Stalkerizing

“Shin-jae, don’t you need the notes?”

Sa-yoon, resting his chin on his hand, gazed at Shin-jae and spoke.

“Yes?”

Shin-jae turned his head slightly, his movement slow.

“This class, the notes.”

Clear, pristine eyes turned toward him.

By the third lecture, Sa-yoon had learned a little more about Shin-jae. Despite his appearance, his reactions were slow. His face, when expressionless, carried a surprisingly cold aura.

Just like right now.

“Having the notes would be great.”

After finishing his sentence, his lips curved into a smooth arc. Like a drop of paint falling onto water, a gentle expression spread across his face.

Sa-yoon stared blankly at the shifting expression. It reminded him of the way actors changed personas on stage.

No matter how he looked at it, Sa Shin-jae was a born actor. He was like a raw gemstone reflecting a spectrum of colors when light hit it. The sight made Sa-yoon smile unconsciously.

“Then I’ll show you the notes—buy me a drink.”

“If that’s all it takes to see the notes, I’d be incredibly grateful, senior.”

A neat response. But, as expected, Shin-jae didn’t ask for his number or try to set a specific time.

“Then let’s—”

“Alright, roll call.”

Just as Sa-yoon opened his mouth, the professor entered, cutting off their conversation. Talk about timing. Sa-yoon’s lips stretched into a long pout of dissatisfaction.

Two weeks into the semester, and Sa-yoon had still failed to get Sa Shin-jae’s number.

Their meal on the first day of class had fallen through. After class, Shin-jae had claimed he had a dinner appointment with the professor—a convenient excuse.

‘Damn, this is hard!’

Maybe it was because he had thought of Shin-jae as a golden retriever, the epitome of friendliness. He hadn’t expected getting close to him to be this difficult.

Shin-jae allowed people near, but only to a certain point. Any attempt to cross that invisible line was met with an impenetrable wall. Not only was it high, but it was solid. Another meal invitation would likely be rejected, so Sa-yoon hadn’t even bothered trying again.

It was ridiculous that only two weeks into the semester, he was already offering up his notes and asking for a drink in return. The image of a senior desperate to get a drink from a junior six years younger than him was not one he wanted for himself.

Which made pushing further even harder.

“Class is starting. Turn to page 89.”

Down on the podium, the professor’s voice flowed steadily, but even as Sa-yoon flipped the pages of his book, his mind was completely elsewhere.

‘So now, I really only have one chance left!’

***

“Hello!”

Sa-yoon pushed open the door labeled Handae Theater Club and greeted the room cheerfully. The students huddled together on the sofa, reading scripts, all lifted their heads in unison.

Who’s that? Who is this guy? He’s obviously an outsider, but he just walked in so confidently…?

Those kinds of thoughts practically spilled from their gazes. But as soon as their eyes met Sa-yoon’s, they quickly turned away. Seeing that, Sa-yoon let out a small chuckle. He could easily guess what was running through their heads as they sat in a neat row like little peas in a pod.

Is he a senior we just didn’t know about? While they were all busy darting their eyes around, someone stepped out from behind the partition.

A familiar face.

“Shin-jae, you too—hello.”

“Uh… hello, senior?”

Caught off guard, Shin-jae greeted him hesitantly, his expression full of unspoken questions. Understandable—he was probably wondering what Sa-yoon was even doing here. Just as Sa-yoon was about to open his mouth to explain—

“Senior, sorry, but outsiders aren’t allowed in here.”

A sharp-witted junior cut him off first.

“Ah, yeah, I know. But—”

“If you’re here to see Ha-rim senior, could you please wait outside?”

Sa-yoon shut his mouth. The junior’s words were polite, their tone smooth and friendly, but the message itself was a well-mannered way of saying get lost.

And that rubbed him the wrong way. But if he pointed it out, he’d just come off as an annoying, entitled senior.

“No, I actually—”

Just then, a commotion erupted as the door burst open. Every eye in the room snapped toward it.

“Heya!”

“Myung-woo, Ha-rim, hello!”

“Hello!”

The ones who had just entered were Im Myung-woo, the club president for this term, and Choi Ha-rim, the director.

They were also the perfect people to explain why an outsider was standing so brazenly in their clubroom.

Without realizing it, Sa-yoon let out a quiet sigh of relief. He had found his lifeline. Naturally, he moved to stand beside them.

Before long, more club members trickled in as their classes wrapped up. Once the room had filled up a bit, Myung-woo finally spoke.

“Alright, listen up. You all know we totally screwed up last semester’s promo video, right? First off, thanks to the freshmen who joined despite watching that disaster…”

From beside him, Ha-rim let out a small “boo,” playfully heckling. Sa-yoon didn’t vocalize it, but he deeply agreed.

Last semester’s promo video had been a disaster, the kind that reminded you of a PowerPoint with a blue otter theme. There weren’t actually any rainbow colors, no otters, no clunky fonts devoid of aesthetic sense—but somehow, it felt like there were.

“This is Cha Sa-yoon from the film department. He’s here to film our club’s promotional video, so make sure to greet him properly when you see him. And don’t act all unnatural just because the camera’s rolling.”

