After the consultations, we, the lucky ones, went to eat Tonkatsu. My brother took us to a famous restaurant in that neighborhood. He told mom not to cry. He smiled and took several pictures. What was left were photos of us making bizarre, exaggerated faces.

Surgery was set for a week later. I cleared my schedule but had no idea what I was supposed to do. A week felt incredibly short. Just searching for information, buying what he’d need for his hospital stay, and packing kept us busy. My brother seemed to be preparing for possible disabilities. The doctor had warned that there was a high chance of side effects, like partial paralysis, cognitive issues, or both. I couldn’t even begin to fathom my brother’s feelings as he tidied things up, having heard that the person he was a week from now might not be him. What emotions must have been swirling beneath that seemingly calm exterior? There was nothing I could do, so I just kept bringing him food. Surgery required strength, and once chemotherapy started, there’d be a lot he couldn’t eat. I just bought all the dishes my brother liked. We ate steak, pasta. We had galbi-tang, pizza.

One day, he came back from an outing and handed each of us a small photo. My mom, as if it were no big deal, said he probably just wanted to keep a picture of himself now, in case his appearance changed after surgery. Even that flimsy excuse wasn’t funny. Not one bit. The truth was, we all knew. He had gone to take a picture that would one day be used. He’d taken it looking his most proper and beautiful, smiling brightly. Years later, this would become his memorial picture. We’d considered using an older photo from before the terrible tumor was in his head, but in the end, decided to use this one, the one he had prepared himself. In the photo, my brother was still so beautiful, even with that fearsome tumor in his head.

A few days before the surgery, we completed the admission procedures. We ate at the hospital food court. It was the weekend, so all they had were things like kimbap and sandwiches. I was upset. Was this really going to be his last proper meal before surgery? But my brother said it was fine and ate it deliciously.

We kept checking the time, asking what time we had to be inside. There was no set time, but we said we should go in with plenty of time and got up from the table. We said we should head up just in case. I don’t know what kind of “plenty of time” it was, but I got up. That whole week had been like that. We spoke without really knowing what we were saying, moved without knowing exactly what we were doing. Our feet were on the ground, but we felt like we were floating. We stood in front of the ward elevator, saying our goodbyes. No one cried. “I’ll call you.” We waved until the very end.

After seeing my brother and mom off, dad and I left the hospital. I wanted to run back in, to see my brother again, to yell at the clueless information desk about why only one guardian was allowed. I told my dad we should stop by a cafe. We ordered two coffees. Even before the coffee arrived, tears started flowing. Dad brought me tissues. Tears wouldn’t stop, so he kept bringing more. I sent a message to my brother.

“My dear 00, I’ll be there. We all will. It’ll be tough, but we’ll get through it together. I’ll always be by your side so you’re not scared. The surgery will go well. The treatment will work. I had too many tears and couldn’t say it out loud. Let’s meet after surgery. I love you.”

A while after the “1” disappeared next to the message, a reply came: “Yap. Thanks.” Pressed down with a weight heavier than words. And I cried again. In a summer cafe, glittering with colorful, brilliant balloons and decorations for some idol’s fan event, I cried. Dad cried too. We didn’t know how much time we had left, but clinging to the illusion of those brilliant balloons, clinging to the dramas where protagonists were cured, we had to live our reality.

This was the beginning.

Glioblastoma, the weirdest word I have ever heard (2) was originally published in This Journey Through on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“What’s that?”

I remember it vividly. It was just another ordinary evening in the kitchen. My brother had been going to the hospital for headaches. He’d been worried because the medication wasn’t helping and the pain felt… strange. But I hadn’t thought it was that serious. In fact, when he said he was going to a big hospital, I even thought he was overreacting. Mom spoke quietly, saying he’d asked her not to tell the family yet, as it wasn’t certain. When my voice got louder, she scribbled on a napkin with a pen: “Tumor in the brain. Almost cancer.” Then she added, “But these days, even cancer can be treated. It’ll be okay.”

I typed glioblastoma into the search bar. It took me a while because she kept mispronouncing it as gyo-myo instead of gyo-mo. (Glioblastoma is gyo-mo-se-po-jong in Korean) The most malignant, Grade 4 tumor that originates in the brain. A tumor that affects only about 3 to 4 people per 100,000 annually. I scrolled past countless letters and images I didn’t understand until I saw bold print: “The prognosis is very poor, with a 5-year survival rate of 8.9%.” It said that a former U.S. president’s son and the chairman of a major enterprise had passed away from it. It wasn’t “almost cancer”; it was the most fatal form of cancer. The weirdest disease I’d ever heard of, with a name so strange I could barely pronounce, had found its way to my brother.

I sat there staring blankly at the monitor. A thought crossed my mind — Do I even have emotions? When I broke up with my boyfriend, I couldn’t eat for days. When my dog passed away, I cried all night. Even when someone messed with my stuff, I got angry. Maybe this is what it feels like to be struck by lightning out of nowhere. Only such trite expressions came to mind. I packed my bag for a shoot the next day. I looked at the script. Unable to deal with the emotions I wasn’t even feeling, I escaped into a fantasy, using “having work to do” as an excuse.

