69: Chapter 69 President Song's Acting Lesson

Park Hyomin lifted her tear-filled face, looked at Song Tianhao, forced an awkward smile, and gave a soft "Mm."

Jeon Boram's performance was very steady; she chose a type of breakdown that was exhausted to the extreme.

She leaned against the wall and slowly slid down, burying her head in her knees.

For a long, long time, she didn't move, as if she had fallen asleep, but her slightly trembling shoulders betrayed her state.

Then, she lifted her head; there were no tears on her face, only a deathly, numb emptiness.

"Jeon Boram's performance is another kind of high-level Acting. The end of a breakdown is numbness, a sense of void where even emotions are gone. You grasped this point, which is very good. It's just that in the process of sliding down at the beginning, the heaviness and powerlessness of the body could be more obvious," Song Tianhao commented.

Jeon Boram nodded, said nothing, and silently stepped aside.

Finally, only Lee Qri remained.

The gazes of the other five, along with Song Tianhao's, all fell on Lee Qri by the window.

She seemed to still be immersed in her own thoughts until Soyeon gently nudged her.

Only then did she come back to her senses, holding the thin script paper, and walked to the center of the classroom.

She stood still and closed her eyes, seemingly brewing emotions.

Her long eyelashes cast faint shadows beneath her eyelids.

A few seconds later, she opened her eyes; into those eyes that were always gentle and smiling, she was now trying to inject pain and despair.

She frowned slightly, pressed her lips together, her body began to tremble gently, and her hands unconsciously clenched and relaxed...

Then, she stopped.

The expression on her face froze there—frowning, lip-pressing, trembling—but deep in her eyes, in that place where waves of pain should have been surging, it was like a layer of thin ice had formed: clear, cold, and unmoving.

There were no tears, no deeper sense of brokenness, only a carefully designed symbol of "sadness" floating on the surface.

She tried again.

She took a deep breath, imagined the scene described in the script, and mobilized potentially relevant sad fragments from her memory... Her brows furrowed tighter, her lips were bitten white, and the amplitude of her body's trembling increased.

It still didn't work.

That kind of breakdown, that despair, that emotion strong enough to destroy a person, seemed to be firmly blocked outside the door of her heart by an invisible wall.

She could imitate the external signs, but she couldn't let the internal emotions truly flood out.

The harder she tried, the more empty and stiff she appeared.

On her third attempt, she even added actions, wrapping her arms around herself, slowly squatting down, and burying her face between her knees.

This was a posture full of self-protection, which should have easily evoked empathy.

But as she squatted there, the shrugging of her shoulders appeared deliberate and rhythmic; it didn't look like a breakdown, more like she was doing some kind of rhythmic gymnastics.

"Cut."

Song Tianhao's calm voice rang out, exceptionally clear in the pin-drop quiet classroom.

Lee Qri's squatting body stiffened slightly, then she slowly lifted her head.

Her face was somewhat pale, with fine beads of sweat even seeping from her forehead, but her eyes were dry; there wasn't a single tear.

In those eyes of hers, always hailed as the "Gentle Muse," there was now only frustration, confusion, and a trace of... panic.

"I, I'm sorry, President." She stood up, her voice somewhat hoarse, her fingers unconsciously twisting the corner of her shirt. "I... I'll try again."

"No need to try again." Song Tianhao shook his head.

His gaze landed calmly on her face; the gaze was not harsh, nor even disappointed; it was purely observational and scrutinizing, yet it made Lee Qri feel a pressure from which there was nowhere to hide.

"The core of an emotional outburst is 'truth.' Even if you know it's fake, you must fill it with real emotions and experiences," Song Tianhao said slowly, his voice echoing in the quiet classroom. "Qri, your problem isn't with technique, but with 'daring.'"

Lee Qri's body trembled slightly.

"You don't dare to truly let go, you don't dare to let those intense, potentially uncontrollable emotions truly flow out. You are afraid, afraid that once you open that floodgate, you won't be able to stop it, afraid of seeing things behind the emotions that even you don't want to face."

Song Tianhao's words were like a scalpel, gently slicing open the facade she was trying to maintain.

"So you are Acting out a 'breakdown,' not becoming the 'breakdown' itself. Your reason is always online, monitoring, controlling. If this wall isn't torn down, you will never be able to perform a true explosive scene."

Lee Qri's face turned even paler; her lips moved, as if she wanted to defend herself, but she had no way to argue.

Every word Song Tianhao said stabbed like a needle into the most secret place in her heart.

