It would be a lie to say she hadn’t underestimated her.

Yes, Ha-eun was signed with Luna Entertainment, a major agency, but her experience was limited to a vitamin commercial and a music video. She was still a rookie, far from having any lead roles in movies or even minor roles in daytime dramas like Min Da-yeon herself.

Sure, the internet had buzzed about her as a modern-day “Little Match Girl,” but Da-yeon thought she could easily pull off that level of acting herself.

Yes, that’s what Da-yeon had assumed. Acting, as she understood it, was something she had studied, learned, and excelled at since she was younger. What she had just performed as Kim Ji-ah in front of the camera reflected that belief.

“…Are you okay?”

- Gasp.

Just five words. She hadn’t even begun the lines that required deep emotional immersion.

‘What… is this?’

Da-yeon immediately sensed that what she was witnessing was different from her own performance. There was none of the awkwardness or lack of polish that she would have expected from a rookie like Ha-eun. Instead, Ha-eun’s presence felt purely natural.

A movie is ultimately a product of fiction. Some degree of artificiality is an unspoken agreement between the screen and the audience.

Even the most famous actors can’t completely bridge the gap between themselves and their characters. No matter how much effort they put into their craft, they can never fully *become* their character. That’s why they train and practice so rigorously.

So, what was this?

This unsettling sight, so devoid of any hint of pretense.

“Yes, I’m fine. No matter what, she’s my mother. I don’t think she’s trying to kill me.”

This was not the kind of acting Da-yeon knew. It couldn’t be grouped with the type of performance that came from practice, study, and training.

If she had to name this strange phenomenon, it would be “experience.” Ha-eun seemed to be experiencing, in real-time, the events Kim Ji-ah had endured in *The Man Next Door*, not merely acting them out.

Unlike Da-yeon, Ha-eun didn’t need any prior preparation. All she had to do was bring forth the emotions she felt as Kim Ji-ah and let them pour out in front of the camera.

‘How… is this possible?’

Da-yeon had done what she always did to prepare for the role of Kim Ji-ah: she’d studied the script, visualized each scene in her mind, and thought about which expressions and gestures best suited the character.

Of all the child actors auditioning, Da-yeon was confident she had put in the most effort. She was fully committed to portraying Kim Ji-ah.

So why? How could this be?

“…Why are you acting surprised? You knew all along, didn’t you?”

The same line Da-yeon had spoken just moments ago, yet the depth of emotion was entirely different.

Kim Ji-ah in *The Man Next Door* is, at her core, a tragic girl. Her mother, her only family, abused her regularly.

And yet, she clung to the fantasy of living a normal life, casting aside the frailty that was expected of a child. She conditioned herself to believe that her mother’s violence meant nothing.

“But hey, nothing’s broken. I can still go to school.”

She lived in a delusion of normalcy, unable to escape the illusion that she was doing just fine, an illusion that shattered the moment Jin Kang-sik’s sympathetic gaze pierced through her.

Da-yeon had spent days trying to embody Kim Ji-ah’s struggle. She thought she knew better than anyone how to convey the essence of Kim Ji-ah.

That’s why she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Ha-eun.

Ha-eun perfectly mirrored the character Da-yeon had envisioned.

She tugged at her skirt to cover the bruises on her legs, crouched down to feel a semblance of security, and then, as if summoning all her courage, looked up at Jin Kang-sik with a gaze laced with unshed tears.

“I’m really fine. So please… don’t look at me like that. When you do, it makes me feel like I’m actually… pitiful.”

This was Kim Ji-ah, fighting desperately to hold herself together.

“Cut!”

When Director Kwon Jong-hyuk called it, Da-yeon realized she’d clenched her fists so tightly that her neatly trimmed nails had dug into her palms, though she couldn’t feel the pain. All her senses were fixated on Ha-eun.

She’d never seen acting like this—a kind that required complete fusion with the character, a transformation that could only happen by becoming a wholly different person.

But from what Da-yeon could see, Ha-eun had indeed become someone else during her performance. The identity of Lee Ha-eun had disappeared, replaced entirely by Kim Ji-ah, a girl who lived in a reality worse than any nightmare.

Every line Ha-eun spoke was a line from Kim Ji-ah. Every expression and gesture she made belonged to Kim Ji-ah.

"Thank you all for your hard work. We’ll notify you of the results by phone, so please head home for now.”

Kang Seon-woo and Director Kwon Jong-hyuk didn’t express any particular admiration, but Da-yeon could tell they had been equally stunned by Ha-eun’s performance. She sensed they had already chosen Ha-eun for the role of Kim Ji-ah.

In fact, not casting Ha-eun would be a clear mistake.

Though it stung, Da-yeon accepted her defeat. Watching Ha-eun succeed at something she couldn’t even attempt, she couldn’t muster the stubbornness to continue vying for the role.

Yes, it hurt—especially since she had been so confident in her abilities.

But she also understood that the gap between her and Ha-eun was too vast to overcome, no matter how hard she tried.

As the cast and crew slowly began moving toward the exit, Da-yeon walked the opposite way, heading over to where Ha-eun was sipping a now-watery drink in the corner.

This was purely to satisfy her own curiosity. She wanted to ask Ha-eun, even in the simplest terms, how she’d managed to pull off such a strange performance.

However, the slightly stiff expression Ha-eun wore as she replied was anything but helpful.

“Some things are better left unknown.”

‘…Just say you don’t want to tell me.’

Frustrated, Da-yeon turned her back on Ha-eun, her expression sour. In a way, she understood why Ha-eun might not want to share—this was her secret, after all.

But then…

“Hey, Min… Da-yeon.”  
“?”  
“You did well.”

Da-yeon couldn’t make sense of Ha-eun’s sudden compliment.

Was she mocking her?

Even though she had begrudgingly acknowledged Ha-eun’s skill and her own defeat, it seemed like acting talent and a kind personality didn’t always go hand in hand.

‘Go step in some dog poop.’

With that thought, Da-yeon mentally berated the girl who had gone from being an impressive acting prodigy to a truly annoying little brat. Then she turned and headed over to the people waiting for her.

A few days later, on a whim, she called Kwon Jong-hyuk to inquire about the casting decision.

[ …I’m sorry we couldn’t work with you this time, Da-yeon. But if an opportunity arises in the future, I’ll be sure to reach out. Please don’t feel too discouraged. ]

Finally, she heard the official news: Ha-eun had been chosen as Kim Ji-ah.

Strangely, she didn’t feel as disappointed as she’d expected.

Maybe because she hadn’t put much stock in it from the beginning.

The only thing that left her feeling a bit regretful was knowing she wouldn’t see Ha-eun’s performance on the big screen for another ten years. She would have loved to buy a ticket for the earliest showing, just so she could pick apart every little detail of Ha-eun’s acting.

‘But, I’ll be the bigger person…’

With a sigh, Da-yeon tried to clear her mind of thoughts about Ha-eun.

She flipped through the script of *The Neighbor*, a movie she had recently been offered a role in.

After all, if she and Ha-eun both stayed on the path of acting, they were bound to cross paths again.

She didn’t need to be hung up on it right now.

Little did she know that a few years down the line, she would run into Ha-eun not on set, but in the hallway of an elementary school. Nor could she have guessed how persistent her connection with Ha-eun would become in the years that followed.