Do you wanna STAY? @bolonaradhikatake - Tumblr Blog

the way you used to sound

-> You and Jisung were inseparable best friends bound by music and a shared dream of college, until he abandoned you without explanation. Eight years later, he's back in your small town, trying to pick up where he left off. When he's assigned to volunteer at the music school you built from scratch, you're forced to relearn each other, and maybe, find harmony again.

Jisung x fem!reader

slice of life, angst, slow burn, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, small town!au, fluff

23.6K

Warnings: mentions of injury and loss of hearing, cursing, kissing, family pressure and toxic dynamics, debt and manipulation, abandonment, angst but a happy ending

this is for @hannieslittlerockstar thank you for always being such a remarkable and comforting friend to me <3

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The corner of your coloring page is not listening.

The teacher made it look so easy. A little glue on this side, a little glue on that side. Stick it to the construction paper. An easy art project, then snack time, right?

Wrong.

The glue is barely sticky. The corner is already ripping. And to make things worse, the paper is yellow. Yellow!? Come on, yellow isn’t even your third favorite color. Who likes yellow? Pink is way better.

Today is not a good day.

You didn’t even want to come to kindergarten. There are no friends here, and your chair has an old sticker stuck to the back that's half-ripped, crusty, and definitely not pink. The seat is cold against your legs, the board is too far away, and the teacher smells like old raisins.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, this stupid paper still won’t stick, no matter how hard you press on it! It hates you!

“I'm not doing it!” you whine, throwing the glue stick onto the floor. It rolls under your neighbor’s chair, but you’re too grumpy to care.

That’s when a shadow falls over your desk.

You look up and see a boy with messy brown hair, a smudge of dirt on his cheek under a crooked bandaid, and a crayon tucked behind his ear. He sits down right next to you in your chair like he owns half of it, bumping your shoulder as if there’s plenty of room when there absolutely isn’t.

“Hi,” he says, opening his mouth way too wide when he talks.

“Hi,” you reply slowly, giving him a confused wave. “You know, this is my chair.”

“We can share it!” he says gleefully.

“But I don't want to…”

He doesn't bother hearing your mumbled response. Instead, he pulls a glue stick from his pocket and rubs it over the curling corner of your page. It's the purple kind, so you know it's good. Not whatever clear crap the teacher gave you. With both hands, he presses the edges down until they stick like magic.

“There,” he says proudly, grinning at his work. “Now it won’t fly off.”

“Wow.” You blink at him, suddenly unworried about him occupying your chair. “You’re really good at glue sticks.”

“Yeah. I’ve had a lot of practice. I went to a different kindergarten before this one, and they had a huge bucket of glue sticks. Like twenty or something.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And guess what?”

“What?”

“Glue sticks aren’t even my favorite.”

“They’re not?”

“Nope. I like dinosaurs and drums.” He nods, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What’s your favorite?”

You think for a second. “I like Squishmallows and pink castles.”

“Castles aren’t pink,” he says, frowning.

“Princess castles are pink.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re right. Princess castles are pink,” he agrees with a friendly nod. “But regular castles are gray.”

“I don’t really like regular castles,” you explain.

“Me neither.”

There’s a pause. Then you tug at his sleeve to make him look at you again. “Why did you sit in my chair?”

He leans in a little, a shy but confident smile on his lips. “Do you wanna be friends? I’ll share my glue stick.”

You glance down at your paper, now flat and glued for the perfect A+. “Okay. We can be friends. My name is ___.”

“My name is Jisung.”

“I like your name.”

“I like your name too,” he smiles, all teeth and squinted eyes. “Hey! At recess, do you wanna see my dinosaur sticker collection? I have twenty-four stickers. That’s a lot, but I’m getting more. Mom said I could get another pack of stickers if I make a friend at school.”

“Yeah, sure,” you shrug.

You're not really into dinosaurs, but you do like stickers. And even though he's only being your friend to get more dinosaur stickers, at least you can say there's one person at school you like talking to.

“Is pink your favorite color?”

“Uh huh.”

“I have a pink triceratops. You can have it if you want. Since we’re friends now.”

Your eyes go wide. “For real?”

“Yeah!”

“Thanks, Jisung.” Your heart does a little jump inside your chest, but you're not sure exactly why. It's the first time it's done that.

All of a sudden, kindergarten doesn’t feel so awful.

Your cold chair doesn’t bother you as much, and Jisung helps you peel the ugly sticker off the back (he's really good at peeling stickers). The yellow paper doesn’t make you want to cry anymore. The teacher still smells like raisins, but you actually kind of like raisins.

And you like having a friend like Jisung, even though he does things you don't fully understand.

Like he digs at least one hole in the sandbox every recess.

And he always puts his new dinosaur stickers on random places on his body.

And he likes to hit stuff with rulers or pencils or anything he can use as drum sticks.

And he doesn't like animal crackers.

But on the other hand, there are a lot of things you do like about him.

Like how he always asks you how deep his sandbox hole should be before he digs, because you're the “sandbox captain.”

And how he always gives you his pink dinosaur stickers even if they're his favorite type of dinosaur.

And how he always squishes into your chair during free time and plays you the newest song he made with his pencils.

And how he always gives you his animal crackers during snack time.

And not once all year long – not even once – did he let you walk alone.

He made it very clear from the start that if he had to grow up, he was going to grow up with you.

And he did!

Growing up with Jisung felt like running downhill laughing, fast, a little risky, and impossible to stop once it started. But perhaps the greatest fun you've ever had.

Every grade felt new and different, but somehow it always circled back to the two of you.

You had years when you got lucky and ended up in the same class, desks side by side because the universe understood how it was supposed to be. You'd whisper during quiet time, doodle on each other’s worksheets, and share answers like your lives depended on it.

And then there was that one year. The one when the school made a terrible mistake and put you in opposite corners of the classroom.

You tried to be normal about it. You really did. But the texts started before the first bell even rang, and the paper airplanes got more creative by the day. One time, Jisung managed to fold an entire origami dinosaur out of a pink envelope that landed perfectly in your lap.

By October, the teacher had moved him to the desk beside yours for everyone’s sanity.

Jisung grew to be chaotic and charming in equal measure, and you cherished every moment of him.

The year he got his first drum set, you helped him put it together piece by piece without waking his parents. That morning, the house shook with every beat he made.

By Spring, he had a guitar too. Not because he needed it. Just because he wanted to learn how to play something that could sing with him.

You got your own guitar the year after. Not because you were trying to copy him, but because his music sounded lonely, and you wanted to create a melody that could keep him company.

He taught you the basics, his fingers guiding yours over the strings. His patience, which was never his strong suit, surprisingly endless when it came to you.

Your friendship was already strong, anchored in years of inside jokes, scraped knees, and promises whispered between textbooks. But music found its way into the middle of it and changed everything.

Not suddenly. Not all at once.

But slowly, like a thread being pulled through your hearts.

At first, it was just a shared hobby. Then it became late nights writing lyrics under porch lights, sharing headphones on long bus rides, scribbling chords in the margins of each other's notes.

And somewhere in the middle of all that sound, something shifted.

You started to hear him differently.

Because music didn’t just give your friendship a purpose. It gave it weight. It gave it a future. It gave you both something bigger to believe in, something you could build, chase, and dream.

You didn't talk about that shift out loud. It lived in the quiet moments, in how his harmonies always found yours without trying, in how you wrote better lyrics when he was around, and in how his smile always lingered longer after you played.

Music turned your bond into something deeper. Something permanent.

And if love was anywhere in your lives at the time, it was probably hiding between the verses, unbeknownst to either of you.

Unspoken yet undeniable.

And then came the year he let it slip that he had a crush. His first ever crush.

“Just tell me!” you whined, hanging off his arm as you walked. “You owe me a name at least.”

“I owe you nothing. This information is classified.”

“I gave you half my cookie at lunch.”

“And I will carry the memory of that sacrifice in my heart forever,” he said with a hand over his chest.

“Jisung.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll give you my limited edition strawberry milk guitar pick. The shiny one.”

He was visibly tempted. But stood his ground. “That’s cruel. How dare you weaponize our friendship.”

“Then tell me!”

“Nope. Taking this one to the grave.”

You crossed your arms, putting a foot of space between the two of you now. “You like watching me suffer.”

“A little,” he teased, grinning.

“Is it someone I know?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh my god, that means yes!”

“I didn’t say that,” he corrected you a bit too quickly.

“You didn’t not say it.”

“You could guess a hundred names and still not get it.”

You grabbed hold of his arm again, leaning in close with a sly smile. “Challenge accepted.”

For a second, he actually looked like he might have been enjoying your insistence. His smile faded just a little. Warm eyes dropped to your arm linked with his.

“It’s really not that deep, I promise.”

Trying to get a secret out of Jisung was like unwrapping a present with a hundred layers of paper. You knew there was something inside, something important, but it always took forever to get to. And if he didn't want you to reach the inside, you never would.

Eventually, you accepted that he was never going to tell you. And while that quietly bruised your pride, you had to respect his boundaries. Even when you so urgently wanted to be privy to everything about him.

Not knowing his first crush hurt even more because you were there for all his other firsts.

The first time he tried debate club. Lasted exactly one meeting and declared it “too much eye contact.”

The first time he tried basketball. He was gone by week three, citing “unnecessary sweating” and “weird locker room energy.” Sports were never his thing anyway.

So, you made him a different offer…

“Why don't we make our own club?”

“We can do that!?”

“Yeah, our school lets us choose our own extracurriculars, and they don't have to be something provided by the school. We can make our own club out of anything. All we have to do is prove to the school that it's beneficial to our mind or body,” you explain with air quotes. “Didn't you read the school handbook?”

“Of course not.”

And you remember that day so clearly. The day the school approved your and Jisung's Guitar Club. He talked about it for hours, eyes shining, voice full of that rare kind of excitement he only got when he stumbled into something right.

You grew up next to him, with him, around him. He was your constant. Your loudest cheerleader and softest place to land. You swore you'd never forget any of it. And you haven't.

But the years start to blur together, every laugh, every club meeting, every song shared in secret. All the little pieces of growing up tangle together until it's hard to tell where one year ended and the next began.

Kindergarten feels like a lifetime ago. You’re not playing with glue sticks and dinosaur stickers anymore. Crayons have been traded for chords, lunchroom chatter for quiet walks with your guitars slung across your backs.

Now, there’s talk of college applications and deadlines, scholarships and majors. Everyone’s worried about their future, about money, about what comes next. The air feels heavier in the hallways lately, like there’s something closing in.

But not for you.

Because you have Jisung. And Jisung has you.

You made a promise to each other. A promise to chase music together, side by side, no matter what. While everyone else scrambles to figure out where they’re going, you already know.

You’ve got your guitar, your songs, and him.

You don’t need much else.

You and Jisung are inseparable best friends bound by a shared dream of music. A rhythm that’s always been in sync. A harmony that's never needed tuning.

And if you know anything for sure in this crazy world, it’s this:

You’re charging the future head-on. Together.

(8 years later)

You stack the sheet music unevenly by instrument, difficulty level, and how likely each student is to completely panic before the performance.

It’s almost Fall Festival weekend, and your music school is on the books for providing the “charm” for your small town showcase (again). Which means a dozen kids on mismatched instruments, two barely rehearsed songs, one nervous soloist, and your last shred of patience.

You sigh, placing a final page into the “rewrite” pile. Then you grab the overflowing trash bin from beside the piano and hoist it over your shoulder – your final chore for the day before you can go home and crash.

The side door creaks as you push it open with your hip, stepping out into the warm afternoon. It’s one of those still days. Sun high, cicadas buzzing in the trees, and that ever-present humidity clinging to the air that only this town can deliver in late September.