She was indeed afraid—afraid of losing control, afraid of showing vulnerability, afraid of those things that had been carefully hidden...

"President, I..." She opened her mouth, her voice lowered, carrying a trace of barely audible pleading. "I really... can't do it."

She said this sentence with extreme difficulty.

Lee Qri, the visual of T-ara, known for being elegant, gentle, and composed, rarely admitted in front of others that she "couldn't do it."

Song Tianhao looked at her for a few seconds.

That gaze seemed capable of piercing through the calm exterior she struggled to maintain, seeing the curled-up, bewildered little girl inside her heart.

Then, he shifted his gaze to the others.

"That's all for today. Soyeon, take everyone to the vocal room and find the teacher to review the harmony parts of the new song. Eunjung, mind your rest, don't overwork your brain. Hyomin, change the dressing on your leg on time. Ji-yeon, stop making faces at the mirror and take your unnies over there."

His arrangements were clear and decisive; he didn't continue to dwell on Lee Qri's problem.

Soyeon was stunned for a moment, then immediately reacted: "Yes, President."

She tugged at Ham Eunjung and Park Hyomin, who were still somewhat worried, and gave Park Ji-yeon a look.

Although Park Ji-yeon was curious, she still obediently followed Soyeon out.

Jeon Boram walked at the back.

She looked back at Lee Qri, who was still standing stiffly in the center of the classroom, and then at the calm-looking Song Tianhao.

Her eyes were complex, her lips pressed together, and in the end, she said nothing and gently closed the door.

With a soft "click," the door closed.

In the huge Acting classroom, only Song Tianhao and Lee Qri remained.

Three huge mirrors silently reflected them, making the space appear even more vast and desolate.

The afternoon sunlight shone in obliquely through the window, casting long shadows on the floor, with fine dust floating in the air.

Lee Qri was still standing in place, her spine straight as a bamboo stalk tensed to the limit, but her slightly trembling fingertips betrayed her inner lack of calm.

Song Tianhao didn't rush her, nor did he continue speaking; he just walked to the water dispenser nearby, took out a disposable paper cup, and poured a cup of warm water.

The sound of the water flow was exceptionally clear in the silence.

Then, he carried the cup of water and walked back to a spot not far in front of Lee Qri, but he didn't hand it to her; he just placed the paper cup on a low table nearby.

After finishing this simple action, he looked at Lee Qri again, his gaze remaining calm as before.

"Now, there is no one else," Song Tianhao said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a force that could not be avoided. "Tell me, why don't you dare?"

Lee Qri suddenly lifted her head, meeting Song Tianhao's eyes.

There was no blame in them, no impatience, only a calm focus that was waiting to listen.

This focus made her more at a loss than any harsh questioning, and it caused the defenses she had built to crack even more.

She opened her mouth, wanting to say "I didn't," wanting to say "I just didn't find the feeling," wanting to say "I'll try harder next time"...

But all the prepared, habitual excuses seemed pale and powerless under the gaze of Song Tianhao's eyes, which seemed capable of discerning everything.

She suddenly deflated.

Her spine, which had been kept straight, hunched over slightly; she no longer looked at Song Tianhao, but slowly, slowly squatted down, just like she had during her performance, hugging her knees with both hands and burying her face deeply inside.

This was a posture of extreme insecurity.

She didn't cry out loud; there wasn't even a sob.

But Song Tianhao saw that her arms hugging her knees were trembling slightly, uncontrollably, and her slender shoulders were pulled tight, like a bowstring drawn to the max, as if they would snap the next second.

The light outside the window moved a short distance across the floor, and one could see dust dancing in the pillars of light.

The classroom was so quiet that one could hear her own suppressed, subtle, trembling breaths.

Song Tianhao also squatted down, right in front of her, maintaining a height for eye-level contact.

He didn't try to touch her, nor did he speak; he just quietly waited.

His shadow was elongated, enveloping her small, curled-up form.

After a long time—perhaps only a few dozen seconds, perhaps as long as centuries—Lee Qri's head, buried in her knees, moved imperceptibly, and a muffled voice with a heavy nasal tone came out.

Her voice was very soft, carrying a desperate tremor: "I... don't know. I just... can't do it. My mind is empty, my heart... is also empty. I tried, I really tried..."

Her voice grew lower and lower, finally becoming almost an aspirated sound. "President, am I... just not capable of Acting at all?"

"You are not incapable," Song Tianhao's voice rang out calmly, breaking the almost suffocating silence. "You just don't dare."

