I wake up before my alarm.
The room is gray and quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like holding your breath. My blanket is twisted around my legs because I kicked in my sleep. I can still feel the dream on my skin—lights, a square of brightness, my feet on tape.
I sit up.
Today is the audition.
The word feels big, but not heavy. Like a ball I can hold with both hands.
Mom knocks once before opening the door. She's already dressed. Her hair is tied back neatly, the way she does when something matters.
"You're up early." She says. "I'm awake." I say. She smiles and comes in, sitting on the edge of my bed. She smooths my hair with her hand, slow and careful, like she's checking if I'm really here. "Did you sleep okay?"
"Yes."
It's not a lie. I slept, just lighter than usual. She nods and stands. "Get dressed. We'll leave in thirty minutes." After she leaves, I swing my legs off the bed and stand. The floor is cold. I wiggle my toes until they stop tingling.
My clothes are laid out on the chair.
Simple. Clean. Nothing noisy. I like that. I pull on my shirt and button it carefully, lining the buttons up the way Dad showed me so they don't look crooked on camera.
Camera.
The word makes my stomach flip, not bad, just awake.
At breakfast, no one talks much. Dad reads the news on his phone. Mom pours milk and watches me out of the corner of her eye. My little brother bangs his spoon on the table and sings to himself.
I eat my toast slowly. I don't want crumbs on my shirt.
"Remember, you just do what they ask. Nothing more." Dad says, not looking up. "I know." I say.
"And if you forget a line—"
"I keep going." I say, because we practiced that. He looks up then and smiles. "Right."
In the car, the city is already moving. Buses sigh at stops. People hurry across streets. I watch reflections slide across the window—buildings bending, my face appearing and disappearing. Mom reaches back and fixes my collar. Her fingers are cool.
"Are you nervous?" She asks.
I think about it. "No. I'm ready." I say. She nods, like that makes sense. The building looks the same as last time, but also different. I notice more things.
The way the glass doors reflect the sky.
The sound my shoes make on the floor. The smell—coffee, paper, something electric.
We check in. We sit. The waiting room is quieter today. Fewer kids. Or maybe I just don't hear them as much. I sit with my back straight and my feet flat. I rest my hands on my thighs. I look around.
There's a boy across from me tapping his foot fast. His mom keeps telling him to stop. He doesn't. A girl is flipping through a script, lips moving without sound. Another boy is staring at the wall as if it might talk back.
I watch them. I don't stare too long. Just enough to understand. The door opens. A man steps out and calls a name. The girl goes in. The door closes.
I imagine what's inside. The camera. The lights. The mark on the floor.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, slow. I count the breaths because counting makes time behave.
My name is called.
"Han Seojun."
I stand up right away. My body moves before my thoughts do. I bow slightly to the woman with the clipboard again. She smiles.
"Good luck." She says.
I nod.
Mom squeezes my shoulder once. Dad says nothing, but his eyes are steady. I like that. I walk through the door.
Inside, the room is brighter than I remember. The lights are soft but strong, aimed carefully. I can see where they want me to stand because the floor tape is a different color again—blue this time.
There are more people today. A man behind the camera. A woman with a headset. Another assistant is holding a tablet. Director Han stands near the monitor, hands clasped loosely.
He turns when I come in.
"Good morning, Seojun." He says. "Good morning." I say, and bow. He nods. "Did you eat breakfast?"
"Yes."
"Good." He gestures to the tape. "Stand there, please." I walk to the mark and stop. My shoes line up neatly. I make sure my shoulders are relaxed, not slumped. I let my arms hang naturally.
The assistant kneels and adjusts something near the camera. The lens is big. Bigger than last time. I can see my reflection in it if I tilt my head just right.
"Can you see the camera?" Director Han asks.
"Yes." I say.
"That's fine. You don't need to ignore it. Just don't stare at it." He says. I nod. That makes sense.
He explains the scene. It's short. A few lines. A boy waiting for someone who might not come. He tells me who I am and what I want. He doesn't tell me how to feel.
I like that.
"Let's try once. Just to see." He says. The assistant raises her hand. "Rolling." I feel it again. That pull. Like the air leans toward me.
I don't rush. I let my eyes find a place just beside the camera, as if someone is standing there. I imagine their height. Their shape. I decide they're taller than me. That makes my chin lift a little without me thinking about it.
I start.
My voice is quiet. Not too quiet. Just enough to make someone lean in.
I hold my hands together in front of me, fingers twisting slightly, because the boy is waiting and doesn't know what to do with them. I let my weight shift from one foot to the other, small, natural.
I say the lines.
I pause where it feels right, not where the words end. I look away at the right moment, then back. When it's over, no one claps. That's okay. This isn't that kind of room.
"Good. Let's adjust." Director Han says. He steps closer, but not into my space. "Try this time without moving your feet. Let the waiting be inside."
I nod.
We go again. This time, I keep my feet still. It feels harder. My legs want to move, so the feeling has to go somewhere else. I let it go into my shoulders, just a little tension. I let my breath change.
I notice the camera moves slightly. The man behind it adjusts the angle.
"Cut." The assistant says.
Director Han watches the monitor. He tilts his head. "Again. This time, look up sooner." He says. I do.
Again. Again.
Each time, something small changes. My eyes. My breath. The space between words. I like that. It feels like solving a puzzle with my body. Between takes, the assistant brings me water. I take small sips so I don't spill. I wipe my mouth carefully.
"Are you tired?" Director Han asks.
"No." I say.
He smiles a little. "Good. You're very focused."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just nod. We do one more take. This one feels different. Quieter. Like the room is holding still with me. When it's done, Director Han says, "Thank you."
I bow. My neck feels warm.
"Wait outside with your parents. We'll call you if we need anything else." He says. I walk out. The waiting room feels louder now. Or maybe I'm just more awake. Mom looks up right away. "How was it?"
"It was good." I say. Dad studies my face. "How do you feel?" I think. My chest feels open. My hands are steady. "I like it." I say.
We sit. We wait.
Time stretches. I watch the door. Kids go in. Kids come out. Some look happy. Some look tired. Some look like nothing happened at all.
I swing my feet gently, not too much.
At one point, the assistant comes out and calls my name again. I stand. Inside, they ask me to read again. A different scene this time. Shorter. More playful. "Have fun with it." Director Han says.
I do.
I let my eyebrows move more. I let my voice lift. I imagine the camera closer, so I keep my movements smaller. When it's done, he nods once.
"That's all for today." He says.
I bow. "Thank you."
Outside, Mom lets out a long breath. Dad puts his hand on my head. He doesn't ruffle my hair. He just rests it there. On the way home, the city looks the same again, but I feel different inside it.
I think about the feedback. The way each small note made something clearer. I think about the camera watching and how it didn't feel scary. It felt like listening.
At a red light, my reflection catches in the window. I look back at it. I don't smile. I just hold the look. The light turns green. The car moves. I don't know if I passed. But I know this. When they watched me, I felt right where I was.
And I want to feel that again.