Here, the air always smells a little like moss and catfish and old smoke. It’s the kind of small Southern town where people tan like it’s their job, wear tank tops year round, and call a little dirt on your cheek “character.” No one really cares about anything, and nights are reserved for bonfires by the lake and fireworks someone definitely got through illegal means.

That's your town. You love it for what it is. And even though you considered leaving at one point in your life, somehow you knew deep down that you would always end up staying here.

You round the corner toward the dumpster, muttering to yourself about whether third graders really need confetti to play the tambourine.

Swinging the trash bag over the rim of the dumpster, you glance across the street as naturally as one does when the only other sight is an alleyway dead end and a stray cat.

Across the street, just beyond the row of rusted newspaper boxes and half-dead hanging ferns, stands a figure. He's leaning casually against a brick wall beside the old bookstore. Head down. Hands holding open a paperback. Casual. Unbothered. Like his cut off graphic t-shirt, black choker, and black skinny jeans don’t stick out like a sore thumb against the humble background.

Odd.

He lifts his head, profile reflecting in the setting sun, a sharp jawline creating shadows across his neck and collarbone. Fluffy brown hair. Distant eyes. Small waist. Tan skin. And a laid-back-nothing-matters attitude that high school you would have gone crazy for.

Your heart jolts before your eyes even recognize him.

His name hits you like a bullet. Sudden, sharp, and from nowhere in particular.

And just like that, your brain flickers through life like an old projector, casting grainy memories across your mind. One rolls, then another, and another. You try to stop them, try to blink them away, but they come too fast. Too many. Too vivid.

Laughter by the lake. Fingers ghosting guitar strings. A pink dinosaur sticker in your palm.

You’re not ready to remember, but your heart doesn’t ask for permission.

He hasn’t seen you. He’s not even looking in your direction, just watching the sidewalk and the occasional car pass by.

Your fingers tighten around the sleeves of your sweater. It's ridiculous, really, how fast everything in your body reacts. The way your heart races as if running. The way your pulse stumbles. The way your body temperature spikes.

You turn around.

Fast.

Yanking open the side door again, you duck back inside, the bell above it jangling like it’s laughing.

You lean against the wall, holding a hand to your diaphragm as you attempt to settle the chaos inside. How is it that after all these years, a simple sighting has you breathing so sporadically?

Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe the stress of the Fall Festival is finally catching up with you. Maybe it was just someone who looked like him. Some stranger with the same tilt to his shoulders and lazy way of leaning like gravity owes him a favor.

Because it couldn’t be him. He wouldn’t come back here. Not after everything.

It's just someone who looks an awful lot like him, it has to be.

Still, your curiosity betrays you.

You inch toward the front window of the studio, careful not to let your shoes squeak against the floor lest he hear them from all the way across the street. Peeking between the blinds, your eyes scan the sidewalk.

There he is.

At the counter of the bookstore, sliding a worn paperback across the counter. He pays with cash, mumbles something polite, and tucks the book into his bag slung across his shoulder.

Then he turns.

Not toward you – thank god – but down the street, toward Midtown. Toward the same cracked sidewalks and corner stores that watched him leave all those years ago.

You watch him go until he disappears around the block.

There’s no denying it. That was him.

The way he moved, the shape of his shoulders, the soft slump in his walk – although carrying a kind of tiredness he didn't used to carry.

He's back in town.

But for what?

Your fingers curl around the window frame as you squint past the smudge of your own reflection. His silhouette is already gone, swallowed by the curve of the street and the lull of traffic. You half expect your memory to play tricks on you. To say it was all just a misfire, a momentary mistake.

But your heart knows better. The way it dropped when you saw him was evidence enough.

You thought he wasn’t supposed to come back. Not after you buried that heartbreak time and time again, finally deep enough that you could build a brand new life on top of it.

What business does he have coming back now? After all this time?

Will he be here long enough for you to run into him? If you do, what will you say? Should you try to avoid him? Let things happen naturally? Act coy? Act friendly? Like the last eight years never happened?

Frantic energy crawls beneath your skin, leaving you itchy with unease. Claustrophobia tightens its grip around your ribs. You don’t trust your body or mind when it comes to him. There’s no telling what you might say or do if you actually ran into him. Whether you’d freeze, lash out, or fall apart completely.

It’s been a while since your old friend Anxiety came knocking. Things had finally quieted down in your head after hardening your heart and rebranding your soul. The chaos dulled, and the ache became manageable.

But now? It’s a mess again. A loud, spiraling storm that reminds you exactly how it felt in those college years of being blind sided and abandoned, left to figure out life and loss on your own without your best friend.

You’d learned how to cope back then. You had no other choice but to piece together a new life from the wreckage and build it strong enough to stand on your own.

Yet, here comes the bitterness, right on schedule. You didn’t expect it to hit this hard. Didn’t expect to feel this petty, this angry, this hurt. You thought you were past all that.

Apparently not.

Because now you’re imagining what you’d say if you ran into him again. The things you’d scream, or maybe the things you’d quietly confess just to make him feel even a fraction of what you did.

And what burns the most? It’s not just the anger. It’s the grief you never processed, still humming underneath it all. The fact that, after all this time, just the sight of him is enough to wreck you.

He still gets to you more than you want to admit. But it's not good for you. He's not good for you. He may be your childhood best friend, but he's also a liar and a coward. You have to remind yourself that no matter how well you knew him before, he's not the same person he was at seventeen.

And you're not either.

You're much colder. Thanks to him.

::

You’re already running late when you slip into the back of the community center, lungs stinging from sprinting across the parking lot in this hellish midday heat.

Most seats are filled, but the faces are familiar. Karla, the town hairdresser, gives you a wave – she's doing the kids' hair and outfits for the show. Felix, the town baker, offers you a warm smile – he's in charge of refreshments and treats.

It's a good group of good people who want to put on a good Festival for the town. That's why, even though they may be a little rough around the edges, you give your best effort to make up for the things you lack, so you can contribute.

Unfortunately, there are no closer seats, so you slip into one on the side and pull out your notepad to jot down anything you're likely to forget.

The Committee Lead is already at the front, giving direction and context for the Festival. It's a few weeks away, and while a lot has been done, this town wouldn't be your hometown without some last-minute scrambling.

You’re halfway through jotting down a to-do list for your school when Felix bumps your arm gently.

You glance up to find the Committee Lead watching you with raised eyebrows, patiently waiting for a response.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t hear. What was that?”

She offers a warm smile, knowingly merciful and without pity. You've seen that smile a lot since the incident, but this town never makes you feel small or helpless. Just another reason you stayed.

“We’ll need all acts finalized by Friday so we can print signage,” she says louder but just as kindly. “That means rehearsals need to stay on track. Do you have an update on the kids’ music performance?”

“Oh, yes! We’re solid,” you reply. “The kids are ready for another run-through this afternoon. The solos are confirmed. Just need a bit more practice.”

“Perfect. We’re expecting a bigger tourist turnout this year, so we’ve added extra volunteers to support the performance teams. Put them to good use. I’ll go down the list now…”

That’s when the back door swings open.

And the energy shifts.

You don’t need to look to know who it is. The change is sudden and electric, the chill from the doors swinging open hits your back and sends shivers up your spine.

He steps into the room a beat behind the silence, lifting his hand in a casual wave, apologizing for being late. Like he has every right to be here.

Your pen freezes.

“Ah, there he is,” the Lead says brightly. “Most of you probably remember Han Jisung. His parents used to be on the committee, and his grandfather ran the old bookstore before he passed away. Jisung just moved back, and we’re thrilled to welcome another musical mind to the team. He’ll be assisting with the youth performance group.”

And just like that, your old friend Anxiety pays another visit.

No. This can't be real.

Some joke about “correcting his big city habits” sparks a few laughs around the room, and someone from the back pipes up with, “Isn’t that the same kid who used to beatbox in the church parking lot?”

He laughs, a little sheepish but cocky as ever. “Guilty.”

That laugh is too dangerous, too familiar, too easy. It doesn’t belong in this room, not beside everything you worked hard to build without him.

The Lead turns back to you. “___, you’ll be his point of contact. He’ll start helping at your school today.”

Your head snaps up. “Wait, today?”

“Yeah,” she says matter-of-factly. “The kids have rehearsals this afternoon, right?”

“Yep…they certainly do.”

You feel Jisung’s gaze attempting to lure you in, but you look away before direct eye contact can be made.

The Committee Lead thanks him for something and blah blah blah. Jisung says something about growing up here and being more involved again and wanting to give back – you tune it all out.

Your heart has flatlined, a static ring in your ear as the rest of the room drifts into a muffled background.

That voice. That stupid, gentle, boyish voice. Even after all these years, it’s just as warm and sharp as you remember. The only difference being it's dropped about three octaves.

You lift your gaze slowly to get a full, close-up look at him for the first time.

There he is. Han Jisung. Standing amidst the people of your town, like he never left them. Like he never left you.

His hair is a little shorter than you remember. His shoulders broader. Legs longer. But the way he squeezes his eyes shut when he laughs and rubs the back of his neck while he talks…some things don’t change.

His eyes meet yours.

There’s a flicker of something in his gaze. Regret? Hope? You don't know. You don’t want to know.

You just want to leave.

But you don’t. Because you're not seventeen anymore. And the last time you ran from something painful, it nearly ruined you.

So, you press your lips together, nod once in his general direction to offer a polite recognition, and look away.

::

(8 years ago)

You’re not supposed to be here.

Technically, you’re supposed to be in third-period English, listening to an explanation of symbolism using a book you never finished reading. But when Jisung texted, you didn’t hesitate. You never do, not when it comes to him.

So here you are, brushing past low-hanging branches and stepping over prickly bushes and sun-bleached beer cans, until the woods part and the clearing unfolds in front of you like a movie.

The pier looks like it’s one strong wind away from collapsing into the lake. The planks beneath you groan with every weight shift, weather-warped and softened from years of storms and lazy summers. Weeds sprout through the gaps, curling around your ankles like they’re trying to reclaim the place. Someone spray-painted a crooked heart near the edge, a little faded now, because the love stories here don’t last long.

That's your town. You love it for what it is.

But what you really love about your town is that Han Jisung lives in it.

He's already here, lying back with his arms behind his head, the toes of his beat-up sneakers tapping softly to some rhythm in his mind, and his rebuilt acoustic lying beside him. The shadows of the overhanging trees create shapes across his cheek, the pinchable one with “character.”

He hears your footsteps and leans his head back to look at you upside down, smile never wavering.

“You made it!” Not that he ever doubted you would.

You step out onto the creaky wood of the boardwalk, careful where you place your feet, because the whole thing is holding itself together out of habit – but you like to imagine it's holding out for the two of you. Because you need a place like this to escape.

You sit. Not just on the boardwalk, but right next to him. Because where Jisung is has always felt like where you’re supposed to be.

The lake ripples quietly underneath you, sunlight catching on the water like shattered glass. You hang your leg off the edge of the pier, bare toes dipping into the warm, spring water.

It’s peaceful here. Still, quiet, and forgotten by everyone except the two of you. The kind of place that feels like it only exists when you're in it together. You like it that way.

Jisung sits up, brushing a leaf from his hoodie sleeve and settling his guitar into his lap. You swing your six-string over your shoulder with the same practiced ease, plucking the pick from between the strings without even thinking about it.

“Do you remember the new harmony we made last time?” he asks.

“Mhm,” but then you question yourself. “I think so.”

At the same time, you and Jisung strum.

But the sound clangs, off-key and uneven. You wince at the horrid sound, but Jisung just chuckles.

“That’s not quite it,” he teases, standing and crossing the short distance between you.

Before you can protest, he places himself behind you, presence warm at your back. His hand reaches around, careful but sure as it guides your fingers to the right fret. His calloused fingertips brush yours as they steady on the correct chord, and then gently, he presses your fingertips into the strings.

“Like this. Try it now.”

Your pulse stutters as you strum. The air carries your music from the hollow instrument to the edge of the lake and beyond, a balanced and soothing sound that seems to gather little animals and bugs all around.

