TBM Vol 1 Part 3

“Did it go well?”

“I worked hard.”

Kyung-hyun burst into laughter at Il-seo’s response. Il-seo also gave a faint smile and shrugged. It wasn’t his place to judge how well he had done; all he could say was that he’d given his best effort.

“Aren’t you hungry? Want to grab something to eat before heading out?”

“Yeah, I should eat something.”

After the schedule related to the script reading wrapped up, Director Chae Geum-soo called Il-seo aside. This was the first time he had met with him one-on-one since the audition, and the timing, right after the reading, made him even more nervous. Il-seo felt confident he hadn’t made any major mistakes, but his steps still felt heavy as he followed the director back to the now-empty set.

“Have you practiced smoking?”

“I have.”

“Show me.”

For a moment, Il-seo glanced around, uncertain if he was supposed to smoke right there. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette from the pack he had brought, lighting it with a flick of the lighter. He took a deep drag, exhaling the harsh, acrid smoke through his lips.

“Now bite it and deliver your lines.”

Il-seo followed the instructions, reciting his lines with the cigarette in his mouth. Director Chae scrutinized Il-seo’s face closely as if assessing something, then nodded in approval.

“It’s better than expected, but it’s still… Il-seo.”

“Yes…”

“Don’t be too disappointed—I cast you for your looks after all.”

The director’s words, though meant to be reassuring, didn’t completely lift Il-seo’s spirits. His narrow shoulders sagged a little as he stubbed out the cigarette in a cup of water. Director Chae then mentioned that Il-seo should lose an additional three kilos before filming began. Though he didn’t tell Il-seo outright, the director had been pleasantly surprised by his performance. His emotional delivery, immersion, diction, and eye contact were all better than expected. Initially, he’d worried that Il-seo would be overshadowed by Sa Seung-yeon’s striking presence, but the contrast between the two actually made Il-seo’s performance stand out even more.

Still, his face carried a softness that didn’t quite fit the role of Haru, a character marked by sensitivity and vulnerability. That look needed to come across not only in his acting but also in his physical appearance. Director Chae felt a bit sorry for the already thin Il-seo but insisted him on the weight loss.

When Kyung-hyun heard about the diet restrictions, he grumbled as they got into the car.

“He’s wringing blood from a stone at this point.”

“Haha…”

“Let’s stop by the store and grab some salad and fruit. Anything in particular you want to eat?”

“If there are any tangerines, I’ll take some tangerines…”

“You and your tangerines. Okay, got it. Close your eyes and rest.”

After stopping by the store near his home, Il-seo’s arms were loaded with heavy plastic bags. He made his way up to his apartment on the top floor of a building with no elevator, switched on the light, and placed the bags on the floor. After washing his hands and feet, he started unpacking his groceries. His fridge, once filled with instant food, now housed fresh vegetables and tangerines.

Everything he’d bought had a short shelf life. The subtle pressure of having to consume it all gave him an odd sense of satisfaction. In a life that often felt adrift, it was as if a small but meaningful milestone had finally appeared.

—

The sunlight filtered dimly through the window.

A boy sat by the window, holding a guitar. His lips moved slowly, almost as if he were whispering something. The white curtains behind him swayed gently as if caught in a breeze.

His movements were soft, his lips painted with a hint of red, a small mole marking the corner of his mouth. His slender neck stretched elegantly beneath his chin, catching the light. Every time his fingers strummed the guitar, a soft shadow fell over his collarbone, exposed by the neckline of his T-shirt. No matter how much Il-seo turned his head, he could only see the boy’s lower body—it was maddening.

He desperately wanted to see the boy’s face. But just as the frustration peaked, the boy turned, catching his gaze. Beneath the clear, dazzling sunlight, his lips curved into a teasing smile.

—

Seung-yeon awoke, his eyes fluttering open. It was a dream he hadn’t had in a long time. He frowned, reaching out for the phone on the console. It was eight in the morning—still early enough to sleep a little longer, but he got up anyway. Grabbing his robe from the floor, he headed to the bathroom.

As he finished his shower, the woman in the bed stirred, peeking out from under the blankets. She watched him sleepily as he got dressed.

“Are you going to sleep more?” he asked.

“No.”

“I can give you a ride if you need.”

“It’s fine. I’ll manage.”

The woman, still groggy, was actress Lee Yeon-ju, a former child star now widely recognized by the public. She lazily rubbed her face against the blankets before slowly getting up and making her way to the bathroom. Seung-yeon could hear the shower as he left the hotel room.

