"Because I knew."
Yeohee shared some parts of her past with Seoyeon—how she came to live with her parents and how she experienced love.
"Sometimes, a person’s dreams are decided by something trivial, aren’t they?"
It was the same for Yeohee.
Until then, music had only been a hobby for her.
She had never thought of making it her profession.
"Even when I was in the game department, I never considered my songs being used as OSTs."
But then, someone had suddenly brought it up.
"You're good at singing. Wouldn't it be perfect for an OST?"
Yes, it had been something trivial like that.
"Yeohee, you're good at singing."
That was all it was.
But those words made her unconsciously pick up her guitar, and by the time she realized it, she had become a singer.
"Of course, who says it also matters."
That person never spoke without meaning. He wasn’t one to easily hand out compliments, which made his words resonate even more.
Because he said she was good at singing, she felt she had to truly excel.
It felt like she had become someone extraordinary.
Perhaps that’s why she kept walking this path.
"I never thought I wouldn’t be able to forget those words, though."
Yeohee looked at Seoyeon, whose face seemed deep in thought.
"Isn’t it difficult?"
Seoyeon cautiously asked.
To be honest, Seoyeon couldn’t fully grasp the emotions behind Yeohee’s words.
But she felt like she could understand them faintly, as if they were reminiscent of her past life.
She had recently come to realize something about herself.
Seoyeon was, at her core, someone who liked herself a lot.
But she hadn’t expected that affection to extend even to her past self.
Her past wasn’t filled with many pleasant memories, after all.
"I don’t really know," Yeohee responded with a puzzled expression.
Was it hard?
Maybe.
But the forms of love were so varied that it was hard to define them precisely.
What was certain, however, was—
"I just can’t forget."
It was to a foolish degree.
"Seeing them happy, I realized it could bring me joy too."
Frankly, Yeohee didn’t have the courage to face him again.
But watching Golden Duckling air on TV had made her reconsider.
Watching their appearances on screen gave her a strange, ticklish feeling.
Seeing them happy together brought her a sense of relief and joy.
It made her want to see them again.
Of course, without revealing her lingering feelings.
"That’s about it."
That was all Yeohee could offer in response to Seoyeon’s question.
As she had said, the forms of love were so diverse that the rest had to be figured out personally.
It was clear that Seoyeon was asking because of the role she had recently taken on.
Seoyeon slowly nodded in response to Yeohee’s answer.
She felt like she understood, even if just a little.
Not just Yeohee’s story, but perhaps even her own feelings were similar.
She had realized it during Masked Singer.
There was no need to rush.
And that impatience ultimately stemmed from Seoyeon’s past life—her previous self.
Just as Yeohee carried lingering feelings, Seoyeon had them too.
'It’s the complete opposite of before.'
Seoyeon chuckled faintly as she transformed into Kasugayama Yuina for Kyungsung Lady.
Her reflection in the mirror wasn’t Seoyeon but Yuina, adorned with elaborate makeup.
It had been a one-sided love.
Not a romantic love between lovers, though.
It was the love of a mother for her child.
A mother who loved a child incapable of reciprocating.
For her whole life.
She gave her love without expecting it to be returned.
And Seoyeon thought she had only realized this after being reborn.
"My teacher used to say this."
When she closed her eyes, she remembered words she’d heard long ago.
"Most people can’t even express their feelings."
The teacher, hugging Seoyeon gently, had said this:
"To decorate yourself, to mimic others, and to act—that’s impossible for most people."
It wasn’t just about not understanding emotions.
It was not knowing how to express them.
Seeing a lot didn’t mean you could do it.
"You’re special."
Even if Seoyeon couldn’t empathize with those emotions, those words must have left some mark on her.
Just as Yeohee had said, people can be moved by trivial words.
Surely her mother had wanted Seoyeon to become an ordinary person, to reflect on herself.
Now, it was the opposite.
Seoyeon thought she was doing the same thing in the form of acting.
Lingering feelings.
It was something Seoyeon had carried with her for a long time without realizing it.
'I think I understand a bit now.'
Of course, Yuina’s feelings were different.
It wasn’t the love between parent and child but the love between lovers.
The desire to become someone’s partner.
The yearning to possess and monopolize them.
Seoyeon still didn’t fully understand those feelings.
But love could take many forms.
Seoyeon decided to interpret it in her own way—Yuina’s emotions.
