“Lee Ha-eun and Yoo Sung-jae’s The Moonlight That Parts the Clouds Breaks Another Record with Its Final Episode!”
“KBC Drama The Moonlight That Parts the Clouds Concludes with a Staggering 33.7% Viewership Rating.”
“MBS’s Lovers of the Full Moon Fades Away with a Meager 8.1%, Overshadowed by KBC’s Hit Drama.”
"Guess... that means it was a success."
There was no denying it.
No matter how much I tried to downplay it, I couldn’t reject the truth: my first lead drama was a success.
It felt like a good result—because it was a good result.
Yet, realizing that it was a good outcome brought with it a mixture of other, inexplicable emotions.
—Creak.
I rose from the studio chair and stepped out of the soundproof booth.
What greeted me was unmistakably a woman’s room.
The overall white tones gave the space a feminine atmosphere. While it was hard to pinpoint what exactly made it feel that way, it was undeniably closer to a woman’s room than a man’s.
Inside the closet, every piece of clothing—without exception—was women’s attire. Even the training clothes I wore for workouts leaned slightly neutral but were still distinctly feminine.
I could freely choose what to wear without much hesitation, and I had even mastered the so-called “polished look” to some extent. Now that I thought about it, I’d never really felt a sense of discomfort about it.
But that wasn’t a matter of preference; it was born out of ignorance.
Back when all I could wear were dull hospital gowns, I didn’t even know what felt awkward or what suited me.
I suppose my lack of confusion about my gender identity came from the same root. Living as a woman might have felt strange, but it wasn’t something I hated or rejected.
Still, summing up my life as simply “a woman’s life” felt far too simplistic.
“An actress, a singer, a celebrity... a public figure.”
I murmured the words quietly, listing the terms that could describe who I had become, as I slowly walked toward the full-length mirror.
What I saw reflected was the image of a well-known figure.
A face more familiar to others than to myself.
I experimented, shifting through various expressions.
A parade of emotions, each distinct and recognizable, flitted across my face.
For a brief moment, countless characters appeared in the mirror and disappeared just as quickly.
I cycled through every vibe and mood I could project.
Only when there were no new expressions left to create did I finally erase the act entirely.
“...So this is what my face looks like.”
Blurred eyes.
A hollow gaze.
An expressionless face that felt more like a doll than a person.
It was empty.
I couldn’t feel anything.
The lack of even the most basic emotions on my face was deeply unsettling.
It didn’t feel alive.
And yet, strangely, the more I stared at the inhuman face in the mirror, the more at ease I felt.
It was as if the chaos in my mind began to settle, bit by bit.
“...I think I can do it.”
Soon enough, the actress Lee Ha-eun reappeared in the mirror.
The person standing there, receiving attention from every direction, gazed back at me with the same calm demeanor as always.
Naturally, it wasn’t difficult.
It felt natural.
It felt practiced.
It felt effortless.
Just moments ago, I had resembled an unsettling doll. Now, I transformed into a public figure with unnerving ease.
Despite everything I’d experienced, one skill hadn’t changed: my ability to completely kill “myself.”
And so, I had no choice but to acknowledge it.
“...I’ve succeeded. Without a doubt.”
I had to admit that my acting had brought me success.
Just as Baek Tae-hoon had told me a few days ago, my position had solidified, reaching a certain trajectory.
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I also had to realize that, compared to when I wasn’t well-known, there were now far more things I could accomplish.
Attention made me a celebrity.
And being a celebrity meant I would continue to attract attention.
To be noticed isn’t simply to be recognized by many—it gives weight to your words, power to your intentions, and the ability to captivate others.
Above all, it opens the door to become even more famous.
Having already entered the orbit, the possibility of soaring even higher was now within reach.
“...In the end, it’s just me. Only me. I have to... save myself.”
I had made up my mind.
I could reach those who had lost everything.
I was certain I could face those who had taken everything away.
At last, I turned to confront the thing I had been avoiding all this time:
What I should do about the version of me from my previous life who still hadn’t died.
This wasn’t just about saving that life—it was about saving everything that came after.
—♪
—♪
—♪... Click.
[“Hello? What’s up, Ha-eun?”]
“I’ll do it. I’ll enter the music festival.”
[“Huh? Really?”]
“Yes.”
I began climbing the steps toward becoming someone others could rely on.