“You got it now,” he says quietly, smiling when he looks at you. “Easy peasy lemon squeezey, right?”

You turn your head slightly, and all of a sudden, you're much closer than you thought you would be. Close enough to count his eyelashes. Close enough to notice the small scar on his bottom lip from where he bit it earlier. But you don't move away immediately; because as soon as you notice the lack of distance between your faces, your muscles lock up, and all you can do is wait for him to either inch closer or run away.

His hand twitches when he removes it from your hand, almost tripping backward when he stands up, clearing his throat as if nothing happened.

But your sensitive skin and the pounding in your chest say otherwise.

“Let's try again,” he suggests, readying his guitar.

Now, when you strum together, the sound dances across the lake in perfect harmony, lending its beauty to the quiet lakeside and gathering nature.

Jisung smiles. Not the usual cheeky one he throws around at school, but the kind that’s soft in the corners and reserved just for you.

You might have noticed it, if you paid attention. But when you play music, it becomes all of you. Encapsulating and all encompassing.

Your fingers move like they were born to do this. The music is already inside you; the guitar is just the way it gets out. Sometimes your eyes flutter shut, sometimes you bite your lip without realizing, and sometimes you hum under your breath, as if the song is pulling itself out of you piece by piece.

Jisung tells himself to focus on the chords, on the rhythm, on the lyrics he wants to write. But every time, without fail, he ends up watching your hands. Not in a weird way. Just...in awe.

He’s seen you do this a hundred times before, but it still gets him. The way the sunset somehow makes your hair even more beautiful. The way your voice seems to ride on the wind to reach his ears. The way your music fills the air and makes everything else – school, parents, college applications, the future – fade into nothing.

Right now, his thoughts are bombarded with too much background noise. And he just wants to be with you instead, so maybe you can make it all go away.

He likes the sound of your voice when you talk, but it’s different when you sing.

It’s not just beautiful.

It’s honest.

And when you're beside him like this, pouring yourself into the strings, laughing quietly when you hit a wrong note, trying again without ever getting frustrated, he forgets why he was stressed in the first place.

He glances at your eyes. You're looking at the water now, completely unaware that you've stopped his world without even trying.

Jisung clears his throat and looks down at his own guitar instead.

"Good warm-up," he says, pretending to tune a string that doesn’t need tuning. “So, what do you want to write today?”

“I don't know…I kinda like this eerie, almost sad sound we started with. You know, kinda like this…” You pick a few half-formed chords, and then he jumps in with you.

“Oh, yeah, I really like that,” he sighs, copying your chord progression with ease. “It's heartbroken. Like the song wants to confess something, but knows it'll change things. The song is aching to say the truth, but it knows in the end, the truth will only break its heart.”

You try not to read into the way he says things. The way his voice goes soft at the end. You try not to read into a lot of things when it comes to Jisung. But sometimes, it's difficult not to hide his words in your heart.

The pieces of a song start to fall into place with each slow and longing strum. He hums along like he’s trying to catch it midair. It’s always been like this with you two – one of you finds the melody, the other finds the meaning.

“Yeah, I like this vibe a lot,” he says suddenly, sitting up and grabbing a crumpled notebook from his bag, the same one he's been writing in for the last year. “I think the lyrics should have a sense of desperation or something maybe.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” he thinks for a moment, “wanting more than you’re supposed to. Like chasing things that you know you'll never catch but chasing them anyway.”

“Sounds like unrequited love.”

He shrugs. “Or just regular life.”

“Should we both write our own lyrics and then share them with each other? Like we did that one time?” you ask, nudging his knee lightly with yours.

Jisung pauses for half a second too long. Just enough for you to notice.

He shrugs again, but it’s tighter this time. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds cool.”

Cool. He says it like he’s trying to muffle something. Like maybe the noise in his head is louder than he’s letting on.

You watch as he flips open the crumpled notebook and props it on his knee. His pen hovers over the page but doesn’t move yet. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, a habit you’ve seen a hundred times, usually when he’s trying to act chill and failing.

“You okay?”

“Huh? Yeah,” he says quickly, eyes on the paper. “Just thinking about how to start the chorus.”

But you’re not so sure.

Because he’s quiet in the way Jisung rarely is, and it makes something twist in your gut. Something about him feels off.

You strum your guitar softly while he starts to write, your mind matching lyrics with the right chords. It’s easier to focus on the strings than the boy beside you suddenly holding his breath.

And you don’t know what he’s writing. But for the first time, you wonder if maybe it’s about someone else, and you start to feel something akin to anxiety creeping in.

Perhaps you shouldn’t use this moment to your advantage. That would be unfair. He asked you to write something that matches the vibe of the song, not something that pulls from the very thing you’ve been hiding since you met him.

But when you try to think of lyrics of unrequited love, of wanting something you’re not allowed to want, he’s the only thing that comes to mind.

The song fits him too well. Or maybe he fits the song.

His boyishly handsome charm and the way it sneaks up on you, like summer freckles or your favorite song on shuffle. His brown hair that ruffles in the breeze, a little messy, a little too long, but it suits him best. His carefree nature and forgetful tendencies, and yet somehow he remembers the lyrics to a song you hummed once during a car ride to the grocery store.

He’s clueless in the cute ways, a little reckless in the harmless ways, and sometimes you wonder if he’ll ever understand just how deeply he matters to you.

The truth is, the music inside you, every chord, every word, every feeling you’ve never said aloud, is mostly him. And he doesn’t even know it.

The easy way he laughs. The way he always taps his foot in class. The way he notices when you’re quiet but never pushes when you don’t want to explain. The way he’s never once said what you wanted to hear and always says what you need to hear.

He’s the echo in your melody, the reason you even picked up a guitar in the first place. So how are you supposed to write about anything else?

You know you should keep it vague. Keep it safe. But the truth is already humming under your skin, desperate to be sung.

And deep down, you know if anyone ever deserved to be turned into a song, it’s him.

“Okay…” you say once you have a verse in mind, “can I go first?”

“Sure.”

You nod and start playing. A few soft chords. A haunting progression that sounds a lot like something breaking quietly in the background. And then you sing the lyrics, matching the chords with your voice, heart spilling out…

I love you in the silence, in the space you’ll never see,

In the words I never say, when you're sitting next to me,

You laugh like we're just kids, like the world’s still wide and free,

While I’m loving you in secret, where your heart won’t look for me.

You barely look at him when you sing. You just keep your eyes on the strings, letting your fingers guide you. Your voice is soft but steady, carried by the gentle hush of the lake and the creaking of the old pier beneath you.

But he’s not looking at the water.

He’s looking at you.

Jisung goes still the moment the first line leaves your mouth. His foot stops tapping. His pen slips slightly in his hand, forgotten halfway through a thought. The easy rhythm he always carries with him, the one that lives in his fingers, stutters.

And when you sing the third line, his brows pull together just a little as something inside him shifts and he tries to keep it from showing.

By the time you sing the last line, his throat is working around a swallow. His fingers are tightening around the edge of his notebook, knuckles pale, but he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move.

You strum the final chord and let it fade. The silence that follows is thick and aching, waiting for something to break it.

But Jisung doesn’t speak. Not right away.

He just stares at you like he’s hearing you for the first time. Like he’s finally understanding something he should’ve seen a long time ago.

When he finally does say something, his voice is too soft for teasing.

“Did…did you just write that?”

You nod.

And for a second, he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t laugh. He just looks at you with soft eyes, chest rising and falling a little too fast, caught between staying silent and asking a question he’s terrified to know the answer to.

“It's, uhh, it's really good,” he clears his throat, pushing down whatever may have been tempting him.

“What did you write?”

“The chorus, or what could be the chorus, I guess.”

“Let's hear it.”

Although he's unsure, he begins humming along with the first few strums of his guitar, steadily picking up the tempo as it naturally leads into the main part of the song…

I’m packing up pieces, but you don’t even know,

‘Cause I smile like always and keep it all low,

If I tell you I’m leaving, I’m afraid you’ll see through,

The hardest part isn't leaving my childhood behind,

It’s losing you.

You freeze.

Not in a dramatic way. Your hands don’t drop from your guitar, your breath doesn’t hitch loud enough to hear, or some other cheesy reaction. But inside, everything just...stills.

Because those words, those exact words. They aren't random. He chose them with careful intentionality.

They aren't just poetic or clever or vague enough to pass as metaphor. They're personal. They're him. They're his experiences and his feelings.

You blink, eyes locked on his fingers as they move across the strings, but it’s not the chords you’re focused on anymore.

It’s the way he won’t face you.

He used to look at you when he sang. Grinning, nudging, checking to see if you're on the same rhythm, sticking his tongue out at you between verses.

But not now.

His eyes are fixed somewhere just beyond the lake, on a random piece of wood, anywhere but your face. His voice is barely a whisper, suggesting that if he raises it any more, it might crack.

“Did you just write that?” you ask, voice soft.

He nods.

“It’s really sad.”

He doesn’t answer, not with words. But you see it. The shift in his expression, the way his jaw tenses, and his mouth pulls slightly to the side as he fights his own emotions.

“Jisung,” you say gently, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes go glassy. Not in the sweet, sentimental way like when he cries during Pixar movies or when his guitar string snaps.

This is different.

He turns his face away quickly, reaching down to pluck a piece of grass pushing through the boards of the pier. He tosses it into the lake like it means nothing, downplaying the moment like he always does. Then, as if rewinding time, he smooths his expression back into something flat, something neutral, and finally turns back to you.

But you’ve already seen it.

You’ve known Jisung long enough to recognize when he’s lying.

“Come on, there’s obviously something bothering you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Everything’s fine. Just wanted the lyrics to match the vibe we chose.”

“You know you can tell me anything, right? Whatever it is, I’m always here for you. I’m on your side no matter what.”

He nods, blinking quickly, his eyes rimmed red. Still, no tears fall. He won’t let them.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But there’s nothing going on. I’m just...really feeling this song.”

And maybe that’s not a complete lie.

But you can't help but think the song is only half of the truth here.

You study him for a long moment, unsure what to say next. The last thing you want to do is push too hard and make him retreat further behind carefully built walls.

So you just nod.

You pluck at your guitar strings a little, not really playing anything, just giving your hands something to do. The silence stretches between you again, softer now. Not as tense, but not exactly comfortable either.

Jisung wipes his eyes and reaches for his notebook, flipping to a clean page with slightly trembling fingers. He taps his pen against the spiral binding, like he’s deciding something. Then he glances at you, and for a second, he looks like he might say it. Whatever it is.

His lips part. His eyes hold yours. And your heart skips, caught in the anticipation.

But then he closes the notebook and sets it aside.

Instead, he smiles. That crooked, boyish smile that always looks a little brighter than he probably feels.

“I think the bridge should be a little louder,” he says. “Something that punches through the heaviness. What do you think?”

And just like that, the moment passes.

“Sounds like just what the song needs.”

You smile back, but there’s a weight in your chest now. A knot that wasn’t there before. Because whatever it is that he’s hiding…it matters. It matters a whole lot to him, which means it matters a hella lot to you.

But he’s not ready to share it with you. Not yet anyway.

If Jisung doesn't want you to know what's under those hundred layers of wrapping paper, then you won't know until he's ready.

So you nod again and adjust your guitar. And together, you keep playing until the sun falls behind the lakeside, and you can barely see your fingers for the light of the moon.

::

(Present day)

Jisung has walked this same road a hundred times.

So, why does the pavement feel different now? Sure, it's been redone in places, patched up potholes and filled in sinkholes. He didn't stay seventeen, so it's a little silly to think the town would have frozen in time.

But still, his hometown road is more than the rocks he used to kick down the sidewalk in tenth grade. Isn't it? It's odd to think he used to take this route every afternoon, considering nothing looks the same.