Why Yuina chose to let Yon Sunye go.
Why she wished happiness for Michiko, whom she had every reason to hate.
'Just because.'
She must have simply wanted happiness for them.
What reason could there be beyond that?
Seeing someone cry was sad.
She had seen it too many times.
Even if she hadn’t realized it then, she understood now.
“You were right.”
Thus, Yuina spoke:
“It was my lifelong wish. To avenge myself on the parents who betrayed me and to kill that girl who took everything from me.”
Amamabi Michiko.
The hateful woman who had taken everything from her.
She had wanted to strip her of everything in return.
Perhaps even her life.
But now, she couldn’t do it anymore.
“But I keep thinking about her.”
From the beginning, she had brought the girl along to be used and discarded.
That girl from Joseon, who was a little cheeky and unaware of her place.
Someone who wouldn’t be missed if she died.
“That girl’s chatter. Her annoying words.”
Yuina, staggering, gripped Isamu’s arm tightly.
“That smile she showed me.”
Even if that smile wasn’t directed at Yuina herself.
Even if it was meant for the woman who had taken everything from her.
Yuina couldn’t bear to see that smile disappear.
When had it started?
Perhaps it had been when that girl, unaware of her place, had helped her.
“I know I shouldn’t feel this way.”
It had been her lifelong wish, after all.
But the once-blazing flames of vengeance were beginning to die down.
Her hatred wasn’t as strong as before.
“But...”
Yuina looked at Isamu and smiled faintly.
“I can’t do it.”
That was all she could say.
Her mind was filled with thoughts, but those were the only words she could speak.
Isamu’s eyes flickered as he realized something.
Yuina had reached the point of no return.
The doll he had painstakingly nurtured since childhood was broken.
Seeing this, Isamu couldn’t empathize with her feelings.
His jaw trembled, his bloodshot eyes glaring as he clenched his fists.
With a sharp motion, he shook off Yuina’s hand and turned away.
The force of his action caused Yuina to collapse to the ground, but he didn’t look back.
He simply walked out with firm steps.
If she couldn’t do it, he would have to.
“Isamu.”
Yuina, still collapsed, watched his retreating back.
Her tear-filled eyes sharpened as she staggered to her feet.
Glaring in the direction he had gone, Yuina muttered:
“You were right, Yon Sunye.”
In the end, it had been that girl who helped her.
She had believed in Isamu too.
But his actions had made it clear who the true enemy was.
What she had to do.
And so, a scene came to a close.
Director Baek Min’s shout of "Cut!" broke the tense silence on set.
It had been that intense—a performance brimming with fervor.
Jo Seohui, who had been observing, widened her eyes.
This version of Seoyeon’s Yuina had far more depth than before.
It reminded her of something she had seen a long time ago.
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And of Cha Seoah’s star-like acting.
She hadn’t expected to see something like that here today.
A scene that had merely been a sequence of lines felt like a climactic moment.
Of course, this wasn’t just because of Seoyeon.
‘Actor Lee Sangsoo’s performance was always impressive... but today...’
Today, he was extraordinary.
Even with few lines, he conveyed Isamu’s anger through expressions and actions alone.
Jo Seohui wasn’t the only one to think so.
Lee Jiyeon, too, looked shocked.
It was her first time seeing Seoyeon deliver such a deeply emotional performance on set.
Though she had witnessed many of her performances, this one was unparalleled in emotional intensity.
‘It seemed like method acting midway through.’
Such an immersive performance was rare for Seoyeon, especially since she had grown to avoid method acting, considering it unnecessary.
‘Although I doubt she intended it this time.’
Watching Seoyeon still standing on set, Jo Seohui mused.
Seoyeon stood quietly, eyes closed as if calming herself.
Even though Yuina had shed no tears, everyone present felt it.
Yuina’s presence had been akin to sobbing.
Director Baek Min, replaying the scene he had just filmed, couldn’t hide his amazement.
It was an important scene, yes, but—
‘I never expected it to turn out this well.’
Without excessive action, it felt like watching a musical or a play. Even the director himself was drawn in.
"Seoyeon, are you alright?"
Lee Sangsoo approached Seoyeon, who stood silently.
Actor Jung Eunseon had strongly emphasized to Sangsoo to look out for her, so he was concerned.
"Yes."
Seoyeon opened her eyes, her expression calm.
Though her eyes were slightly red, that wasn’t unusual for her.