The next day, I searched for glioblastoma between takes. I don’t know how I got through my scenes. I clung to my phone during every break. To get information, I joined an online community for brain tumor patients and their families. I could see a “join greeting” posted by an ID that looked like my brother’s. He casually referred to himself as the patient. I knew he’d realize I’d joined, but I posted my own greeting anyway. I wrote “patient’s sister” and for the diagnosis, I put “suspected brain tumor” believing that he hadn’t been 100% confirmed yet. It was the first time I realized how many people were going through this.

I’d thought this was a disease I’d never seen, not even in movies or TV series, but I was wrong. Glioblastoma comes up so often, both before and since. Hong Hae-in in Queen of Tears, Tak Dong-kyung in Doom at Your Service, and Go Dae-hwan in It’s Okay to Not Be Okay all had glioblastoma. Years ago, if a protagonist faced an unbearable ordeal, it would be “It’s cancer.” But now, with improved treatments, glioblastoma appears as the sudden, devastating blow that signifies your life might soon be gone.

In the show, characters would even recover completely and live happily ever after. They didn’t even suffer through agonizing treatments. It’s a lie. It was all a lie. In the community, I read stories of countless people who are now stars in the sky. I saw the treatment processes of patients whose bodies and minds were crumbling.

The world I work in, it’s all a lie, all of it.

Lies, all lies.

Glioblastoma, the weirdest word I have ever heard (1) was originally published in This Journey Through on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It was colder than I expected. I stopped by a store to buy extra thermal wear and hand warmers to wear under my costume tomorrow. A thick padded neck warmer caught my eye. Perfect for the hospital visit next week when the weather would be even colder. I should wrap it around my brother’s neck. I grabbed a pair of gloves and another set of thermals. Then, remembering the cold bite on my brother’s ankles during a walk, I added a pair of long socks. Whenever I buy clothes or anything, he always tells me not to. That just makes me want to buy more. I wandered around the store, looking for something else to add to my cart before finally heading back to the hotel.

Back in my room, before even taking a shower, I ripped off the camera sticker on my phone and immediately video-called home. “Hey, it’s me! Can you see me?” “Yes! He just finished eating and took his medicine.” I could hear my parents talking next to him. It seemed like he could see me on the screen. “Good job! You did so well.” I was relieved he’d eaten and taken his meds. “See you tomorrow.” “Okay.” I was grateful for his answer, but my heart sank a little. Just three weeks ago, during my last shoot, he had still been replying to my texts, sending me pictures of his lunch and chatting away. Time flies.

4 AM. Time to get up. I took a shower, stretched, went over the script and storyboard, packed my bags, and headed back to the studio. Today’s shoot was a continuation of yesterday’s. The riots and rebellion would escalate. Next week, they said the dead bodies would be scattered across the floor. After that, more beds would be empty. I remembered how, at the beginning, the dorm had been packed with 456 players. Back then, the set was full of actors and crews, the air thick with the smell of fresh paint and dust. It had felt suffocating. But as the game progressed, fewer and fewer players remained. Now, the vast, empty space felt unsettling. We had been filming for months. But in the show’s timeline, only a few days had passed.

I thought about Player 440 — the one who had survived three brutal games. She must have incredible survival skills… or maybe it was just luck. So, what should 440 do to survive the next game? Nothing. There was nothing she could do. Not knowing the next game, any scheming or physical training would be pointless. We were running around in a constant state of nervous energy, but in reality, the best thing we could do was eat well and get some sleep. It was supposed to be a high-stakes game of life and death. But somehow, all those green tracksuits just looked, so small. Maybe it was just the nature of the extreme game. Or maybe life itself is like that.

Another pitch-black night. Some senior actors offered me a ride since we were headed in the same direction. Grateful for their kindness, I joined in the conversation, laughing and chatting. But maybe my mind was already home. I don’t remember a single thing we talked about.

“Thanks for the ride! See you at the next shoot!” I grabbed my luggage and stepped out of the car. As I turned the corner, I saw flashing lights in the distance — 911. Again.

I ran up the stairs, too impatient for the elevator. By the time I arrived, they were checking his condition. “Hey, it’s me. It’s me, right?” He nodded. My mom had been texting me all day, he’d been crying several times uncontrollably. “Maybe he misses me.” I had reassured her with a joke — but I was worried. Was he in pain? Was it another type of delirium? Or was it just… too much? She said his hands and legs had been trembling all day, and as night fell, the tremors worsened. That’s why they called 911. He had already suffered from several major seizures before. He had been on Keppra for over a year and a half, with increasing doses, but it was no longer working. Ambulances, both public and private, were part of our routine.

“Hey, you know you’re not going because it’s an emergency, right? We’re just going in early to get your medicine. That’s all. Don’t worry, okay? I’m here now, so let’s go to the hospital, get treated, and come back home together.” He met my eyes and nodded. When I held his hand, he squeezed mine back. I felt relieved. He had fought through worse before. With medication, he would be okay. I told him. I told myself.