The rusty gas station he used to frequent before school is gone, replaced with a fast food joint. The tree he used to climb and do his homework in has been cut down. It probably got too tall for the powerlines.

That (allegedly) haunted house with the chipped paint has been redone. And the old souvenir shop’s big glass window has been filled in with brick. He wonders if those rumors of burglars scared the shop owner into finally getting some better security.

For every familiar-unfamiliar step, what really gets his anxiety going is the thought of where this road is taking him.

It’s been almost a decade since he saw you, the last impression he left being that of a coward.

He never told you why he left. His stupid, adolescent brain thought silence was easier than expecting you to understand everything that had gone wrong all at once.

Still…you deserved more than silence.

What did you say about him after he left? Did you tell your friends he was selfish, or did you just stop talking about him altogether? Maybe you cried. Maybe you refused to cry.

He wonders if you opened your college acceptance letter with your parents. Or if you moved into the dorms with someone else by your side. He should’ve been there. That was the plan after all.

Late night study sessions, instant ramen, shared playlists, a thousand little things that could’ve been yours together. He missed all of it.

He missed you.

You’re in all of his best memories. And even though time has passed and life has changed, you’ve always remained golden in his mind, basked in the light of how things used to be.

Your memories of him probably look a lot different. Abandonment has a way of rewriting even the happiest things.

He doesn’t know what he’ll say when he sees you. Maybe he should’ve planned something. Maybe winging it is reckless. All he knows is that pretending nothing happened would be worse.

He can’t act like he didn’t disappear.

He's been a ghost for the last eight years. Does he even have the right to act human now?

After all, there’s a high probability you won't be interested in listening to him at all. But he hopes you will. Even if you don’t forgive him, just seeing you again is a start.

Your name is on a hanging sign out front, seemingly only there to spark a feeling of uncertainty and insubordination in his chest, as if he has any right to be here.

Despite his uneasy nerves, Jisung steps into the music building, clutching the strap of his guitar a little too tightly across his chest. It's his only acoustic left after selling most of his equipment. He just…couldn't get rid of it. Not this one.

You’re already here, across the room, kneeling by a storage bin and coaxing a knot out of a mess of cords. The way your hands move, steady and practiced, makes Jisung wonder how many times you’ve done that without anyone around to help.

He hovers in the doorway for a second too long, then clears his throat.

“Hey.”

No response.

“Hi?” The greeting comes out thinner than he meant it because suddenly his mouth feels far too dry.

Damn it, he knew he should have thought this through better. Should he call you by your first name? No, that's too familiar. Boss? No, that's too stiff. Your last name? No, that just sounds stupid.

By the time he's done thinking himself in circles, he's probably lost his only chance for a smooth re-introduction.

He sighs, defeated. “I suppose, I should have expected the silent treatment, huh?”

You just keep working, laser-focused, like he’s not even in the room.

“I don't blame you for not wanting to talk to me.” He takes a small step inside, slower this time, unsure whether to speak again or just shut up and wait for the kids to get here. “I guess, is it totally weird for me to say…I mean, what I've wanted to say for eight years is…I'm sorry. And I’ve missed you.”

You finally stand up straight, turning around only to nearly jump out of your skin with a loud gasp.

“Oh my god! What– when did you come in? Don't scare me like that!”

“But I was…you didn't hear…huh?” he stutters, pointing at the door, then you, then himself in confusion.

You spot the doorway above his head and let out a quiet huff, rolling your eyes in annoyance as you drag a chair across the floor.

Propping it beneath the frame, you climb up, stretching to free a bell that’s been muted by its chain snagging on the hinge.

“It's fine,” you sigh, stepping down. “Just make at least some noise when you come in from now on, will ya?”

“Uh, y-yeah, of course. Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.”

“I know. Come on,” you gesture for him to follow, so he frantically grabs the chair, hauling it with him as he shuffles along.

“The music hall is in the back. That's where we hold rehearsals, and you can work on your own stuff during downtime if you want. Mini fridge is in the break room, extra equipment is in storage, and the dumpster is through the side door in the alleyway – make sure you take the trash out when it's full. Rehearsals are Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays at 4:00pm. Be early.” You stop and turn around suddenly. “Any questions?”

“No, ma’am,” he says, nearly fumbling the chair.

“Don’t call me ma’am.” You step forward, taking it from him before he drops it and setting it down neatly against the wall. “We’re the same age, remember?”

“Right,” he says slowly, a hint of sentimentality in his tone. “I remember.”

“And you remember my name.” Something flickers across your face when your voice unconsciously begins to soften. "Don't you?”

A warning in your eyes tells him you’re bracing yourself for the answer. Perhaps for the hurt if he’s forgotten. Or for what it might stir in you to hear him say it after so long.

“___.”

The sound of it, after eight years of silence, scrapes over your heart more than your ears. Your reaction is small. Inconspicuous. But his eyes are fixed on you, and he sees it.

A much too recognizable habit picking at your cuticles. A habit he thought he’d forgotten about until now. Up until now, you've appeared unfazed, calm, cool, distant. But that tiny tell gives you away…

You’re just as unsettled to see him again as he is to see you.

You follow his line of sight to your hand before hiding it behind your back, and instead nodding at the beat up instrument on his back.

“You brought your guitar.”

“Yeah, I didn't know if I was expected to bring anything, but I figured, better safe than sorry, you know?” he replies, running a hand up and down the strap before realizing he's just rubbing his chest and that probably looks strange.

“I didn't know you still played.”

“To be honest, I haven't in a really long time. But I want to again.”

“Well, here's your chance. You can play for rehearsal today.” You hand him the sheet music, but he just stares at it, a lack of confidence shot across his features. “You do remember how to read sheet music, right?”

“Oh yeah, for sure. No problemo,” he attempts to say casually.

“Good. The kids will be here in a few minutes, so let's set up their stands and instruments in the music hall.”

That's it? Jisung was hoping for a little bit longer with just you. To give him time to get his words out and perhaps apologize for the last eight years. Explain some things. Fix some things. But it looks like you're not interested in salvaging anything from the wreckage of your past friendship.

While he's thankful you don't look at him like a complete stranger, the old warmth he once knew is gone. When he catches his reflection in your eyes, all you see is a relic of a past you’ve buried and an unwelcome volunteer.

The two of you silently set up the room, finishing mere moments before the kids come skipping in two by two.

They're reckless and wild, with a stress-inducing energy. But you remain graceful and composed, guiding them to their spots as if with a magic wand. Jisung lingers at the edge of the room, watching the way they're wistfully drawn to your every movement, admiring your every smile, eager for your every direction.

He realizes, with a tightness building in his chest, that he's no different.

“Alright, alright guys, listen up!” You sing, captivating the room’s attention with a rhythmic clap of your hands. “Eyes on who?”

“Eyes on you!” all the kids answer in a mess of voices.

“I want to introduce you to someone. This is Mr. Han, and he's going to help us practice for the Fall Festival.”

Jisung steps away from the wall, lifting his guitar in a small wave before giving the third graders a casual two-finger salute.

“Is he your boyfriend?” one of the kids pipes up.

You don’t even flinch, keeping your tone light and unsuspecting. “Nope. Just a friend.” The word sounds unfamiliar, as hurtful as that is, but you keep a steady posture and continue, “He’s going to play for your singing rehearsals today, so let’s be nice and make him feel welcome, okay?”

“Mr. Han, are you married?”

Jisung coughs, startled by the innocent question he probably should have been expecting from a choir of eight year olds. “Uh, no,” he says, voice catching just slightly. “Not married.”

Another little voice pipes up, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

His ears flush pink as he tries to keep from glancing at you. “Nope, no girlfriend either. It's just me.”

“Are you gay? My mom said I have to be nice to gay people.”

“Okay, enough questions,” you cut in before Jisung could fumble for a response. With another clap of your hands, you force cheer into your voice and instruct them to move on. “It’s rehearsal time. Grab your music folders and find your spots, please.”

Amidst shuffling feet and possessive whining over who had the “good” music folder, your gaze drifts without intention toward Jisung. You catch him mid-breath, cheeks puffed out as he slowly exhales through pursed lips.

He spies you watching him and immediately straightens up. “I’m not gay,” he mouths with an exaggerated earnestness.

And before you can stop yourself, your lips curve into the first genuine smile you’ve given him since he came back to town.

It’s not the same smile he remembers. It’s older now, touched by years of self-discipline, self-sufficiency, and self-defense. A smile that has learned its value alone and how to fend for itself.

But the way you roll your eyes immediately afterward – that’s the same as it ever was. That same eye roll you used to throw his way when you were teenagers, the one he thought he might never get the chance to be the recipient of again. He forgot how much he liked making you roll your eyes like that.

He finds himself a chair as the kids find their spots. You, at the front of the choir with your arms raised to direct, and him, sitting a few feet away on a stool with his guitar on his lap.

You begin counting the beat as the kids’ voices begin molding together, his guitar in the background.

“Sorry!”

He quickly apologizes when what sounds like a dying mule comes out of his guitar instead of a G, fumbling to find the right placement of his fingers again.

You shake your head as if to shake it off and keep the kids on beat with your direction instead.

“Sorry. Sorry! So sorry…” the apologies continue as he struggles to read the next note. That's a minor chord, right? Or is that supposed to be a major? Wait, what count is he on now? What does that symbol mean again?

Eventually, you walk over to him, kindly holding out your hands to take the instrument with a gentle smile. “I can take over from here. Why don't you watch this first practice, and play next time?”

Just punch him in the face; it would hurt less.

He thought he’d be happy to hear his guitar again. To think that a piece of scuffed wood with replaced strings was such a huge part of his childhood. That acoustic meant everything to him. It was his ultimate joy in life, his reason for trying, his passion and his fulfillment.

But watching you now…he should have known it was never the guitar.

It was you.

You play with the same unshakable passion you had at seventeen, only now the sound has become sharper and clearer. Every note effortless, your fingers dancing along the fretboard in ways he doesn’t even remember learning.

Have you really gotten this good without him? Or….have you gotten this good despite him?

You're a musician. The exact thing you always said you would be.

And what is he? A chemical engineer who hasn’t touched his prized guitar in almost a decade. A man who once promised his best friend they’d chase a dream together, then left her to chase it alone.

He didn’t just leave music behind. He left you behind. And yet, somehow, you managed to obtain everything you said you would and more.

You never needed him. And you don't need him now.

Seeing you grown up and independent, the gut-wrenching guilt deepens as Jisung sees all the work you poured into your future without him. He's not just sorry for shattering your childhood dreams, he's broken knowing that he made your path to achieving your dreams that much harder by walking away.

He feels smaller than ever, overwhelmed by the need to make things right and the realization that he may never be able to.

::

The last of the kids tumble out with a noisy goodbye, leaving the room finally quiet after a grueling hour of messy rehearsal.

Quiet, finally, but leftover chaos litters the room. Chairs out of line. Sheet music scattered. Crayons cracked underfoot. Tambourines abandoned in the corner. It’s the kind of disaster you’re used to usually cleaning up alone, in a steady rhythm you’ve perfected and protected over the years.

“Here, let me help,” Jisung says quickly. He’s been waiting all day for this chance and immediately jumps on the first thing he sees. He grabs the nearest stool and marches it across the room.

“No, wait. That one goes into storage for the weekend.” You catch him before he can wedge it against the back wall and take it from his hands.

“Right, of course.” He rubs the back of his neck and spins, unsure eyes darting over the mess. “Uh, I’ll…put the instruments away!”

“Not yet, I have to clean those after the kids used them.”

“Oh. Okay, then music sheets! I’ll stack them up for you.”