Lee Qri's body shuddered again.

Song Tianhao's gaze landed on her hands tightly hugging her knees; on the wrist of her left hand, a red hair tie was deeply embedded into her flesh.

"I'll count to three," Song Tianhao's voice had no fluctuation, yet it carried a strange penetrative power. "If you still don't say it, I'll guess for myself."

Lee Qri suddenly lifted her head; there were no tears on her face, but her eye sockets were red, filled with shock, panic, and a trace of fear at being seen through.

"One."

"Two."

Song Tianhao's gaze remained calm; he even took a small glass bottle out of his pocket—a bottle of eye drops—and casually placed it on the floor next to him.

That was a brand Lee Qri had recently endorsed.

"Using this to cheat is also an option," he said indifferently, his gaze falling back onto her face, looking into the depths of her eyes. "But you know, you can't fool me."

Lee Qri's pupils contracted suddenly.

He was looking into her eyes; that gaze was calm, yet it carried an indescribable power, as if it could pierce through her panicked eyes and see directly into the deepest corner of her heart, a place even she didn't dare to touch easily.

After Song Tianhao finished speaking, he didn't urge her anymore; instead, he stood up, walked to the water dispenser, and poured another cup of warm water.

He had his back to her, his movements calm, as if the words that were almost like an interrogation just now hadn't been spoken by him.

"Do you want some water?" He walked back carrying the water cup, his voice returning to its normal tone, even carrying a casualness as if making small talk. "People who can't cry are usually dehydrated."

This seemingly inexplicable sentence was like the last straw that crushed Lee Qri's crumbling psychological defenses.

Her shoulders, which had been tense all along, suddenly slumped; the moisture she had been forcefully holding back, swirling in her eye sockets, finally broke through that thin-ice-like obstacle, and without warning, rolled down in large drops.

It wasn't wailing; it was silent, surging tears that instantly soaked her cheeks and collar.

She remained squatting there, hugging her knees, her body trembling slightly from the suppressed crying.

Song Tianhao didn't speak; he just gently placed the water cup on the floor within her reach, then stepped back a pace, leaving space for her.

He walked back to the window, with his back to her, watching the endless stream of vehicles on the street below, as if admiring the scenery.

I don't know how long it had been, but the sobbing behind him gradually lowered, turning into intermittent choking.

Then, there was a rustling sound, and Lee Qri stood up.

Her eyes were swollen like peaches, her face was a mess of tear tracks, and her hair was a bit messy; she had lost all of her usual elegant and refined appearance—disheveled, but real.

She walked to a spot one step behind Song Tianhao and stopped.

Her voice still carried a heavy tearful tone, hoarse to the extreme, but it no longer trembled; instead, it carried a determination akin to burning one's boats.

"President..."

Song Tianhao turned around.

Lee Qri lifted her head, her red and swollen eyes staring straight at him; there was no more panic or fear in them, only a desperate, all-or-nothing plea.

She suddenly reached out, her cold, damp fingers grabbing Song Tianhao's wrist.

The force wasn't great, but she gripped tightly, as if grabbing the last straw.

"President... help me."

Her hands were very cold, her voice carried a desperate tremor, yet it was strangely mixed with a trace of hope.

"I cannot go on like this... Next week, next week there is an audition, a very important audition. It's for the third female lead in Senior Kim Tae-hee's new drama, an opportunity the manager unnie worked so hard to get. But, but I can't even do the simplest crying scene..."

She was incoherent, tears welling up again, but she bit her lip hard to keep them from falling, just looking at Song Tianhao pleadingly with those red, tear-filled eyes.

Song Tianhao lowered his head, looked at the hand gripping his wrist, then raised his eyes to look into her tear-filled pupils.

In the mirror, their figures were very close, one tall and straight, the other slender and weak, their shadows slightly overlapping on the smooth mirror surface.

"How should I help?" he asked, his voice calm and waveless.

Lee Qri bit her lower lip, released her teeth which had bitten it white, and using a breathy voice only the two of them could hear, carrying a sense of shame and determination to stake everything, whispered:

"Teach me... how to cry."

Outside the window, the dusk of twilight began to spread, dyeing the sky a warm orange-red.

The door of the Acting classroom had been pushed open a tiny crack, unknown when, and then closed silently.

The light from the hallway flashed past under the crack of the door, reflecting a small patch of brightness, then quickly dimmed.

On the doorknob, a trace of warmth seemed to still remain.