Acting is about expression.
Whether it’s a hero or a villain, a lead or a supporting role, it doesn’t matter. Acting brings to life a character who previously existed only as text in a script, shaping them through expressions, voice, and gestures.
However, acting almost always involves a touch of the actor's personal interpretation. There’s no single “correct” way to perform a role, though some performances may feel closer to the truth. But countless “wrong” interpretations exist.
It’s only natural. No actor is a machine made exactly like another from head to toe.
Acting is the culmination of life experiences, honed skills, and current mental states, all mixing together in a unique blend. And an audition is merely a way to find the performance that best aligns with the director’s vision.
"I'm not mad at you, Mister. I’m not even disappointed. It’s just… it made me realize I’m still alone… That’s all.”
So what was unfolding in front of Kwon Jong-hyuk now wasn’t just an audition.
Ha-eun wasn’t merely trying to act as close to “right” as possible. Rather, she was making Kwon Jong-hyuk recognize her performance as the “right” one.
“I’m sorry for making you worry. I won’t let this happen again.”
With a look that spoke of resignation, abandoning even the faintest hope she once had for “Mister.” With a voice that struggled to hide her sorrow. With a weak gesture, as if she’d already given up on the notion of holding hands with the only friend she ever had.
She seemed to be silently asking Kwon Jong-hyuk, the director of *The Man Next Door*, who else could this be if not “Kim Ji-ah”? Could anything else be considered “Kim Ji-ah”?
It was closer to a re-creation than an act—a bold re-creation in which Ha-eun was the one conveying the moment Kim Ji-ah had experienced, as if she were showing Kwon Jong-hyuk herself.
Whatever Ha-eun said, whatever expression she wore, she was simply Kim Ji-ah—a pitiful girl who was never granted even the faintest hope that things would get better over time.
Ha-eun’s performance differed from the child actors who had tried to interpret and understand Kim Ji-ah. It was as if she had experienced countless similar situations herself.
Without forcing herself, Ha-eun naturally embodied Kim Ji-ah, speaking not with words that sounded like something Kim Ji-ah *would* say, but as Kim Ji-ah herself.
"Well, I’ll be off now. Oh, I’ll return the umbrella tomorrow morning."
Only at the very end did she say her goodbye.
Even after Ha-eun, who had just been Kim Ji-ah a moment ago, returned to her true self, Kwon Jong-hyuk’s lips stayed shut for a long time.
These were lines he’d heard dozens, if not hundreds, of times throughout the countless auditions. Lines he’d grown tired of long ago.
“Were these… always the lines?”
Yet the bitterness, the dryness, the unpolished emotions packed within them were unfamiliar. Raw, unfiltered emotions that felt like sandpaper.
Despite their starkness, they weren’t exaggerated or hidden. Lines that, in the wrong hands, would sound like childish whining, were flawlessly delivered by Ha-eun. There was not a trace of childishness—the very thing an actor playing Kim Ji-ah must avoid.
For the first time, Kwon Jong-hyuk felt a certainty he hadn’t experienced with any other child actor’s performance. Simultaneously, he noticed Jeong Do-cheol, the head of Luna Entertainment, patting Ha-eun on the shoulder with a hearty laugh.
“Our talent isn’t going anywhere, is it? In fact, it seems like she’s only gotten better!”
Ha-eun’s small frame swayed under Jeong Do-cheol’s hearty, repeated pats on her shoulder.
Jeong Do-cheol’s question about whether Kwon Jong-hyuk still thought Luna Entertainment had no talent echoed in his ears shortly afterward.
“Everyone knows how strict Director Kwon is, but don’t jump to conclusions that no one can meet your standards.”
Did he just imagine that smug look on Jeong Do-cheol’s face?
In any case, if even Ha-eun, who had fully become Kim Ji-ah, couldn’t pass, then no one in this world would.
Slowly, Kwon Jong-hyuk opened his firmly shut mouth.
“I’ll contact you as soon as possible, Mr. Jeong.”
He hinted that he and Ha-eun would meet again soon.
For now, though, all he had done was provide Ha-eun and other shortlisted candidates an opportunity to compete for the role of Kim Ji-ah. He hadn’t officially cast her.
After all, he was making a movie, not a one-person play. Regardless of an actor’s talent, if they couldn’t harmonize with their co-stars, their performance was meaningless.
The most crucial factor was whether she could work in sync with the other lead, Kang Seon-woo.
“Hello? Mr. Kang Seon-woo, it’s me, Kwon Jong-hyuk. I’ve got some news regarding the casting for the role of Kim Ji-ah.”
Finally, he scheduled the long-delayed screen test for the final casting decision.
And yet, he couldn’t shake his certainty about Ha-eun. Whether they did a screen test or another audition, he felt like the child cast as Kim Ji-ah for *The Man Next Door* had already been chosen.
“Hey, Ha-eun, how did the audition… go?”
She was greeted by Lee Jun, who had a look that mixed curiosity with a hint of apology for pushing her to attend the audition. She responded in her usual calm tone, saying it went okay.
Jeong Do-cheol, who had accompanied her to the audition, was all smiles, even as he patted her shoulder almost hard enough to dislocate it, bragging about how she’d put Kwon Jong-hyuk in his place.
Yet Ha-eun had seen Kwon Jong-hyuk’s face, and he hadn’t looked all that impressed.
She couldn’t tell if her performance had passed his expectations or if she’d end up being rejected like Luna Entertainment’s other child actors.
Her performance this time had drawn from her past life, blending memories of scenes with her own “Mr. Next Door” with her deep-seated empathy for Kim Ji-ah.
But since he did say he’d contact them soon, she figured he hadn’t been entirely displeased. And if given the chance, she was ready to put in her best effort.
Afterward, they enjoyed a meat-heavy dinner Lee Jun had prepared. When they later met up with Na-yeon after Ha-eun’s singing lesson with Double Lee, she briefly shared her thoughts about the audition.
“The camera was bigger than me! And it had all these strange buttons stuck all over it.”
“Really? That must have been fun to see!”
But Na-yeon brought up a thought Ha-eun hadn’t considered.
“Hm… if my daughter gets cast, I guess it’ll be about ten years before I can even see the film.”
Only then did Ha-eun remember that the film she’d auditioned for was rated for mature audiences.
Later, Ha-eun brought up something Jeong Do-cheol had suggested to her on the way back from the audition.
“Mom, isn’t it tiring to come pick me up every time?”
“Are you worried about Mommy’s legs? Oh, you’re such a sweet girl.”
In response, Na-yeon pulled her into a tight hug, her warmth overwhelming Ha-eun.
She did feel a bit guilty about making her mom go out of her way every time she had a lesson with Double Lee. Finally, she managed to lift her head and speak up.
“The CEO offered to assign me a manager. He thinks I’ll be getting busier soon.”
“I… don’t know yet. I’ll have to ask him later.”
She shared the news that she might soon have a manager to drive her, meaning Na-yeon wouldn’t need to pick her up every time.
“Then you’ll really be a proper actress now! Ha-eun, could I get an autograph?”
“Oh, um… I don’t have a pen or paper right now, so… maybe later.”
Na-yeon’s playful request brought a rosy blush to Ha-eun’s cheeks, her ears also turning red, showing how unfamiliar she was with being called an “actress.”
But she didn’t mind it. After a while, maybe she’d even grow used to this gentle, tickling feeling.