He’d met Lee Yeon-ju the night before at a bar run by his friend Goo Dong-young. The bar, which strictly controlled who entered, was a retreat for celebrities and public figures who wanted privacy. Seung-yeon, who was notoriously picky even about casual relationships, found it the perfect place to meet people. It was the only reason he maintained his friendship with Dong-young.

His black car roared as it sped away from the hotel. Thinking back on his dream, he realized that even though he’d just been with someone, his desires still felt unfulfilled. He turned on some music, letting a poorly recorded song flow quietly from the speakers. His long fingers tapped rhythmically on the leather steering wheel.

Tomorrow morning, the first filming for Temperature of Overflow would begin. As the thought crossed his mind, a pale face surfaced in his memory—Lee Il-seo. He had no real interest in how or why Director Chae Geum-soo had cast him. Seung-yeon only cared about good projects. While he knew Director Chae’s casting methods were underhanded, his projects had always succeeded. He never imagined he’d take such a gamble on a lead role. But after the script reading, Seung-yeon decided to drop his unnecessary concerns. Besides, the controversy surrounding Lee Il-seo’s casting had already created a buzz around the project, like noise marketing, so it wasn’t all bad.

Pressing down hard on the accelerator, the car roared as the RPM soared. A text from his manager, outlining the day’s schedule, appeared on the screen. There was a lot to do, but it all felt monotonous.

His chin, now noticeably thinner under his baseball cap, was revealed as Il-seo stepped off the elevator. He expertly navigated his way through the building and opened the door to the nursing home. As he passed the shelter and entered, the familiar musty scent unique to this place filled the air.

“Grandma.”

Her seat was neither close to the window nor had a view of the TV. Il-seo had tried several times to move her to a better spot, but it was always a seat that she wanted, so nothing can be changed. He gave up eventually, accepting that it was better for someone who could still appreciate the flow of time and find joy in dramas to have a good seat, rather than his grandmother, who had forgotten the season, the date, her deceased daughter, and even her own grandson.

Her days were now like a blank pages. Il-seo’s hope was to leave at least one mark, one memory, on her mind, which had become focused on nothing but the hospital walls. Every time he visited, she would look into his eyes with a blank expression and eventually ask for his name. But each time, he gave her the same answer, hoping that at least today she might remember him.

Once again, his grandmother looked at him with a puzzled expression and asked him for his name. Il-seo smiled, brighter than usual, at the woman who greeted him like it was the first time they met, like every time.

“Grandma, I’m filming a drama,” Il-seo said with a smile. His grandmother smiled back.

“I hope it goes well… Then we can live together at home instead of here,” he added.

She nodded in response, her eyes lighting up at his words.

Il-seo always wore the same clothes and hat when visiting her, trying to make himself familiar. He brought a small lunchbox filled with fruit he’d prepared for his diet. Sticking a toothpick into a piece, he handed it to her. Her face brightened as if the sweetness spread joy throughout her body.

It was the night before filming, so Il-seo could barely sleep. 

I sipped on extra-shot coffee all night while pouring over the script. I lost count of how many cigarettes I smoked while practicing. Fatigue crept in, and my throat began to burn.

In the past, I would have panicked about feeling physically drained, popping vitamins and worrying about my health. But now, I found comfort in it, strangely. It made me feel like I was becoming Haru, the fragile and weak character that I was set to play. I knew the only way to quell my anxiety and tension was to push myself to the limit, so I practiced relentlessly.

I left early in the morning on the day of filming. Thankfully, Kyung-hyun agreed to act as my road manager for the duration of the shoot. The main filming location was in Gyeonggi-do, and many of the other locations were far from Seoul. So, I had no choice but to ask the company to look after my grandmother. When I was struggling to bring it up, CEO Kim laughed and said, “Of course, don’t worry about it,” which allowed me to focus entirely on filming.

I had read and re-read the script so many times that it was practically engraved in my mind. I even memorized the stage directions alongside my lines. By the time I arrived on set, the worn-out pages of the script were practically falling apart.

The set, though modest on the outside, was already bustling with people inside. Cameras and lights were in place, and the crew was busy with final preparations. I hurried to get into the costume. As the first shot approached, a mix of anticipation and nerves settled over me like a pale shadow. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment.

“Are you ready?” someone asked. I nodded, my fingers gripping the edges of the script. Now, it was just a matter of delivering the performance that I had worked so hard to perfect.