I sent my parents ahead in the ambulance. I threw aside my filming bag and repacked another one. Phone charger, clothes, blanket, mask, diapers, handkerchief, slippers… I had done this countless times. Whenever he went to the ER, I always followed with an overnight bag. Would we be there for a day? Two? No way to know. I packed everything.

In Squid Game, Player 440 didn’t care when their fellow players disappeared. But I can’t afford to lose you. 440 had nothing she could do for tomorrow, but I do. Even if it’s something small — I will do everything I can.

We’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.

Squid Game and a 911 Call (2) was originally published in This Journey Through on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The announcement broke the heavy silence. The bickering and cautious glances came to a halt. People who had been huddled in small groups stood up, exchanging confused looks as they scanned the room.

“Listen, team O! When we were in the bathroom, those fucking X bastards tried to kill all of us! They killed some of us, including my friend.”

The survivors from the bathroom entered. Some were bleeding, others had blood on their clothes. People approached in shock but hesitated, keeping their distance. Murmurs of shock spread through the room. What the hell happened?

“So? Which side lost more people? All right, everyone! Let’s count the numbers!”

I nodded. I caught myself nodding, maybe a little too much, probably making sure it would be on camera. I started gathering people.

Yes, that’s what matters now. People who were just beside us were dead, but what mattered was how many Circles were left, if we had more than the other side, if we could continue the game. With the fourth game coming up, the vote was 50–50. We’d have to revote tomorrow. Our side absolutely had to have lost fewer people.

I am Player 440 in Squid Game 2. Acting in this production is an experience that I’d never get in any other production, something rare, challenging, and invaluable. This shoot is the opening of episode 7, “Friend or Foe.” After “Red Light, Green Light,” “Five-Legged Race Pentathlon,” and “Circle, Circle, Partner Up,” a bathroom brawl called a “special game” broke out before the fourth game. We’re facing a night of riots and rebellions with 95 people left.

Early in the shoot, I talked with some of the colleagues. What kind of life did we live before ending up here? How much debt did we have to be desperate enough to enter this game? These are backstories that will never make it on screen, nor should they, but we still imagine. Since Player 440 has been pressing the Circle button up until now, she must be at least 400 million KRW in debt or needs that much money. It’s probably much more considering how much game time she has left. Whatever her story is, it must have been tough. Then again, so must the lives of all 456 players.

A colleague who had been with us until the last shoot died in the bathroom scene. To be precise, Player 401, played by a colleague, died. “Isn’t 401 coming today?” “He died in the bathroom shoot last week.” That was our morning conversation on set. We have conversations like this all the time. “So when are you dying?” “Me? Next week.” The kind of conversation you’d never have anywhere else. As players, we’d cheer as the prize money goes up with each death. Everyone here is fighting for survival. We’re all enemies. They die, I live. But we, as actors, rely on each other more than on any other set. We’ve spent so much time together in these filthy green tracksuits, rolling around on the ground for days, that every time someone leaves, it feels like a real loss.

What kind of life did Player 401 live? In his mid-40s, did he go into debt trying to support his family? Was he betrayed by a trusted friend? No, too typical. Maybe he was passed over for promotion too often and wanted to show off to the people who looked down on him, so he used up his remaining vacation days. Maybe he runs an animal shelter and came here with the mission to save the dogs. Or maybe he just got greedy when he heard they’d give money for playing games.

Whatever his story was, someone who lived for forty-something years died in this bathroom. Does his family know? Do they know he ended up in a place like this? Five players died, but nothing changed. Well, the prize money for the survivors went up. That’s important. But the world doesn’t change. For tomorrow’s revote and game, the players are already counting heads, strategizing, doing whatever they must to survive.

While I was having these pointless thoughts, lunchtime arrived. The food on our set is amazing. A lot of the actors agree it’s the best catering they’ve ever had. We even came an hour early to eat breakfast, to have energy for the long shoot. Being stuck in one space makes time fly, and it’s already lunchtime again. We eat because we’re alive. I’m alive, and Player 440 is still alive. And lunch was, as always, delicious.

During a break, I slipped away to a quiet corner in the hallway and called my brother. I wanted to video call, but our cameras are covered with a sticker for security. Mom answered on speakerphone. “Did you eat? I just had lunch.” Luckily, he seemed to have eaten a little. She said he had a slight fever but was doing okay, and told me not to worry and focus on the shoot. “I’ll be home right after the shoot tomorrow. I’ll call you again later.” He said “okay.” Just hearing that voice made me miss him again. I saw him last night, but I miss him already.

A colleague passing by asked, “Is your brother young? It sounded like you were talking to a baby.” I didn’t say “yes” or “no” exactly, just laughed and changed the subject. Come to think of it, he’s right. My brother isn’t young, but he has become like a child. In the dressing room, they were talking about their next projects. I should be thinking about mine too, but right now, I’m no different from Player 440. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, so I have to focus on surviving today. That’s all that matters. I’m glad I got to hear my brother’s voice. I had some coffee, touched up my makeup, and went back to set. Back to surviving — just one more day.

Squid Game and a 911 Call (1) was originally published in This Journey Through on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.