Jiwoon remained in his office long after Minho had left, the door clicking shut behind him. The quiet hum of the city outside was a stark contrast to the chaos of Kang Mirae's office he had just left. For once, there were no assistants rushing around, no printers refusing to cooperate, no alarms of minor disasters—it was just him, the script, and his restless thoughts.
He picked up the thick binder, flipping through the pages slowly, as if trying to extract something beyond the words printed there. Every line of dialogue, every subtle glance and teasing remark between the two leads, felt familiar in a way that sent a strange warmth—and an unsettling twinge—through him.
Who wrote this? he wondered silently. And why does it feel like I've read it before… or lived it?
Jiwoon leaned back on the couch, script balanced on his lap, staring at the ceiling. He recalled a collage of memories from university days: late nights in the media lab, heated debates over scripts, a certain someone always challenging him, mocking him, pushing him to prove himself. A rivalry that had never been just about grades or recognition—but about the thrill of competition.
He shook his head, trying to dismiss it. "No. That was years ago… irrelevant now."
But the script stubbornly tugged at something deeper. A spark that Jiwoon had thought long extinguished.
The next hour passed in a quiet rhythm: flipping pages, muttering lines under his breath, tapping fingers along the edge of the binder. Occasionally, he paused to scribble notes in the margins—small observations, ideas for camera angles, possible pacing changes. But always, his mind returned to the familiarity of the story.
The playful tension between the characters, their constant banter, the subtle chemistry that simmered beneath insults—it wasn't like anything Kang Mirae had written before. This wasn't melodrama or exaggerated tragedy. It was… alive. Realistic. And oddly personal.
Jiwoon finally leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes narrowing as he scanned another page. The way the female lead corrected the male lead, the way he stumbled over words yet refused to back down… it reminded him of a pattern, a dynamic, a memory he hadn't thought about in years.
Could it be… me? he thought.
His phone buzzed, breaking the spell. A message from Minho popped up:
"So? Did you start dissecting the story yet, or are you just sitting there brooding like a drama king?"
Jiwoon smirked faintly, typing back:
"I'm studying it… carefully."
Minho's reply came instantly:
"Careful, huh? You mean obsessively. Don't pretend it doesn't feel familiar. I saw the way you lit up when you read that first page."
Jiwoon sighed. Minho always had a way of seeing through him.
Obsessively… maybe. But I can't explain why it feels like this. Why does it feel like it's… about something I know too well?
He glanced back down at the script. On the page, the two main characters were bickering over the smallest details—a misplaced prop, a silly misunderstanding, a pun that no one else would find funny. Jiwoon smiled faintly. The timing… the rhythm… it's all so… familiar.
It was as if he could hear the echoes of the past between the lines, a dance of words he had known before, though he couldn't yet remember when.
Hours passed, and the sky outside his window deepened into dusk. Jiwoon's coffee had gone cold, his fingers ached slightly from scribbling notes, and yet he couldn't bring himself to put the script down. He kept reading, compelled by an invisible thread, a pull he didn't yet understand.
Finally, he leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. The emptiness he had felt earlier—the lack of spark, the muted passion—was shifting. A subtle warmth replaced it, a curiosity, a tension, a sense of challenge.
This story… this strange, playful, chaotic story… had awakened something inside him that he hadn't felt in years. Something he thought he had lost.
And somewhere deep in his mind, a faint memory surfaced: someone's laughter, sharp and teasing, and the thrill of competition that had once made his heart race.
He didn't know it yet, but the script was more than just a story.
It was a mirror of a life he had almost forgotten.
And a hint of a past that would soon collide with his present.