The resting place where I could pause to catch my breath had already been decided.
I knew exactly where I would return once I had finished everything.
So, no matter what it took, I had to climb to the very top.
I had to put an end to these tiresome memories, once and for all.
There was no other path.
***
“Hmm... Ha-eun, are you absolutely sure you want to apply through the regular admissions process?”
“Yes.”
They were sitting in the teacher’s office for the second-year students at Narae Arts High School—more specifically, in a small meeting room within the office.
“To be honest with you, Ha-eun, someone of your caliber could easily receive offers for special admissions. You don’t even need to study for the college entrance exam.”
“Special admissions are frowned upon by some people.”
“Why does what they think matter?”
“It matters to me because those people are important. I also need to make sure my school name looks good on paper.”
...Is she planning to marry into a chaebol family or something?
At that moment, Ha-eun was having a career counseling session with her homeroom teacher. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t much of a discussion—Ha-eun seemed more intent on convincing her teacher.
“Ha-eun, I know you’re a great student. But don’t you think balancing your acting career and academics will be too much?”
“It’s fine. I promise I’m not overextending myself.”
Despite her teacher’s repeated attempts to dissuade her, Ha-eun’s stance didn’t waver. Eventually, the teacher had no choice but to wrap up the meeting, conceding with a resigned, “Alright, if you’re sure.”
About ten minutes later, the teacher pulled Ha-eun’s midterm report card out of her drawer. Her expression shifted through several emotions as she looked at the grades. It was clear Ha-eun had put in the work.
Her teacher, who had overseen countless students over the years, recognized the ambition behind Ha-eun’s dual focus on academics and acting.
She understood better than anyone that trying to excel in both was a bold—if not overly ambitious—endeavor.
But the grades in her hands proved one thing: Ha-eun was serious.
After the fall festival ends, she’s diving straight into filming for a new drama... Can she really handle this?
Ultimately, the teacher couldn’t decide whether to strongly discourage her or wholeheartedly support her.
That’s why she called Gong Hye-yeon, the class president of Class 2-2, to the office.
Hye-yeon, who had been practically glued to Ha-eun lately due to their rehearsals for Should We Fall Together?, seemed like the best person to shed light on Ha-eun’s current state.
However—
“Ha-eun... is honestly kind of scary.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
The stories Hye-yeon shared were completely unexpected.
“Ever since a few days ago, she’s changed a lot. Like, if someone makes even one little mistake, she’ll lecture them for thirty minutes straight. She doesn’t yell or anything, but she’s so calm and precise about it that it’s even harder to argue back. Oh, and during rehearsals for the ending scene with Joo Do-yoon, she kept adjusting the angle of their heads over and over, saying the kiss had to look convincing to the audience. She made him practice hundreds of times.”
In short, Ha-eun had become much more assertive.
When the teacher cautiously asked if Ha-eun seemed overworked or exhausted, Hye-yeon shook her head firmly.
“Out of everyone in our class—or even the entire school—Ha-eun is by far the most energetic.”
Her immediate, unwavering answer left the teacher no choice but to send her back to class. For some reason, any concerns seemed utterly pointless.
Time flowed on, and soon, it was less than ten minutes before the performance of Should We Fall Together?.
Ha-eun’s homeroom teacher entered the backstage area, taking on her role as a calming presence.
“Alright, everyone, don’t be nervous. Stay relaxed. Just focus on having fun!”
She went around, encouraging each student individually, offering words of support. She even gave Ha-eun a gentle pat on the shoulder, whispering a quick, “You’ve got this.”
Up to that moment, there was nothing unusual about Ha-eun.
She simply nodded with her usual composed expression, declaring her intention to win first place and go to Japan. The only odd thing was her muttering to herself about “Japan travel stories” in an uncharacteristically distracted manner.
But—
“Next up is Class 2-2’s performance of Should We Fall Together?!”
The moment the curtains rose, everything changed.
“The blame lies with me. I am guilty of it all. The entire nation is my sin. And so, as a sinner... I must crumble into dust.”
Standing precariously at the center of the stage, Empress Aria delivered her lines with an intensity that reshaped the atmosphere of the entire performance.
I knew it... but still. She’s... different. It’s undeniable.
Watching Ha-eun dominate the stage, the teacher realized that evaluating her by the same standards as the other students was meaningless.
Ha-eun was an enigma—unfamiliar in every sense.