“Jisung, you don’t have to–”

“I want to.” He’s already scooping papers into a messy pile, half-crouched, crumbling edges because his movements are too big, too quick, and making more chaos than order. “Seriously, I can see why you asked for a volunteer. Trying to play and keep them on track? That’s rough. But once I get back into the swing of it, I swear, I’ll make this easier on you. You can count on me–”

“I didn’t ask for a volunteer,” you snap before you can stop yourself, yanking the music out of his hands. “And these aren’t stacked. They each go in a different child’s folder.”

“Oh.” He blinks, but then immediately grabs them again. “Then just show me where they go, and I’ll—”

“It's fine, I got it,” you cut him off, pulling harder, but he doesn't let go.

“No, seriously, I want to help.”

“I can do it myself–”

“I know, but just let me–”

“Jisung, stop!” Your voice spikes right as the sheets tear down the middle, one half trapped in his grip, the other in yours. The rip echoes throughout the room, followed by a deafening suspension as you stare at the destroyed music.

Jisung freezes for only a second before he's stuttering for a solution.

“Hold on, I can fix this. I'll get some tape–”

“Look what you’ve done!” you explode, shaking the ripped sheet. “I spent months writing these by hand!”

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“You can’t just waltz in here and start touching things and moving things! This is my school! My music! My students! My life! You don’t get to show up after eight years and act like you belong here!”

Even the hum of the fluorescent lights feels sharp in the silence that follows. For the first time, you realize, you yelled at him.

The room stills.

Jisung swallows, brushing his hand over the back of his neck while you pick at your cuticle until it bleeds.

With a bitten lip and stiff steps, you walk to the wall, press your back against it, and slide down until your butt thumps on the ground, your legs falling limply in front of you.

The fight drains from your shoulders, leaving you small and slouched, your face pale and tired in the dimming light of the evening. There’s a heaviness clinging to you, a weariness that makes you look older than you are, and Jisung’s chest aches with the certainty that it’s his fault. That his being here is piling more weight onto you instead of lifting any of the burdens he left behind.

“I'm sorry…” Jisung whispers, almost afraid to make any sound at all. “I shouldn't have assumed you would want to see me again after…I can back out. No hard feelings.”

You pause, eyes not quite meeting his. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I think you did,” he replies, more bitter than he meant, and instantly regrets it. He rubs a hand over his face and exhales. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just…after eight years, I had accepted that I was never going to see you again. And now, in the span of one afternoon, you’re back in my life, volunteering at my music school, playing your guitar for my kids, stacking papers…” You let out a shaky exhale. “I’m just really overwhelmed right now. Not sure if I should be happy to see you again or mad at you. I want to hug you and also slap you in the face, but I'm not sure which one to do first.”

Jisung lets out a nervous, almost strangled laugh. “Do I get a vote?”

You roll your eyes, head tipping back against the wall with a heavy sigh that scrapes out of you more as playful annoyance than defeat.

Jisung hovers awkwardly for a moment, then scampers across the room to collect a roll of tape. When he returns, he stops directly in front of you, fiddling with the plastic tape dispenser for a moment.

“Can I?” he asks, voice low and hesitant, as he gestures to the patch of floor beside you.

Your gaze flicks up at him, weary but sharp, and for a beat he looks like he might take your silence as a no. But then you give the smallest nod.

Relief spreads across his face. He lowers himself down carefully, like sitting beside you is fragile work. The cool wall presses into his back as he settles, shoulders close but not touching yours. His hands fumble with the tape, the sound of it peeling breaks the thick quiet.

“I know I don't belong here anymore. What life I had here with you, I tore apart.” He opens his hand, and you hand over your half of the music sheet. “And I know I don't deserve a second chance to make things right, and no matter how hard I try, it can never be the same as it was, but if you'll let me…” He holds out the page again, now patched together imperfectly but readable, “I want to at least try to make up for the way I left things between us.”

You stare down at it. The paper looks like it’s been through war. Tape crisscrossing each and every way, your handwriting pulled crooked, the notes breaking mid-line where the tear was. If anyone played it out loud, the song would stumble right in the middle.

Your throat tightens, but you glance up, guarded, not cold. “Why now?”

“Because I finally grew up. And I realized how many people I hurt by running away instead of being honest. With them. With you.” He takes a breath, and continues a bit softer. “I’m not here to make things harder for you. I just…when I decided to move back, I told myself I would dive head first, you know. Town hall meetings, volunteering, community service. I haven't always been the best at letting myself be known, but I thought maybe, I should do better this go around.”

You stand, brushing dust from your butt, and finally look him in the eye. “Well. At least you got your wish. Volunteer work, right?”

“Yeah.” He almost laughs, but it comes out more like a sigh. “I did.”

The tension doesn’t disappear, but it eases. Less sharp, more tired. You nod toward his guitar case left by the stool. “You’re rusty, but it’ll come back if you keep playing.”

His lips twitch into a wry half-smile. “That’s being generous.”

“I’m being practical. We need music. The kids deserve someone who can actually keep a beat.”

The words aren’t cruel, but they land deep in his gut. He stands up tall, accepting the surprise responsibility you've offered him. “I’ll get there. I promise.”

You brush past him on your way to the kid's music folders, shoulders barely grazing.

For a moment, he just watches you – reminded of how, once upon a time, he knew every genre of your silence. Now, he’s lost in it.

Still, he lingers long enough to say, “I meant it, earlier. I missed you. I missed being seventeen with you.”

You pause, still facing away. Then you turn back, slowly.

“I was too angry to miss you. For a long time. But eventually…I was glad I wasn’t seventeen anymore.”

“Because I ruined your childhood.”

“No.” Your voice hardens, sure of itself. “You hurt me, yes. But you didn't ruin anything. I still went to college. I still built a music school. I did everything I wanted without you by my side. So don’t give yourself so much credit, Han Jisung. You didn’t ruin me. You were just part of what made me who I am. And then you disappeared.”

“Simple as that?” he asks, voice rough.

“Maybe it was simple for you,” you admit, chest tightening, “but it was never simple for me.”

He steps closer, desperate. “There were things I couldn’t tell you back then. Things that forced me to leave. It wasn’t just me giving up on us, you need to know that.”

“I get that,” you say, gently. “Life happens. Plans change. But…” You falter, inhaling, steadying yourself before asking the one question you've imagined asking him for years. “Why didn’t you at least tell me goodbye?”

::

(8 years ago)

Homeroom is grey and droopy, your eyes fixed on your winning raindrop as it races to the window sill. Leftover drizzle from the night before is thankfully entertaining enough to keep you awake. You didn't get much sleep thanks to the excessive number of lightning strikes that kept your room lit up all night.

Of course, Jisung would be running late on a day like this.

Background noise doesn't bother you. The buzzing of low chatter, chairs scraping, someone dropping a pencil. None of it really registers until your teacher walks in and clears her throat.

“Before we begin, just a quick announcement,” she says with empathy. “For those of you asking, Han Jisung won’t be returning to school. His family has moved unexpectedly for undisclosed reasons. Please, out of respect for your classmate, do not speculate or spread untrue rumors. If you're close enough to text or call him, then you can do so. That being said, I know he was close with some of you. If anyone needs to talk, my door is open…”

The words hit like thunder, numbing your hearing as everything fades into the background.

Jisung moved? Without telling you? Without saying goodbye? That doesn't sound like him at all. Just yesterday, you were writing songs together at the pier and sharing lyrics and secret glances. And all of a sudden…he's gone?

What about your plans? What about college applications, scholarships, music? He wouldn't just abandon all that. Jisung isn't the type to run away and he's certainly not the type to lie to you. This doesn't make sense.

You try to raise your hand, but the teacher is already moving on, and she won't accept any more questions on the matter.

With zero hesitation, you stand up, nearly knocking your chair over.

“Where are you going?” the teacher calls after you, but you’re already out the door, backpack bouncing against your side as you take the stairs two at a time.

You don’t stop running, through the hall, down the front steps, out the front door, and across the street. When your lungs start to burn, you just run harder.

All the way to his house, right up to his door, and you throw your weight on the handle. But it's locked.

“Han Jisung!? You get out here right now! Jisung!? The fuck are you!?”

You start pounding on it like you're trying to break the door down. No answer.

Around the side of the house, the curtains to his bedroom are gone. The porch light is off. The flower pots are tipped over, and the driveway is empty. The inside is completely bare save for a few stray wires and a single abandoned pair of shoes.

He really is gone.

You nearly trip over the curb as you begin to run again, this time toward the pier.

But when you reach it, all that’s left is a shattered skeleton of what it once was. Last night’s storm ripped through it like paper. Driftwood and broken branches scattered everywhere. A few crooked poles still stick out of the sand, like bones, but there's not a trace of life. Or of him.

With panicked tears now threatening to fall, you reach for your phone and call him.

“Hi, you've reached the voicemail box of Han Jisung. If you're my parents, I'm at the church. If you're my tutor, I'm at the library. If this is ___, you already know where I am, idiot. If you're none of those people, why are you even calling me?”

You redial. It rings and rings.

“Hi, you've reached the voicemail box of Han Ji–”

“Damn it, Jisung!”

You hang up and decide to text.

[y/n] “Where the hell are you???”

[y/n] “Did you seriously leave town?? Where did you go??”

[y/n] “Why won't you answer me!?”

[y/n] “Please just tell me what’s going on. You're scaring me…”

[y/n] “Ji?”

Your thread says each message was delivered. But no matter how long you wait, they're never read.

Your knees land in the dirt, no doubt now stained from the mud. The wind whips at your hair as left over mist from the lake leaves your skin damp and cold.

It's unclear how long you stayed like that, waiting for your phone to buzz or ring or die. But by the time you decide to head home, the sky has darkened and you can’t feel your fingers anymore.

You're not sure how to process it, and it doesn't help that everyone wants to talk to you about it. For the next few days, you can count on one hand how many times you voluntarily speak out loud. There's just not much to say when the person you used to spend all your words on is suddenly gone.

Days pass. Then weeks. Months. People eventually stop asking how you’re doing. Your classmates come around to accept this new, quiet version of you. Your other friends tell you maybe it’s for the best. Your parents avoid the topic altogether.

He’s really gone. Your best friend. Vanished with no explanation or closure. Gone, and you didn’t even get to say goodbye.

Whether you truly worked through the grieving process is questionable at best. But about six months after Jisung walked out of your life, some version of yourself began to resurface.

You pulled out your guitar and, for the first time that semester, managed to write a song in guitar club. Although now it’s just you sitting alone in the music department. At least the school hadn't seemed fit to take that away from you too.

There had to be a lesson buried somewhere in all of this. Some meaning you were supposed to uncover in the wreckage. If only you’d been able to figure out what it was.

In the end, what you were left with instead was nothing more than a broken heart, an unfinished chord progression, and a harmony that was always missing its second voice.

So, you learned how to sing solos.

::

(Present day)

At first, it feels unnatural to see Jisung outside of your memories. For years, he was a ghost, a shadow of the past living in the deep, deep corners of your mind. Just someone you used to know.

But now he’s everywhere! At the grocery store, where he lingers over produce like he’s forgotten how small town pricing works. At the gym, where you catch glimpses of him on the treadmill, nodding along to music in his earbuds. On your evening walks, when he waves across the street like you’re nothing more than old neighbors who subtly argue about the property line.

And the strangest part? He doesn’t just pass through these spaces. He stays.

He asks about the cashier’s family, hangs out after workouts to chat with the regulars, carries boxes at the community shelter, shows up at the same fundraisers and local events you do. Jisung isn’t hiding; in fact, he's jumping into the deep end. He’s building something here, planting himself back into the soil and soaking up as much sunlight as possible.

Even from a decent distance, you can tell this is not the same Jisung you grew up with. Which both scares and intrigues you.

Past Jisung avoided crowded places, whined when he was told to help at church fundraisers, and sneaked away to make beats in the parking lot instead.

Present Jisung put his name down to bring a dessert to the Men’s Monthly Ministry Meeting.

Past Jisung skipped school on a regular basis, never wanted a real job, and complained when his parents made him go to school early for morning tutoring.

