears welled up, his lips began to quiver.
The complicated emotions they had exchanged surged through his fingertips. Amid the storm of feelings, he knew he had to draw a clear line and sort out his heart—one that he hadn’t been able to cut off cleanly before. His fingers pressed down on the keypad with purpose.
[At a hotel with my lover.]
No response.
In the suffocating stillness of the one-room apartment, only the hum of the refrigerator could be heard. The phone screen dimmed on its own, and Kang Hyeon turned back to his script.
Under the desk lamp’s glow, the open script remained stuck on the same page for hours. He propped his chin in one hand and traced the lines with his fingertip, reading them aloud over and over. Finally, he managed to turn a page. Slowly but surely, he made his way through the entire script. As the faint light of dawn crept in through the blackout curtains, he stretched his body.
Thinking he should sleep, he turned on his phone and played his usual sleep music. With earphones in, he headed to bed—only to be interrupted by a breaking news alert.
Flooded with headlines and entertainment news, Kang Hyeon bolted from the house like he’d been shocked. As he ran out to the main road to hail a taxi, tears streamed endlessly from his eyes.
