Ha-eun still wasn’t entirely sure how her performance had resonated with audiences beyond the movie screen. But one thing she could confidently say was that she had done her best in portraying Kim Ji-ah.

And to her, that was enough.

Her goal in filming *The Man Next Door* was never about gaining fame or popularity; it was simply to gain experience in acting. The movie’s success, however—surpassing what she had ever anticipated—was indeed a pleasant surprise.

Knowing that her efforts hadn’t gone to waste was a relief. For someone like Ha-eun, who hadn’t had any formal acting training, just that sense of relief was enough satisfaction.

Yes, she hadn’t asked for anything more than that. She had always considered it excessive to expect too much from her unrefined acting skills.

“So, Ha-eun, have you prepared your acceptance speech for the Korean Film Awards?”

It felt as if people were treating her win as a certainty, as if it was only natural that she would surpass the other nominees.

“…It’s not confirmed yet,” Ha-eun replied.
“You came all dressed up like you’ve already won. Don’t pretend you’re not prepared.”

Kang Sun-woo added, mentioning it was the first time he’d been so impressed by a child actor’s looks. Ha-eun had to admit, even to herself, that she looked more polished than ever. Yet, sitting in the limousine with Kang Sun-woo on the way to the awards ceremony felt strange—like she was heading to a party she wasn’t really invited to.

Objectively speaking, Ha-eun’s invitation to the awards wasn’t odd. After all, *The Man Next Door* was one of the biggest movies of the year, so her being there made perfect sense. However, receiving an award was a different story.

Almost all of her acting had been drawn from the memories of her past life. To embody the suffering of Kim Ji-ah, a girl tormented by her only remaining family member, Ha-eun had dredged up painful memories. If Ji-ah had been a little happier, a little brighter, would people still be praising her? She couldn’t shake the thought that she was simply lucky to have gone through experiences similar to Ji-ah’s.

In her mind, her performance succeeded only because of that alignment. It was unsurprising that other child actors like Min Da-yeon, who had no comparable experiences, would struggle to portray a character like Ji-ah.

“Here, take my hand and step out carefully.”

Even as she took Kang Sun-woo’s hand for support and walked alongside him down the red carpet into the awards venue, she couldn’t convince herself she deserved to be there. She felt like she’d ended up in this spot by a twist of fate—a series of coincidences rather than any true talent.

Unlike other actors who pursued acting because they loved the craft or wanted to entertain, Ha-eun’s acting had stemmed from necessity, a means of survival forced upon her by her previous life’s parents. She wondered whether a performance that had started on such a misguided path deserved any award at all.

‘Even if your insides are churning, keep a smile on your face. Even if breathing is hard, keep your voice steady.’

These were things she’d whispered to herself countless times, huddled in the corner of a dark hospital room, artificial and painful from start to finish.

“Ha-eun, are you feeling unwell?” Kang Sun-woo asked.
“No, it’s just… I think I feel a little intimidated. There are so many amazing people here.”

She thought her performance was different from the dazzling starlight of other actors. Her acting, rather than sparkling like starlight, was something born from a dark, deep swamp—something that evoked pity and sympathy in others.

“You shine brightly too, Ha-eun. Have confidence.”
“Thank you, even if it’s just words.”
“I mean it.”

Ha-eun believed that the actresses nominated alongside her were true actors, the kind people admired for their “real” acting. Meanwhile, she felt her own acting, drawn from her painful memories, could only convey the concept of misfortune.

She thought it was “Kim Ji-ah” who deserved applause and recognition, not the “child actor Lee Ha-eun.” Even after seven years of receiving genuine parental love, her sense of self-worth was incredibly low. After all, she had lived a life thinking herself worthless—a burden, a shackle, an obstacle to others.

Her own rigid, unkind self-perception, shaped by her parents’ mistakes, still held her back.

And yet…

“Next up is the Best New Actress award. We have some truly beautiful nominees….”

Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the presenter.

“…The winner of the 8th Korean Film Awards’ Best New Actress is… Congratulations to Lee Ha-eun from *The Man Next Door*!”

「Best New Actress:
*The Man Next Door,* Lee Ha-eun」

As the well-known actress announced her name in a high-pitched voice, the large screen displayed Ha-eun’s name, and the countless lights in the ceremony focused on her, illuminating a girl who had long believed she could never shine.

“Go on, Ha-eun. Don’t be shy. Be confident.”

Encouraged by one of the brightest people she knew, Ha-eun finally walked to the stage.

With the eyes of countless stars, including Kang Sun-woo, fixed solely on her, Ha-eun faced the surreal scene, as if she were standing under a river of stars.

“I… will strive to become someone worthy of this award.”