Present Jisung started working at the local bookstore and shows up at 6am on the dot every day to help bring in book deliveries, so the older owner doesn't have to carry the boxes.

At first, it grates you. Every wave from across the street, every casual “hey” at the grocery store, every time he sits next to you at community meetings, feels like he’s chiseling his way into a life you’ve carefully arranged without him.

You didn't expect this Jisung, and you certainly didn't give him permission to make you smile on multiple occasions.

But as the days pass, something shifts. He’s not just your broken past anymore. He’s becoming woven into the rhythm of this town in a way that’s impossible to ignore.

And slowly, you realize you don’t hate seeing him. The sting is still there, stronger some days than others. But it dulls, little by little.

Every time he shows up ten minutes early to music rehearsals to help you untangle chords.

Every time he puts an extra dollar in the tip jar at the farmer's market when he thinks no one is looking.

Every time he gives recommendations for books at his job, when high school you could have sworn he only knew how to read comics.

Somehow, at some point, while he was away from you…he grew up. And goddamit, he grew up well. Without you. There's no denying it, even though it hurts a little to admit, and you're not sure exactly why.

Your routine has no choice but to make room for him. Until all you feel is the strange weight of adjusting to a world where Jisung isn’t just a memory. He’s here. And maybe…he's not leaving this time.

But two months of charity work and music rehearsals aren't enough to erase eight years of solidly laid walls. You're still guarded, even when you thank him or laugh at his puns or wave back on the street.

You can't allow yourself to fully embrace his presence, even if you wanted to. There's still something painful poking at the back of your head, pressing on your knees, staining your jeans with mud, and freezing your fingers.

When Jisung shows up at the music school, you’re halfway through arranging the (finally) finished sheet music into neat folders. The sound of the door opening makes you glance up, brows knitting in surprise.

He steps in, guitar on his back and a smile on his face, looking ready and pumped to get started.

“Okay, I know you said I needed one more practice day before I played for the kids, but hear me out,” he says, sitting on his stool and swinging his guitar around to his lap. “I spent all last night working on that chord progression, and I think I finally got it down.”

Before you can even reply, his fingers begin plucking at the strings.

“The kids don’t have rehearsals today,” you say, turning your body toward him.

He freezes mid play, clearly thrown. “But we always have rehearsals on Saturday at 4pm.”

“Today is Sunday,” you correct, trying not to smile.

“Oh, shit.” He runs a hand through his hair, rubbing over the back of his neck. “Sorry, I guess all my days have been running together lately.”

“I'm not surprised, I mean, considering how much you're doing.”

“What do you mean?”

You shrug, going back to your folders and restacking them just to let your hands do something while you talk. “Well, I just mean, you've been involved in a lot of town things since you got back. Dessert drives, festival preparations, community meetings, music practice. Even I would get my days mixed up sometimes if I was trying to put that much into my schedule.”

Jisung lays his arms over his guitar, sinking a bit into the stool. “Should I not be doing so much? Do I…bother you?”

“No, I didn't say that.” Your answer comes faster than you mean it to, too sharp in its urgency and too earnest for casualties.

When you turn toward him quickly, the sudden movement makes your hair shift across your shoulder. Your eyes meet his, steady at first, then softening because you just realized how much weight your words carried.

There’s a flicker there, something unspoken and fragile between you two, like the brief reflection of light on lake water before it disappears again. He can’t name it, but it steals the breath from his lungs and sets his heart stumbling into a quicker rhythm.

“Umm,” you break eye contact after several moments and return to your folders, although now you're just tracing the lines of the paper with your finger for no reason. “What I meant was, I see you a lot around town at a lot of things and…it's nice. You seem to really be becoming a part of the town again, and the town really likes having you back.”

“You're a part of the town too.” He points out carefully. “Do you like having me back?”

“Not having to teach rhythm all by myself is nice. And the kids like you.”

“Just the kids like me?”

The tone of his voice captures your attention in an immediate way. There's an underlying question hidden in his words, one you could ignore if you desperately wanted to. But the moment you allow your eyes to land on his once more, you're caught in his trance, his expression.

His eyes hold you there, steady and unflinching as the silence stretches for too many moments. The air feels thick to breathe, and you can physically see how it makes his chest rise and fall more dramatically than usual. The weight of your answer is bound to shift the fragile balance you’ve been so carefully maintaining since he returned.

Your throat tightens, but you force the words out anyway, soft but sure, a confession disguised in simplicity.

“The whole town likes you.”

It’s the first time you’ve said anything about him being back since the day he’d walked into your music school. Two months. Fourteen rehearsal days. That’s how long it’s taken for Jisung to hear a genuine word from you, and when it comes, it lands with more force than you realize. He soaks up the syllables like it’s a language he’s been waiting years to relearn, and the corners of his mouth curve upward, so when your gaze drops to his lips, you can see just how much it means to him.

He speaks, soft and sweet. “I like the town too.” Then he clears his throat and asks, “Anything I can do to help even though it's not rehearsal day?”

You break yourself away from his eyes, considering. “You should practice the song. It’d be nice if you could play the accompaniment while I direct the kids during the Festival. That way I don’t have to try to play and wave my arms around at the same time.”

“I’ll practice till my fingers bleed,” he promises with a stiff salute.

You roll your eyes at his dramatics but don’t argue. He settles with the guitar near the window, sunlight catching on the instrument’s scratched surface. The first strum is hesitant, but soon the melody begins to take shape.

Meanwhile, you return to your tasks stacking chairs, cleaning props, organizing music. But your ear keeps tuning to him. The notes are still rough and unpolished, but there’s something warm and familiar about hearing him play. Without thinking, you start humming along, soft at first and then growing in volume.

The guitar rests lightly in Jisung’s lap, his fingers moving intently over the strings, but his attention isn’t really on the music.

It’s on you.

You’re bent over your stack of folders, sorting and humming without realizing it, the quiet thread of your voice weaving itself into the notes he plays. Your brow furrows as you pause to shift a paper, lips still moving to the melody under your breath, almost like you’re breathing the song instead of singing it.

Jisung’s fingers slow on the strings, softer, quieter, just so he can match you, just so he can keep playing without disturbing the little world you’ve built for yourself.

There’s something achingly familiar about the way you don’t notice the strands of hair falling in your face, the way your knee bounces absentmindedly, the way your voice warms the room without needing permission. His chest feels tight and light at the same time, a mix of nostalgia and something new, something lovely.

He tells himself he’s only keeping the rhythm for you, that he’s just following your hum so the kids will have something steady later. But his gaze lingers too long, his heart trips too often, and he knows this moment is much more than that.

Jisung doesn’t remember when his fingers stopped following the chords and started drifting, but it doesn’t matter. The guitar is only an excuse now – something that lets him sit here without looking like he’s staring too much. You don’t even notice, humming along as you work, your voice so soft and unassuming, he can almost make-believe that it’s meant only for him.

He can’t look away from you. The afternoon light hits your hair in a way that makes every strand glow, and he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Not the kind of beauty people dress up for or take pictures of, but the kind that can only be seen when you're in the moment.

There’s a gentleness in your concentration, a warmth in the way your lips move with his tune, and he knows if he misses this moment, he’ll never forgive himself.

He’s not sure what he did to deserve this seat across from you, to be allowed into the quiet rhythm of your life again, but he clings to it like he's never clinged to anything before. You start to hum a little louder, and he swears the walls themselves lean in to listen. Your voice has always had that pull, that gravity, but today it sounds different. Today, it sounds like magic, and he’s lucky enough to be the one hearing it.

Then he stumbles on a chord.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbles, quickly trying to correct the mistake while also pulling himself back to reality before you notice how enchanted he's become with you.

“Hold on, you're at the part where the song switches to an E Minor, right?” You walk over. “Here, I can show you.”

Before he can catch a breath, you place yourself behind him, presence warm at his back. Your hand reaches around, careful but sure as it guides his fingers to the right fret. Your calloused fingertips brush his as they steady on the correct chord, and then gently, you press his fingertips into the strings.

“Like this. Try it now.”

With a shaky strum, he lets his pick fall across the instrument, the sound only amplifying the deja vu trembling through his bones.

He shifts slightly, and when he looks up, your eyes catch. You’re close…closer than you’ve been in years. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body, close enough to feel his pulse through his wrist, close enough for your heart to race in reply.

For a suspended moment, neither of you move. The weight of unspoken thoughts hums in the air, threaded into the chord still vibrating under his fingers.

Finally, you step back, clearing your throat, “Better.”

“Y-Yeah, thanks for the tip.”

He tests the chord again, and this time it rings true. Perhaps it's not the time to comment on the closeness or how something that felt like a spark just shocked him through his chest – so he just lets the music fill the awkward silence between you two and hides the moment away in his heart.

When he finishes practicing and you’ve finished putting away your last kid’s folder, he sets the guitar down carefully and gets your attention with a casual, “Hey, would you want to get some food? We can take it to that bench in the park and then maybe walk the Circle together? Like old times?”

Eight years. Two months. And fourteen rehearsals.

It feels like the tiniest crack in the wall that’s been standing between you. Just wide enough to let in a breath of fresh air.

“Yeah. I'd like that.”

::

Despite the familiarity of paper take-out containers balanced on your laps, laughter tucked into the silences whenever you pass each other napkins, and Jisung spilling his soda on the ground five seconds after sitting down, there's still something strangely unfamiliar about the boy next to you.

He's not the same Jisung you grew up with, that much is certain. But he's not totally different. Of course, you're not the same as you were in high school either. However, the longer you chat and the more relaxed the atmosphere becomes, the more you realize how well your characters still click.

His humor still fits yours and his interests, too. Turns out his Japanese heavy goth rock phase was around the same time as yours during college.

After eating, neither of you are ready to end the night, so you find yourselves wandering through the park. The street lamps glow dimly along the path, cicadas hum in the trees, and the town feels softer somehow under the veil of evening.

Jisung still walks with his hands in his pockets, a habit you once found endearing…and still do apparently.

“Remember when we used to skip class and hide out at the pier?” Jisung says with a grin, like he can still taste the moss in the air. “I wonder if that heart is still spray-painted on the edge or if it's been washed away by now.”

You stop walking for a moment, eyes cast down. “The pier’s gone.”

His head snaps around, feet nearly stumbling. “What? How?”

“It was destroyed in a storm after you left. Waves took most of it out. What was left, they cleared from the area.”

The disappointment flickers sharp and fast across his face. He looks away. “I guess I thought it would always be there. I never even imagined it might have gotten torn down.”

You shrug. “A lot of things have changed. Do you remember the old Chinese place?”

“Yeah, the one that used to sneak us two extra boxes of takeout when we showed up late.”

“It’s a bank now. And the old arcade is a gym.”

He lets out a low laugh, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Feels like I missed everything.”

“Places change,” you murmur, softer now. “And people do too.” The implication sits heavy in the air between you, your gaze fixed on the gravel path as you drag your feet.

“You didn't change much.” After a beat, he risks adding, “You still went to college for music. Your passion is still as strong as ever.”

“Well, I didn’t have you anymore, but I wasn’t going to lose my passion too. So, I locked in. Four years of music law and then two years of agonizing intern work. But I don’t regret it.”

“I wish I’d studied music.”

That confession makes you really look at him, study him. “Then why leave? Why abandon it?” Why abandon me?

He stiffens, the words catching in his throat before he forces them out. “I had to.”

“No.” Your tone sharpens, controlled but cutting when your feet stop in the middle of the path. “You always have a choice.”

“I didn’t,” he sighs, turning around to face you.

“Then please, explain that to me.”

Jisung drags a hand across the back of his neck, inhaling deeply like he’s gathering courage. His voice is rough when he speaks again.

