I'm an Unknown Actress, But Everyone Knows Me

“Ready—!”

Having escaped their shabby, insignificant neighborhood, Huijae and Taeseok stood atop the mountain, looking down below. The two, who could only speak in secret at dawn to avoid people’s eyes, had come outside together for the first time.

Taeseok had wanted to bring Huijae here no matter what. It was the most presentable place this town could offer.

The only thing Taeseok—who had nothing—could give her was the sight of daybreak.

He wanted to gift her this world that, no matter how many times you saw it, felt new every morning. A world that made your chest swell with heat and hope.

“...”

But Taeseok’s expression was dark.

It had started raining while they were climbing.

Instead of showing her the scenery he’d wanted to share, the cloudy sky had forced Huijae to endure the cold and hardship.

Confronted once again with his own poverty and helplessness, Taeseok stood beneath a small overhang that offered slight shelter from the rain, staring deliberately straight ahead.

He didn’t have the courage to look to the {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} side.

Wanting to see the joyful face of the girl he liked—that, too, felt like a luxury he had no right to indulge in.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

He didn’t want polite words said out of courtesy.

Taeseok clenched his teeth. Shame spread across the stoic boy’s face.

“You don’t have to say things you don’t mean.”

He answered sharply, trying to hide his wounded pride.

And Huijae told him—

She could see how this place would change in the future.

She believed in the version of him that would stand in the middle of it.

It was the same voice he’d heard at the script reading. The same voice from rehearsal.

And yet it felt as though he was hearing it for the first time.

There was a certain power in Han Yeoreum’s voice.

Taeseok finally turned his head.

On her rain-dampened, clear face bloomed a smile that turned this moment into something he wanted to preserve forever.

Something he would never forget.

Gi Taeseok, who had nothing to his name, felt a heavy emotion press against his heart—something he could dare to call his own.

‘As expected....’

Han Yeoreum’s strength was water.

Just the sight of her smiling while soaked was enough to flip the atmosphere on set.

Taeseok looked at Huijae for a moment before averting his eyes. His ears burned hot.

He lowered his head briefly to avoid her gaze, then looked forward again.

As if silently vowing to repay this innocent faith, he took in the world before him with eyes different from moments ago.

The lighting brightened.

Somehow, the rain had stopped.

Through the thinning gray clouds, the sun began to rise.

Hope for tomorrow settled into the boy’s face.

A shadow fell between his delicate eyelashes. The sharpness from before softened.

Realizing he had fallen in first love, Taeseok said nothing and simply stared ahead.

“Cut! Good, that’s great. Let’s grab a close-up just like that!”

Director Ja gave the okay immediately.

The set bustled as cameras were repositioned. The lens capturing Yeon Huijae’s face glinted under the lights.

A shard of light brushed across her damp cheek.

‘If only it would come sooner.’

Myeong Jeha watched Yeon Huijae and silently counted down the days.

Han Yeoreum’s birthday was not far off.

His heart pounded.

* * *

“I miss her....”

Aetami pressed her forehead and groaned.

No matter what she tried, she couldn’t get to see Yeoreum.

“Are these people insane?”

After years of stanning actors, she thought she’d become fairly skilled at ticketing.

But against the true veterans roaming Daehakro’s small theaters, she was nothing.

She couldn’t even secure a single ticket.

“Why do they call it a ‘walk’?”

Refreshing the reservation page repeatedly in case of cancellations was called a “walk.”

But the fans targeting 〈Intern Academy of the Academy of the Academy〉 were far beyond that level.

“Ugh... these lunatics....”

You had to practically lie in ambush to snatch even one ticket.

At Aetami’s current level, seeing Han Yeoreum on stage was impossible.

“And there’s not enough content!”

There were occasional curtain-call photos uploaded, and once-a-week MusicN MC appearances—but it wasn’t enough.

Ever since she had latched onto Han Yeoreum, the content stream had been nonstop. Now that it had slowed, her accumulated patience ran dry.

“My filial daughter always gave me something....”

The last crumb had been a child-actor final shoot photo on Myeong Jeha’s Yousta story.

Aetami sighed.

Bzzzz—.

[Hey.]

Her phone vibrated.

It was Reporter Wi.

[Birthday support]

Aetami stared at the message.

Something resonated deeply.