That single sentence, wrung out from the depths of her soul, was all she could manage. Partly because she hadn’t prepared an acceptance speech, but mostly because the emotions she felt now were utterly new to her.

These vivid, colorful feelings were ones she could never have imagined in her dull past life.

Most of all, this magical scene was something Ha-eun had never experienced, leaving her unsure of how to react.

No one had ever taught her how to look when she felt happy; no one had forced or imposed that on her.

-Tap.
-Drip, drip, tap.

And so, the tears that began falling down her cheeks were the first genuine display of her true feelings—pure, unburdened by any external force. Only when the presenter gently addressed her did she realize and pause her tears.

“Ha-eun, please take a deep breath. If there’s anything else you’d like to say, feel free.”

After taking a moment to calm her unsteady breathing, she glanced at Kang Sun-woo, who was watching her with a warm smile.

“I… I hope that those going through hard times will have someone like Mr. Jin Gang-sik by their side. …Thank you.”

She spoke the words she wished someone had told her in her past life.

As thunderous applause filled the room, Ha-eun clutched her golden trophy and returned to her seat next to Kang Sun-woo. The applause continued, and so did the unfamiliar and overwhelming emotions.

Though they felt strange, she somehow knew she didn’t have to suppress or control them.

“Excuse me, Mr. Kang Sun-woo… I mean, Sun-woo. There’s something I’d like to ask your advice on—”

For the first time, she sought help for a new dream that had just formed in her heart. Their conversation, full of sincerity, continued for quite some time, even after the awards ceremony ended.

Eventually, they moved to a late-night fast-food restaurant to keep talking.

“If you want to learn, go ahead and learn. If you want to do both, then do both. It’s not like it’s going to hurt anyone, right?”

Despite the long conversation, Kang Sun-woo wrapped it up with a short, straightforward piece of advice. Yet those words filled Ha-eun with a newfound certainty.

When she finally parted ways with Kang Sun-woo, she stopped him once more.

“Mr. Sun-woo.”

She called out to the person who, in her memory, would soon disappear from the screen for a long time.

“How are you going to live from now on?”

After a brief, thoughtful pause, he replied, “Hmm… I think I’ll travel, read the books I’ve been wanting to read. Just live doing what I want.”

It was an answer that perfectly suited the person she knew him to be. But as she thought about not seeing this brilliant person again, a hint of sadness crept in.

“I hope you continue acting.”

“I never said I’d retire.”

“Still. Just in case.”

In an uncharacteristic move, she extended her pinky, and they made a promise to meet again in front of the camera someday.

And so, they forged an uncertain promise with no binding force.

As time continued its unstoppable march forward, the casting offers for Ha-eun, who had taken home an award for her debut film, flooded in.

“Thank you for the offers, but Ha-eun is very firm on her decision….”

Aside from short-term commercials or public service ads, most offers were promptly declined. Ha-eun wanted to enjoy a bit more of a normal school life and felt she wasn’t ready just yet.

Three and a half years later, the location of her early mornings had shifted from kindergarten to elementary school.

Ha-eun’s life, once limited to singing lessons with Double Lee, had transformed significantly. One major part of her life now was…

‘I don’t think you even need acting lessons at this point,’ said one of her instructors at the acting academy contracted with Luna Entertainment.
“Thank you, but I still have a lot to learn,” Ha-eun replied.

She hadn’t gotten close to the other child actors in her class at Luna Entertainment’s academy, but Ha-eun didn’t mind as long as she could

 learn.

So her life was quite busy, but she didn’t mind, as it was by her own choice.

However, there was one part of her daily routine that wasn’t entirely up to her…

“Hey, Lee Ha-eun. Are you joining the audition for *My Love from the Star*?”

“…Yeah.”

Or rather, one person.

“When you kept turning down casting offers because you weren’t ready, then suddenly decided to join this audition, what’s that about?”
“I just thought I’d test how prepared I am.”
“What? You’re using this audition, one that people are dying to get into, just to test yourself?”

This person added both busyness and noise to her life.

“…I’ll give it my best,” Ha-eun said.
“Oh, come on! Why do you have to be so dramatic about it?” scoffed Min Da-yeon.

Their relationship was complicated. She couldn’t simply ignore Da-yeon, though, as she was the only other person at her school who understood the entertainment industry.

“Anyway, I’m going to the *My Love from the Star* audition, so don’t bother. Just keep up with your precious training.”
“Are you scared you’ll lose again?” Ha-eun asked with a grin.
“Wha—who’s scared of losing?!”

The way Da-yeon reacted whenever Ha-eun playfully provoked her was, admittedly, quite amusing.

Friend. Or perhaps, frenemy.

However their relationship might be defined, Ha-eun felt it was better to keep Da-yeon around. Even if Da-yeon didn’t quite see it that way.