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

And then he tells you about a loan shark. About how his parents were scammed, how everything they owned disappeared overnight, how his father decided the only way to protect them was to start over entirely – new town, new names, no trace left behind. That’s why you couldn’t find him. Why he simply vanished. Why he couldn't contact you.

He tells you about his degree in engineering, how it ate him alive. He admits everything without leaving out a single detail, bitterness edging every word. He tells you how he got a job that paid well, but left him in the darkest place he’s ever known. About how he stayed in that place until his parents were back on their feet. And then he crashed. Therapy, unemployment, rock bottom. Eight years of absolute hell…

He pauses, searching your face, afraid of what he might find there, “...and then I thought maybe I could start over again. But do it right this time. Go back, face what I ran from. Invest in the things I actually care about. Music, people, community…you.”

“Me?”

He takes a step closer, tentative but sure, eyes burning with a kind of desperate sincerity. “I want to pursue you, ___. Properly, this time. No running away, no lies. I know I can’t erase the past, but I can try to make up for it. I want to earn back what I lost. If you’ll let me…I want to do this right. With you.”

The night stills. The cicadas, the street lamps, the sound of your own heartbeat in your ear. It all presses in, leaving his words hanging in the air like they might shatter if you breathe too hard.

And for the first time since he came back, Jisung doesn’t look like the boy who left you. He looks like a man who's come back to stay.

::

Since you own the music school, it's the perfect place to have anxiety attacks because you know for certain no one will be there at 1am on a Monday.

Okay, an anxiety attack is a bit extreme, but you are definitely freaking out. For one, Jisung just asked to pursue you, the romantics involved being clearly implied by the look in his eyes.

But that's not even the part that has you crashing out right now.

“Properly, this time.”

This time? Does that mean there was another time he attempted to pursue you improperly? You don't remember anything happening when you were younger. He had his first crush on someone, but that was just about the only time you ever even saw a glimpse of him being romantically interested in anyone. And you still don't even know who it was!?

Never once growing up did he ever give even the slightest hint that he felt anything remotely close to more than a friendship with you. More times than not, he was teasing you for being sentimental, not harboring secret feelings.

And yet, the way he looked at you tonight…the way he said your name makes you think he's not developing feelings in the moment, but rather finally revealing what's been growing inside his heart all this time.

You still have yet to give him an answer as to if you're okay with him pursuing you or not. Some part of you loves him, regardless of everything, because some part of you is still lousy and sentimental.

Sure, after being the one always holding up your friendship with him during high school, there's a part of you that wants to see him put effort in. See him be the chaser.

But will you be okay with that? Will you be able to emotionally watch him openly pursue you as a man pursuing a woman? You're not in high school anymore; things like this hold a little more significance.

He's back, and you're happy about that, but to be honest, you're still not totally sure if you forgive him. You understand his reasoning and situation now that he's told you about it. But you're still finding it difficult to forgive him for the eight years you spent in the dark, internally hating him.

Because of him, you moved into your dorms alone. Because of him, you felt subconscious making new friends, constantly anxious they might ditch. Because of him, you always suspected all your closest friends of leaving even when they showed no signs and had no reason to leave. Because of him, your insecurities ruined multiple chances at having romantic relationships with guys in college. Because of him, you lost one of the best things to ever happen to you. Because of him, you've written more sad songs than happy ones.

You're not sure if fighting all that is even worth it. You justified him leaving for as long as you could before you just couldn't anymore. And the moment you couldn't fight for him, your heart fought against him. Now that he's back, do you honestly believe he has a shot at taming your heart?

Or do you honestly want him to have a shot?

You’re not sleeping tonight. Might as well accept it.

The air is cool when you cut through the park, allowing your thoughts and feelings to sort themselves out with each soft crunch of the gravel beneath your footsteps. It’s too late for anyone else to be out here, so it's nice to just walk, even though you were literally just out here walking with Jisung.

But then you hear it: the low hum of guitar strings drifting through the night, carried on the breeze.

Your chest tightens instantly. You’d know that sound anywhere.

Despite previously wanting to be alone, as soon as you realize you have the chance to see him again, you follow it.

He's on one of the benches under a lamp post, hunched forward with the guitar balanced on his knee, fingers moving with cautious rhythm, like he’s still testing how much of the old muscle memory has returned.

“Hey,” you say, “Long time no see.”

His head snaps up, surprise flashing in his eyes before they soften. “The longest two hours ever.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither. Did you go home just to grab your guitar and come back out here?”

“Maybe.” There’s a light pause, but it's not uncomfortable. In fact, you kind of like how his eyes bounce from the ground back up at you. Then he tilts his head toward the empty spot on the bench beside him. “Would you like to join me? You can correct my strumming.”

You hesitate only a moment before sitting down. “Sure. But your strumming is fine. You just needed to get back into the feel of it.”

“Playing this guitar should be like riding a bike,” he says with a small laugh, strumming a few chords in demonstration. “But I still need practice.”

Your eyes drop to the instrument. “I never thought I'd see that guitar again to be honest.”

“Yeah?” His smile widens. “I can’t believe you recognized it.”

“It still has that pink dinosaur sticker on the side,” you murmur, brushing your fingers lightly across the worn edge of the decal. “I remember when I put that there.”

“I remember that too. You thought I wouldn’t notice.”

“But you did.”

“Immediately.”

“But you didn’t take it off.”

“Of course not,” he says simply, his eyes flicking up to yours. “Because you put it there.”

The words are magnetic between you, somehow drawing you to sit closer without moving a single inch.

“I can’t believe you still have this guitar,” you say, trying not to break the moment.

“It’s the only one I have left. I sold all my other ones for extra cash. But…I couldn’t sell her.”

“The town must be rubbing off on you,” you say gently. “You sound more like the way you used to sound.”

“Yeah?” His lips twitch into a hopeful smile. “It’s not the town that's rubbing off on me.”

Your heart flutters, obvious and loud, pulling you into him even further. It's terrifying, but you don't want to fight it.

“What song is that? I don’t recognize it.”

He looks down at his fingers, then back at you with hesitation. “I wrote it a few months after I left while I was thinking about you.”

“You wrote a song about me?”

He nods once, resolute. “Do you want to hear it?”

You swallow. “Sure.”

His voice is quiet when he begins, almost like he’s afraid the night itself might listen in, not wanting anyone or anything else to witness this moment he has with you.

Are you happy out there?

Even if I'm not by your side, I hope you live happily,

I'm so glad to see you in my dream,

In my dream, hope you smile with me even for a moment,

So that even without you,

I can feel,

Please be happy out there forever,

Hope you always shine with that pretty smile…

The lyrics float around you until you start to feel weightless as they leave his lips. His voice is scratchy but honest, each word carrying the weight of years spent apart. When he reaches the end, he strums the final chord and lets it fade into the distance.

You find yourself frozen, unblinking, completely enraptured when he looks at you.

The final note fades, leaving the air heavy with a silence that feels louder than the music was. Neither of you move, your eyes locked with the hope that if you don't blink, maybe the moment doesn't have to end.

It’s only for the briefest second that Jisung’s gaze falters, slipping down to your lips before dragging itself back up again as if to ask for permission.

And then he leans in. Slowly, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him. His face is inches from yours, his breath warm when he exhales in anticipation.

But you pull back.

The moment collapses. Jisung freezes, his hand still hovering above the guitar like he doesn’t know what to do with it anymore. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t defend himself. He just watches you, guilt folded into the lines of his face.

“Sorry.”

You look at him again, your pulse hammering. And in that instant, you know. He’s in love with you. He's been in love with you for god knows how long.

And god help you, some part of you somehow loves him too. But it’s tangled in heartbreak and abandonment and all the years he wasn’t there.

You suck in a breath and stand, too stiff to hide. “It’s getting late. We should probably go. The park is technically closed anyway.”

“Uh, right.” He pushes himself up as well and swings his guitar onto his back. “Can I walk you home?”

“If you want to.”

“I want to.”

The walk back is quiet, filled with a fragile tension and delicate feelings. You’re thankful your place isn’t far, although some traitorous part of you wishes it were, just to linger beside him a little longer.

When you reach your door, you turn to say goodnight, but he speaks first.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, his voice raw, “for leaning in. I got caught up in the moment, and I shouldn’t have assumed you were okay with it.”

“It's okay.” You're not condemning, just…uncertain, weighted with butterflies rather than rejection.

But Jisung doesn’t hear it that way.

You can see it in the slump of his shoulders, in the way his hand drags across the back of his neck like he’s bracing for impact, in the way his eyes don’t quite meet yours anymore – he's overthinking. Thinking that he overstepped, that he ruined whatever good thing was between you, that he lost his chance.

He exhales shakily and starts to leave, “Goodnight, then.”

“Jisung.”

He pauses and turns around, eyes and ears fixed on you. “Yeah?”

“…Try.”

“Try?”

“Try to pursue me.”

He freezes, the hope in his expression so subtle you almost miss it. But it's there, and it's starting to grow. “Really?”

“Just…go easy on me. The last guy I liked disappeared for eight years.”

He can’t help the stupid, lopsided smile that tugs at his lips as he backs away, sauntering and swaying like a love struck idiot. And before you can stop yourself, you’re smiling too, just as helpless and just as foolish. For a moment, it feels like the simplest thing in the world, like you're seventeen.

His voice is quiet as he tucks his hands into his pockets and nods. “I will. Goodnight, ___.”

“Goodnight, Jisung.”

::

If Jisung ever did try to pursue you before, it was with the clumsy eagerness of a boy. But now? Every move he makes is deliberate and steady, laced with the quiet confidence of a man who knows exactly what he wants and is willing to work to achieve it.

He brings you coffee in the mornings, carries your bags, lingers after rehearsal, helps clean up, perfects arrangements long after the kids have gone home. And those same kids adore him, especially when he pulls out his guitar.

But what catches your eye the most isn’t just the way he treats you. It’s the way he treats the town. He’s not only pursuing you; he’s weaving himself back into the fabric of this place, one act of service at a time. And somehow, that’s the most attractive part.

You notice yourself moving slower when it’s time to pack up, stretching out the minutes just to keep him near for a moment longer. At red lights and crosswalks, your eyes search for him before you realize what you’re doing. At town hall meetings, you listen half to the agenda and half for the sound of his laugh. And always, always, you feel the heat rise in your cheeks when you catch him looking at you like that.

Disarming. Like you’re the only person in the room worth holding his gaze. It isn’t fleeting or casual. It lingers, long and unashamed, as though he’s just waiting for you to lock eyes with him for a mere second. It’s the kind of look that leaves you flustered, vulnerable, and seen all at once. With a single look, Jisung has somehow managed to make you feel as though every part of you is worth adoring.

There’s heat in his eyes, a tenderness disguised in a hint of hunger. God, there's something about his eyes.

They soften when you smile, light up when you laugh, and darken with something deeper when the world falls quiet between you. And he never hides them; everyone in town knows the way he looks at you.

It’s happened often enough now that the awkwardness has dulled, leaving behind something potential. His inability to let a day pass without admiring you in some way has become endearing. You feel flattered that he’s working so hard to prove himself someone you could lean on, confide in, laugh and cry with…someone you could love.

What he doesn’t realize is just how much he’s already undone you. If he knew how easily he sends your pulse racing, how often your heart feels like it’s about to leap out of your chest, then maybe – just maybe – he’d go easier on you.

But Jisung doesn’t go easy on you, because he doesn't yet realize just how much of your walls he's managed to break through in such a short time.

And now, you're standing in the middle of the crowd at the annual Fall Festival Pre-Party Bonfire (yes, it's a real thing. Your town literally cannot find enough excuses to do bonfires by the lake), and you can't help but look for him.

Jisung is here somewhere, apparently last seen chatting up Felix, the local baker, about a sweet he saw in the bakery window a few days ago.

Music thumps heavy through the night, bass rattling up your bones. Voices tumble over each other as jokes are shouted across the fire, someone sings off-key near the speaker, the crackle of logs splinters in the flames.