In truth, Seoyeon wasn’t in a particularly bad state.
She just felt a little drained.
Her emotions had been stirred, leaving her slightly unsettled.
‘Especially since the next scene is set in the past compared to this one.’
Filming scenes out of sequence had its difficulties.
Because of this, Seoyeon needed to gather herself.
It felt like she had been lost in the sea for the first time in a while.
Not an aquarium, but the ocean.
It had been a long time.
"Ju Seoyeon."
When had they arrived? Lee Jiyeon and Jo Seohui were standing behind her.
Lee Jiyeon, in particular, seemed ready to say a lot.
"Do it like that when you're acting with me too."
Her words were peculiar, almost as if accusing Seoyeon of holding back during their scenes together.
But Seoyeon had never taken her acting lightly with Jiyeon.
She always gave it her all.
That was her principle.
"Uh, well, we’ll see about that."
Jo Seohui, observing their exchange, answered playfully.
She knew what Jiyeon was talking about—romantic acting.
The next scenes Seoyeon and Jiyeon would shoot involved quite intense romance.
However, Seohui was aware of Seoyeon’s struggles with romantic acting.
To put it bluntly, it wasn’t her strong suit.
Seohui worried that Jiyeon might think Seoyeon would approach it half-heartedly.
"Don’t worry."
Contrary to Seohui’s concerns, Seoyeon grinned confidently.
"I’ve got this."
"...Really?"
Did she mean she was confident in romantic acting?
Seohui felt a twinge of unease.
‘Still...’
Seohui recalled Seoyeon’s earlier performance and smiled.
Today’s performance had been undeniably excellent.
+++++
The YHJ broadcasting station in Japan was reviewing video footage recently sent from Korea.
They were compiling clips related to Seoyeon, editing them into a feature for a broadcast to be aired alongside the release of Kyungsung Lady.
But then—
"Ah, good morning!"
Several employees greeted with energetic voices.
A group of people had just entered, their attention drawn to a newly arrived figure.
"Isn’t that..."
"Yes, the director participating in the new film production."
The director in question, however, was not Japanese.
He was a white man with light blond hair—a strikingly foreign presence in the Japanese broadcasting station.
An Academy Award-winning director, his most recent film had not met expectations, but he was still regarded as one of the top directors in America.
He had been invited to bring fresh energy to the Japanese film industry.
As he wandered through the YHJ station, his curiosity led him to examine various things.
There were people who likely should have intervened, but they hesitated, unsure of how to handle him. It was clear that the station had gone to great lengths to "invite" him. Displeasing him could jeopardize the entire production.
"This way, sir," someone finally managed to say, guiding him to a meeting room where they officially began discussions.
They showcased several clips and introduced the Japanese actors who were slated to join the project.
"For the female lead, we have Goto Reika. Her acting skills have been thoroughly proven..."
The station played a clip from First Love Moment, a drama directed by Hiro Kakeba, which Goto Reika had starred in recently.
It was a calculated choice—they hoped her acclaimed performance would impress the director.
“Hmm.”
But his reaction was lackluster.
The director watched the clip with a disinterested expression, his face betraying no enthusiasm.
Even as Reika delivered a passionate performance onscreen, he showed no reaction. If anything, he appeared irritated, furrowing his brow slightly.
This is a disaster, everyone thought.
Should they consider someone other than Goto Reika for the lead role?
But who among Japan’s young actresses could outshine her in terms of acting ability?
No names immediately came to mind.
Still, judging by his reaction, they might have no choice but to find someone else.
As they prepared to play another clip, the director suddenly spoke.
"Wait."
"Excuse me?"
"He said wait! Wait, please!"
All eyes turned to him, the tension in the room palpable.
Was he about to refuse the project?
He had been visibly unimpressed from the start.
His presence in Japan had come at an enormous financial cost, and if he was displeased, he could walk away at any time.
"That Japanese actress—who is she?"
"Which actress, sir?"
"From the scene after Goto's clip..."
The scene he referred to had been one of the most talked-about moments in First Love Moment.
It featured a group of women chatting with the despondent male lead at a playground.
The scene itself held no particular significance—merely a device to heighten conflict in the story.
Yet, the director pointed to the screen and singled out one of the women.
"I mean this Japanese actress."
Those present were stunned into silence.
Because the actress he was pointing to wasn’t Japanese.