The table is set before anyone sits down.
That already feels different.
Mom put out the good bowls, the ones with the thin blue line around the edge. They make a soft sound when you tap them with a spoon. Dad moved the table closer to the window so the light would reach the middle.
The rice steams a little, fogging the air. Soup smells like anchovy and radish and something warm that stays in your nose.
I wash my hands longer than usual. I dry them carefully. I don't run back to my seat like I normally do.
Tonight feels like a night you're supposed to walk.
I sit down straight. My chair scrapes just a little, and I pull it in so it doesn't do that again. My little brother climbs up and kneels on his chair because he likes being taller. Mom fixes his shirt without telling him to sit properly. Dad pours water into our cups.
No one talks yet.
The clock ticks. The rice cooker clicks as it settles.
I can feel the space between us like a line on the floor.
Dad sits down last. He looks at all of us before he picks up his chopsticks. When he does, Mom does too. That's the signal. We start eating. The first few bites are quiet. The soup is hot. I blow on it and sip slowly. The spoon warms my lips.
The rice tastes plain, the way it always does, but tonight I notice each grain.
My brother slurps too loudly.
"Minjun." Mom says gently.
He grins and slurps again, quieter this time. Dad clears his throat. "So." He says. The word lands in the middle of the table. "So." Mom repeats, softer.
I keep eating. I haven't looked up yet. I know this part. Adults like to walk around the thing before touching it. Dad says, "We got a call this afternoon." I look up now. Mom nods. "Director Han called again."
My chopsticks pause halfway to my mouth. I lower them carefully so they don't clack.
"He said they liked Seojun. They want to move forward." Mom continues.
Move forward.
The words feel like stepping onto a new square. My brother looks at me. "Does that mean you won?" I think about the audition room. About no clapping. About the quiet. "I don't know." I say.
Dad smiles a little. "It means they want him to do a project."
"What project?" Minjun asks.
"A small one. A drama. Seojun would play the younger version of a character." Mom says. "On TV?" Minjun's eyes get big. "Maybe. If everything goes well." Dad says. Minjun looks at me like I've turned into something else.
"Cool." He says.
I keep my face still. Inside, something is moving, but I don't know what shape it is yet. Dad sets his chopsticks down. "Before we decide anything, we need to talk." He says. Mom nods. "All of us."
Minjun frowns. "Even me?"
"Yes. Even you." Mom says. He sits up straighter, proud. Dad looks at me. "Seojun, this isn't just about acting." I nod. "I know."
"This would mean schedules. Early mornings. Late nights sometimes." Mom says. "And rules. About where you go. And who you talk to." Dad adds. I think about the waiting room. The other kids. The door is opening and closing.
"I can do that." I say.
Mom doesn't say yes or no. She watches me closely, like she's checking something inside my words. "There will be people watching you. Not just on set." She says.
I think about the hallway at school. About kids whispering. About eyes. "I like being watched." I say. Minjun giggles. "He does. He waves at himself in mirrors."
"I don't wave. I check." I say. Dad raises his eyebrows. "Check what?"
"That I look right. So I don't mess up." I say. I shrug. Mom smiles a little at that, but her eyes are still serious. "This is important. If at any point you don't want to do it anymore—" She says.
"I tell you." I say. "And we stop." Dad says. "Yes." I say. They both nod, like they're stacking blocks and checking if they're straight. Mom picks up her spoon again. "There are good things. You enjoy it. That matters." She says.
"And you listened well. The director said you take direction." Dad says.
I remember his voice. Calm. Clear. "I like it when people tell me how to do it better." I say. Minjun wrinkles his nose. "I don't."
"That's because you don't listen." Dad says. Minjun sticks out his tongue. We eat a little more. The food is still warm. The window shows the sky getting darker, blue sliding into gray. Dad speaks again. "There are also things we need to protect."
I know that word. Protect means lines.
"School stays school. You don't skip it unless we decide together." Mom says. "Okay." I say. "And home stays home. No cameras here. No work here unless we say so." Dad says.
I look around the table. The bowls. The steam. My brother's crumbs.
"Okay,. I say again.
Mom reaches out and fixes my napkin. "And your body. No one touches you without permission." She says quietly. "I know." I say. That part is easy. Dad adds, "If anything feels wrong—"
"I tell you." I say, for the third time. He nods. "Immediately." Minjun raises his hand. "What about me?" Mom laughs softly. "What about you?"
"Do I get to visit the set?" Dad considers. "Sometimes." Minjun beams. "I'll bring snacks."
"That's not your job." Mom says. "I want to." He says. I watch this, the way the room softens for a moment. Then Dad's face becomes careful again. "There's one more thing." He says.
The air tightens.
"People may have opinions. They may say things. About how you look. How you act." He says. I think about my face in the window reflection. About holding my look. "That's okay." I say. Mom studies me. "Why?"
I put my chopsticks down so I can use my hands. I press my palms flat on the table. The wood is cool.
"Because when I act, I'm not alone. Even if people think things, I'm doing something with them." I say, slowly. Dad doesn't interrupt. "It feels like talking. Without talking back." I say. Silence follows that. Not empty. Full.
Mom blinks. She looks away for a second, then back at me.
"You're seven." She says softly. I nod. "I know." Dad exhales through his nose. "You sound older." I shrug. "I just like it." Minjun tilts his head. "Like what?"
"Standing where people can see me. Doing it right." I say. He thinks about that. "I like it when Grandma watches me draw."
"That's the same." I say. He nods, satisfied. Dad picks up his chopsticks again. "Then here's what we'll do." We all look at him.
"We'll meet with the production team. We'll ask questions. We won't sign anything today." Dad says. Mom nods. "And Seojun will be there." I sit up straighter. "Me?"
"Yes. You listen. You decide if you're comfortable." Mom says. I like the word decide. It feels like something being placed in my hands. "And if I say no?" I ask. "Then it's no." Dad says, without hesitation.
I look at both of them. They're not testing me. They're serious. Something warm spreads in my chest. Not loud. Steady. "I want to go." I say. Dad smiles, small but real. "We know." Dinner continues after that.
The tension loosens.
Minjun spills his water and laughs. Mom hands him a cloth. Dad tells a story about work. I listen, but part of me is already somewhere else.
After we eat, I help clear the table. I stack the bowls carefully. I rinse them before putting them in the sink, even though Mom says it's not necessary.
In my room later, I sit on the floor with my back against the bed. The light is on. The shadows are soft. I practice the lines from the audition again, quietly, just to feel them.
I change how I say one word. I like it better that way. Mom knocks and comes in. She sits beside. "You did well today." She says. "Thank you." I say. She hesitates. "Are you sure you understand what you're choosing?"
I look at my hands. They're small. Clean. "I understand enough. And if I don't later, you'll help me." I say. She smiles, and her eyes shine a little"Yes. We will." She says.
After she leaves, I lie down and stare at the ceiling. The house makes its night sounds. Pipes. Wind. Someone upstairs is walking. I think about the table. About being listened to. I think about the light in the audition room.
I sit up.
I stand.
I go to the mirror on my closet door. I stand still and look at myself. I adjust my shoulders. I lift my chin just a little. I don't smile. I just see if I'm there. Then I nod, once, to my reflection.
Tomorrow, I'll step forward again.