Having secured his entry by offering his labor in exchange, Sa-yoon swept his gaze over the eager freshmen who all answered with a cheerful, obedient “Yes!” Nothing built familiarity better than frequent encounters.

“Hello, I’m Cha Sa-yoon. I’ll be helping out with the promotional video. Looking forward to working with you.”

As he lifted his head after greeting them, his eyes instinctively sought out Sa Shin-jae. He, too, was looking in Sa-yoon’s direction, and their eyes met immediately.

Shin-jae’s face, which had initially held a flicker of surprise, soon softened into a smile. His lips moved soundlessly, forming the words Looking forward to it. Sa-yoon gave him a slight nod in response.

“Alright, time to start practice!”

“Yes!”

The club members, who had been seated, all stood up with their scripts in hand. Seizing the moment amid the bustling movement, Sa-yoon approached Shin-jae.

“Looks like we’ll be seeing each other a lot.”

“Yeah, seems like it.”

So that junior from earlier… He’s actually a good kid, just the strict by-the-book type. He looks like a willow tree, but his personality’s unexpectedly rigid.

The irritation Sa-yoon had felt earlier completely faded, replaced by the satisfaction of discovering a new side of Shin-jae.

Rehearsals were usually held in the school auditorium, starting in the evening after classes ended.

Although there was still plenty of time before the actual performance, everyone was practicing diligently. When someone pointed this out, Ha-rim groaned about how, once they factored in exam season and the school festival, there really wasn’t much time left at all. She had a point, so Sa-yoon simply nodded while watching the stage.

A freshman was in the middle of an intense performance. His face was scrunched up in concentration, and seeing that expression immediately reminded Sa-yoon of someone—Shin-jae, whose expressions changed as seamlessly as a performer in bian lian (Chinese face-changing opera).

Turning to Ha-rim, who stood beside him, Sa-yoon asked,

“Hey, Ha-rim, I was wondering…”

“Yeah, senior?”

“Why does Shin-jae have so little stage time?”

It had been nagging at him. Even though more than half of the play had passed, Shin-jae had yet to appear.

If he weren’t good at acting, it would make sense for him to just be a pretty face for the club. But that wasn’t the case at all, which made it even more baffling.

“Oh, that…”

Ha-rim, who had been sipping on her milk tea, scrunched up her nose.

“If it’s something you can’t talk about, forget it.”

“No, it’s not that… It’s not really a secret or anything. He actually chose that role himself.”

“Really? That’s unusual.”

Just then, the subject of their conversation stepped onto the stage, and both their gazes instinctively followed him.

Across the entire play, Shin-jae had a total of five lines. His stage time didn’t even add up to three minutes.

And yet, in that brief appearance, he shone. A talent as dazzling as a precious gem.

Damn, that kind of ability is innate.

Noticing his own unconscious reaction, Sa-yoon’s tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip.

Being rejected once only made him want it more.

The higher the wall, the greater the challenge. And that made it all the more exciting.

“They say you can’t hide your blood.”

“Huh?”

As soon as Shin-jae coolly exited the stage after finishing his role, Ha-rim suddenly blurted out something cryptic.

“Seo Sang-ah, the actor.”

“From Spy?”

“Yeah! He was perfect in that secret agent role. I totally fell for him during those fight scenes. Did you know they’ve been rerunning it on TV lately?”

Is she starting to sound like Yeon-hee now? She was rattling off her excitement at full speed, but Sa-yoon had no idea how they had even landed on this topic.

He decided to break it down one step at a time.

“Why are we suddenly talking about a drama that was a hit ten years ago?”

Technically, Spy had aired a little more than ten years ago. A drama about the romance of a secret government agent, it had been a massive success, hitting a peak viewership rating of 33.8%. Sa-yoon had enjoyed watching it, too.

The actor Ha-rim mentioned, Seo Sang-ah, had been a minor supporting actor until that drama catapulted him into stardom.

“Senior, you didn’t know? It’s super famous gossip.”

This time, it was Ha-rim who looked at him strangely, puzzled by his confusion.

“Know what?”

“Sa Shin-jae. He’s Seo Sang-ah’s son.”

“…What?”

Without thinking, Sa-yoon’s gaze darted toward the stage. Of course, Shin-jae had long since left, making the effort pointless.

Instead, Seo Sang-ah’s face surfaced clearly in his mind. Now that the connection was made, he wondered how he hadn’t noticed before. Especially from the bridge of the nose upward—they looked like they had been cast from the same mold.

“Wow… you’re right. That’s crazy. They really do look alike.”

So Shin-jae had been a child actor. That must have been his mother’s influence.

No wonder he’s so ridiculously good at acting.

His talent was innate, but on top of that, it was clear he had received an abundance of advice from a veteran in the same field.

“But why isn’t he acting now?”

“That’s what I’m saying. I asked him about it once, and he just laughed.”

Technically, his involvement in the theater club was still acting, but compared to professional work, it felt more like a child’s game of make-believe.

“His major is business, right?”

That made it even stranger—if he were truly aiming for a career in theater, his major didn’t align with that path at all.

With that lingering curiosity in mind, the day’s rehearsal came to an end.