I was sitting on the edge of my bed, my legs crossed, poking the seams on my sneakers with one finger. My hands moved slowly, tracing the little ridges, up and down.
I liked the way it felt—soft and bumpy under my skin.
The room smelled like crayons, old books, and the faint smell of Mom's cooking from lunch. Sunlight came in through the window, making long stripes across the floor like tiny stage lights. I liked watching them. They moved when the clouds went past, slow and quiet.
The phone rang. The sound made me jump a little. It wasn't loud, but it made my heart thump in a funny way. Mom's hand hovered over it first, then she pointed at me.
"Junseo. It's for you." She said softly. Her voice was careful, like she didn't want me to break.
I leaned forward, my small palms pressed to my knees, and picked up the receiver. It felt heavier than I expected. The cord tugged against my fingers a little, and I noticed how the phone felt warm where my hand touched it. I could hear Mom breathing quietly behind me.
"Hello?" My voice came out thin and unsure, like a whisper in a big empty room.
"Hi, this is from the agency. Junseo, we'd like to offer you the role. Congratulations." A woman said. Her voice was smooth and kind, but not too friendly.
I didn't say anything right away. The words landed inside my chest like little stones, heavy but small. My eyes moved around the room instead. My toy trucks on the shelf. The stack of picture books. The way the sunlight slanted through the curtains.
I thought about the studio. The bright lights. The cameras staying still, quiet, like they were watching me even when I wasn't moving. The director leaning forward, his eyebrows pulled up just a little, like he had a secret. And I thought…Maybe I can go back.
I swallowed, feeling my throat tight. "Yes, I…I can do it." I said.
The woman on the phone made a soft laugh. Not mean. Just a little laugh, like when someone is pleased. "We'll send you the schedule and script. Any questions, your parents can ask."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "Okay. Thank you."
I put the phone down slowly. My hand lingered on the cradle for a second. Mom stayed quiet, just watching me. Dad appeared in the doorway. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He just looked at me like he was thinking a lot of things at once.
The living room smelled faintly of tea and Mom's cooking, the kind of smell that makes the house feel warm. The late afternoon sun made long stripes across the wooden floor, like little spotlights.
Mom sat on the couch with her hands folded over her lap. Dad leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me.
"They want you to start soon." Mom said softly.
Dad nodded. "School, rest, rules…have you thought about what that means?"
I tilted my head. I had been thinking for days, ever since the audition. About lines, pauses, cameras, and how the grown-ups watched, calculated, measured. And now…about schedules, scripts, people watching, all of it. About my own small self in the middle of it.
I didn't answer right away.
I looked around the room instead—the curve of the lamp, the way the sunlight made the rug look orange in stripes, the little bookshelf packed with picture books. Everything felt normal. Everything felt safe.
And I realized…I would have to carry a little bit of this safe with me into the other place, quietly, like a secret I kept inside.
"I…want to try. I like it. I…understand it." I said finally. My voice was soft but steady.
Mom's eyes softened. She brushed a hair from my forehead. "We just want to make sure you're safe. And that you're not pushed too hard." She said.
"I won't let anyone push me. I can…handle it." I said, more firmly than I thought I could. My small hand gripped hers for a second. Dad uncrossed his arms slowly. "You understand that it's more than fun? Schedules, scripts, people watching…"
"I understand." I said. Just that. Not scared. Not bragging. Just…knowing.
Later, I sat on the floor in my room, legs tucked under me. I thought about the phone call again. Not the words.
The space between the words. The silence. The waiting. I thought about the other kids at the audition. How they ran around, how they hurried, how they looked to the adults to tell them what to do.
I realized…I didn't need anyone to guide me. Not really.
I looked at the small mirror on my dresser. My reflection was half in the sun, half in shadow. The boy I had been yesterday was still there. The boy I would have to be tomorrow…that one had to choose.
To be careful. To decide what to show and what to keep quiet.
I thought about the word "back." Back to the studio. Back to the lights. Back to the cameras. Back to the lines and the pauses. And I realized…it wasn't just a place. It was a way to understand the world before the world noticed me.
Dinner was quiet.
The three of us were at the small table. Mom tried to talk. Dad asked questions. I only answered what I needed to. My hands moved slowly, cutting food, pushing things around on my plate.
I noticed the sunlight flicker on the window. Dad's shadow stretched long across the floor.
No one pushed. I didn't want them to. The phone call had already set the rules. Curiosity was allowed, excitement was less important. Observation mattered most.
And I watched.
Later, in bed, I traced the seam of my blanket with one finger. I thought about the phone call, the studio, the cameras, the lights. I thought about the weight of being watched. Mom and Dad, their soft words, their careful looks.
And I understood, quietly, to myself: this was the first choice. Not the audition. Not the lines. The first choice was stepping back into the space that wanted to see me. That would measure me. That watch if I could stay myself even while being seen.
I closed my eyes. I pictured the studio again. The polished floor. The cameras standing still. The director leaning forward. Other kids moving, adjusting. Lines and pauses. All of it.
I decided, quietly, firmly. I would go back. Not because anyone told me. Not for applause. Not for praise.
Because I wanted to.
Because I understood.
Because I could.
The first call had been made. The real work was just beginning.