‘If there’s no content....’

Then they would create it.

Just imagining Yeoreum uploading a birthday support proof shot made her head spin. Her chest swelled.

Pretending to work, Aetami began typing quickly.

Input: okok first we’re definitely doing a message book

[yeah of course already made the form template]

Input: let’s plan within what you and I can gather first

Her chest felt hot, but as always, her mind remained cool.

‘She’s a new actress....’

High public recognition, but a weak core fandom.

Trying to go extravagant for the first support would be greedy.

She listed all the things she wanted to prepare—then sighed.

[Hey just open a new account and start fundraising]

But she had overlooked something.

[We’ll collect from Taiwan too]

Han Yeoreum was an actress who could pull investment from Taiwan.

‘Why did I limit the core base to domestic fans only!’

Aetami’s mouth fell open.

Her fingers moved rapidly.

[Sign Up]

She created a new Tr*tter account.

For Han Yeoreum’s birthday support.

* * *

IP 85.152 stared blankly at her phone.

“Are these people insane....”

Even veteran IP 85.152 could no longer secure tickets to 〈Intern Academy of the Academy of the Academy〉.

No amount of refreshing changed anything.

Input: Looking for Intern Academy Light-Yeoreum pair tickets middle block left block right block doesn’t matter will take even worst seats

She posted repeatedly.

No response.

Frustrated, she kicked her legs against the bed.

“It changes every time!”

The quality of the play was evolving with each performance.

At some point, Han Yeoreum had begun to melt seamlessly into the ensemble. The flow became natural, fluid.

She had memorized the lines already.

And still, she couldn’t look away.

‘Even critics are reacting strongly!’

Even Sunwoo Seonuk—known for sharp, cold precision—had written favorable commentary.

There hadn’t been a Daehakro play with this kind of response in years.

Satisfied in her own correct judgment, IP 85.152 once again typed Han Yeoreum’s name into the search bar.

“How did she do in the session I missed—.”

There were always detailed reviews of Han Yeoreum and Geum Bitgang’s performances.

But the first thing appearing on her timeline wasn’t a review.

“Oh. Han Yeoreum’s birthday?”

It was a birthday support post.

IP 85.152 scanned the newly created account.

“Her name and birthday match well.”

She murmured quietly.

She wasn’t exactly a Han Yeoreum fan, so birthday support didn’t interest her much.

But the message book item caught her attention.

‘Actors improve when given feedback.’

And as a cultivated citizen, she felt a mission to directly convey her thoughts about this small-theater production.

‘Han Yeoreum should know certain things.’

This month, she had failed to reserve 〈Intern Academy〉 tickets, so her hobby budget had plenty left.

Living as though every day were Culture Day, IP 85.152 decided to participate in support—for the qualitative advancement of Korean theater culture.

Not because she was truly a fan.

* * *

“Happy birthday.”

It was an ordinary birthday.

Messages came in. One dinner plan for the evening.

I ate the seaweed soup Han Taeyang had prepared and drank the pear-and-balloon-flower extract I received as a gift.

As always, I composed myself before stepping into the elevator.

‘Just in case a resident asks for an autograph.’

These days, people occasionally recognized me at convenience stores or on the street.

Maybe no autograph requests came from Han Taeyang’s high school because it was full of academically focused students.

“Yeoreum, happy birthday.”

“This isn’t much, but... we bought it for you.”

In the underground parking lot, Coordinator Hwang and Choi Seonhye stood waiting.

Their faces looked strangely... restrained.

Like they were suppressing smiles.

“Oh please, it’s not ‘nothing.’ It’s nice. I’ll use it well.”

Was I imagining it?

I accepted the small gift box and got into the car.

It was truly an ordinary birthday.

Normal. Everyday.

‘Exactly the kind of birthday a rising actress has....’

Having a schedule on your birthday—that’s actor life, isn’t it?

For three years straight, I’d had work on my birthday.

My chest swelled.

I closed my eyes briefly.

‘Did you tell her?’

‘No? I didn’t.’

‘She looks like she knows... why is she smiling alone?’

‘Did she figure it out?’

Whispering floated from the front seats.

I didn’t understand what they hadn’t told me until we arrived at Blue Art Center.

“...What is this?”

There was something waiting in the dressing room.