And you can’t separate one thread from another.

It’s always like this in crowds. Your right ear catches bits and pieces, your left ear nothing. So everything blends into a wall of sound, while you’ve learned to smile, laugh at the right time, and nod when someone else does. It’s easier than asking them to repeat themselves four times and then explaining that you still didn't hear them correctly.

It's a good thing most people in the town know of your struggle and understand to a degree. It's mainly the older generation, the ones who were here when it all happened. The ones who knew your family and saw you grow up.

But the town has changed and new people have moved in and old people have moved on. In the end, it's easier to just focus on one conversation and claim an inability to multitask or hear things coming up behind you.

You tend to keep a low profile and try to keep from becoming overwhelmed with too much audible stimulus. But when a stranger’s hand clamps down on your shoulder, you flinch hard, pulse skittering.

You spin, wide-eyed. His face is twisted, brows knotted, lips curled in irritation.

“So, what? You just gonna ignore me all night? That’s real cute, ___.”

“Jay?” You blink, confused at first and then tense when you recognize the town drunkard staring down at you. “What do you mean? I didn’t even know you were here.”

“Don’t fuck with me.” His voice is sharp, cutting through the bass. “I’ve said hi to you three times already. You looked right past me every time.”

Your stomach twists. You’ve been here before. A different night, but the same scene. Jay with a drink in his hand, leaning too close at the bar, at the grocery store, outside the diner. Always pushing, always mistaking politeness for invitation. And every time, you turned him down, firm but careful, because you knew how ugly his disappointment could get.

Only tonight, it’s uglier than ever.

“I didn’t hear you,” you insist, but your voice comes out smaller than you mean. “Honest.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, leaning closer so you catch the alcohol heavy on his breath. “Oh, right. You didn’t hear me. That’s the new excuse now? You’ve been brushing me off for years. Thought maybe you’d finally quit acting like I don’t exist, but nope. Same shitty story. Same shitty ___.”

“For the last time, I’m not brushing you off,” you say, stumbling back a step as he pushes closer. “I'm just not interested.”

“I do everything right! I put myself out there, I say the right thing, I buy you drinks. And you just keep shooting me down. Or worse, you say nothing. Just silence! Do you have any idea what that feels like?” His eyes flash, his voice slurring more as he starts shouting.

“Jay…” You put a hand to his chest to hold him back, inside your fight or flight response starting to kick in. “You’re drunk. Go home.”

He sneers, shaking his head. “You always have some reason, don't you? Too drunk, too busy, too focused, too…whatever. But it was never really that. It’s me. Isn't it? You never wanted me, did you? You said you wanted sex–”

“Sex was never on the table, Jay. I never said that. You made it up.”

He grabs your wrist, holding you in place. His grip isn’t cruel, but it’s desperate and tight.

“Stop lying!” His voice cracks, all bitterness and hurt twisted together. “You just keep making ME the joke! You should be the joke for once!”

You try to yank your wrist free, but his grip only tightens. Pain shoots up your arm, sharp enough to make your breath catch.

“Jay – stop. You’re hurting me.”

He leans closer, jaw set, eyes glassy with heavy liquor. “Don’t act like you’re so innocent, ___. You’ve been stringing me along for years. Smiling just enough to keep me coming back, then shutting me down every damn time.”

“I never flirted with you, Jay,” you snap, voice shaking with equal parts anger and fear.

“Yes, you did,” he bites back, the words slurred but insistent. “Every time you turned me down, you were teasing me. Everyone sees it. You just think you’re too good for me, for any of us, don’t you?”

“Let me go,” you say, low and steady. “I’m not playing this game with you.”

His fingers dig harder into your wrist. “That’s all you ever do, isn’t it? Pretend it’s a game. Pretend I never meant anything to you.”

“Let me go – ah!” you repeat, louder this time, but Jay only shakes his head, his grip bruising.

Before he can spit out another word, another hand lands on top of his, firm to match the voice that follows.

“Back. Off.”

You freeze.

Jisung.

He’s already there, slipping between you and Jay like a wall, his hand prying at Jay’s wrist until your arm is free. He keeps you behind him with a shift of his body, shoulders squared, the firelight throwing sharp lines across his tense jaw.

“She said she's not interested.” Jisung’s voice is calm but sharp, each word confident but laced with aggression. “You don’t get to touch her like that.”

Jay staggers back half a step, his drunkenness flaring. “What, you her bodyguard or something?”

“Sure,” Jisung says, not missing a beat. “Let’s call it that.”

Jay barks out a laugh, ugly and humorless. “Always knew you were a pathetic music boy. Chasing after what isn’t yours.”

“Funny. From where I’m standing, you’re the only one doing the chasing. And she’s never once wanted you.”

The words land like a slap. Jay’s face twists, red and mean. You open your mouth to warn Jisung, but it’s too late. Jay’s fist flies, knuckles cracking against Jisung’s mouth.

The crowd erupts, voices shouting now that there's been actual damage, bodies surging forward to pull Jay back. He’s dragged toward the parking lot, still swearing, still thrashing, until someone shoves him in the direction of his house.

Someone else hurries over to ask if you're okay, but you hardly notice anything else around you.

Because Jisung is standing in front of you now, blood on his lip, chest rising and falling as he struggles to steady himself, trying so hard to look calm for you.

Instinctively, you reach out, brushing a hand along his jaw, tilting his face gently toward you. Your eyes catch the glint of shimmering red at the corner of his mouth, and your heart clenches.

“What were you thinking?” you ask, voice low but urgent, hovering just above a whisper.

His tongue darts out to test the split in his lip, and a sharp hiss escapes him. He rubs it quickly with the back of his hand, trying to hide the sting.

“I’m fine,” he says, although you can see the stubborn flare of pain in his eyes.

“No, you’re not,” you murmur, letting go of his jaw and slipping your hand into his to guide him. “Come on, let’s get you inside and cleaned up properly.”

And you don’t wait for him to argue. You tug him through the party, away from the shouting and the firelight, into the shadows where the noise dulls and the world feels smaller.

Inside the community lake house, the party feels far away. The music is nothing but a muffled throb through the walls, replaced by the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore and the faint crackle of lingering fire embers. Your pulse is still thudding, and even though adrenaline buzzes in your veins, you can’t ignore the tiny tremor in his hand as you lead him to the bathroom.

The bathroom is small, lit only by a soft candle.

Jisung stands by the counter where you tell him, no questions asked. His lip is bleeding, though not badly. Still, the sight makes you nervous. You pull a tissue from your pocket and run it under some warm water before stepping closer.

He flinches at the sting when you dab the cut. Then he huffs out a laugh, low and quiet.

“You still carry around tissues?”

“Only for emergencies,” you murmur, keeping your focus on his mouth. “I teach kids after all.”

A faint smile flickers across his face, but it falters when it stretches too wide, making his split lip pull painfully.

“Careful,” you urge him gently, your eyes tracing his features as the moment hangs between you.

The candlelight flickers in the small bathroom, casting warm shadows across his face. You step closer to see the cut properly in the dark, tilting your head for a better angle.

He lets you, consciously keeping himself from also tilting his head when you lean in. You work slowly, dabbing the tissue with gentle precision and cleaning up stray blood from beneath his mouth.

But your wandering eyes can’t seem to pay attention to what they're supposed to. From his lips to his gaze that shimmers faintly in the candlelight, you’re trapped in the space with him, pulled closer with each shallow breath.

Have his lips always been this pretty pink? Or is that the blood rushing to his skin?

Your body feels magnetized to him, like an invisible thread tugging from the center of your chest straight into his. You’re only inches away, yet every part of you yearns to close that narrow gap, to sink into his warmth, to be sheltered by him, and at the same time, ruined by him completely.

Has his chest always been that broad? Or are you just craving a safe hug since being threatened?

Jisung catches it – the way your gaze flickers, hesitant but undeniable, from his lips to his chest, then back up to his eyes. You’re fighting yourself, and he can see it in the way your fingers tighten around the tissue, in the way you look at his lips a bit too fondly for simply cleaning a cut.

And it floors him.

The thought that you want him, even if only right now, even if only because he stood up for you, hits him like a ton of bricks. His pulse drums loud in his ears, every muscle taut with the effort not to grab you by the waist and pull you flush against him.

For the first time, hope burns bright and raw in his veins, almost too much to bear. With every moment you spend memorizing the shape of his mouth and the firmness of his chest, he allows himself to think that he must be doing at least something right.

You manage to tear yourself from his gravity just long enough to toss the used tissue aside and reach for a fresh one, the steady trickle of water filling the sink as you force your hands to stay busy.

“I saw him try to talk to you. But you didn't even turn your head. At first, I thought maybe you were mad at him, or just really done with people.”

Your hands still for a moment, but you don’t answer. Your eyes glance up to meet his in the soft candle light.

“Were you serious?” he asks, voice low. “You really didn’t hear him?”

“Mm,” you answer. “A year after you left…I started hearing this weird muffling in my left ear. It wasn’t painful, but it didn’t go away. So, I got it checked. Then I got an MRI.”

His brow furrows, lips parting slightly as he leans forward, listening intensely.

“They found an acoustic neuroma pushing the left side of my brain pretty far back. It was benign and slow-growing, but it had to come out.”

You pause, letting that sit, watching the way his eyes search yours as though living the moment by your side.

“Two days after my college sophomore finals, I went into surgery. They got the tumor out, but I lost hearing in that ear permanently. And the tumor had been wrapped around my facial nerve…they had to cut and sew it back together.”

His jaw tightens. His hand curls on the counter for lack of wrapping around you.

“I had partial facial paralysis for a time. No pain receptors on the left side. Couldn’t smile right. Couldn’t cry from my left eye. Still can’t. Most of my muscle movement has come back now, but it’s…never going to be what it was.”

The words fall heavy in the small room, hovering there until you move again, a tiny shrug.

“God,” Jisung breathes, voice cracking. “I didn’t know. I had no idea.”

“Of course, you didn’t.” Your voice is calm, not blaming. “You weren’t there.”

His gaze drops to the floor, shame flickering across his face like a shadow.

“I should have been.”

You don’t reply. Because yes, he should have been. Had everything gone the way it was supposed to, he would have been. But you lived for so long in should have been’s, that even the thought of holding that grudge for any longer is exhausting.

When he speaks again, his voice carries a type of softness and pity you've heard far too often.

“And you still pursued music…”

“I know that face. Please don’t feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for myself.”

“Why?”

“Because even though I’m pursuing you, there’s no way in hell I could ever deserve you.”

The room stills. You’re both staring at each other now, caught in the weight of it. His gaze flickers down to your lips, and you feel the pull in your chest again, the dangerous one that could very easily abandon any and all sense of reason.

You clear your throat, clutching the tissue in your hand as you walk past him with hurried steps. “I think your lip is fine now. Just try not to open your mouth too wide. You might reopen it.”

“___.”

You stop at the doorframe, turning back.

He slides away from the counter and comes to you, close enough now that you feel the warmth of him. His fingers twitch nervously at his sides before he reaches out to hold your hands.

“I haven’t officially apologized to you for the way I left…” He pauses, searching for words. “And I don’t think there’s a single apology out there that will make up for it. But I want to say it anyway.”

You say nothing. You let him speak.

“I was scared. My parents were scrambling, my life was falling apart, and when things got hard, I didn’t reach out. Instead, I chose to disappear. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve the silence or the confusion or the way I ditched our plans. I still think about it. A lot. What it must’ve felt like from your side.”

His throat works around a swallow when your fingers fold around his too.

“I abandoned you. And I can’t take that back, no matter how much I wish I could. You were my best friend and the girl I was in love with, and I left without a word. I’m so sorry. I know I don’t get to ask for anything. But I hope you’ll let me show you that I’m not that scared kid anymore. I’ll never walk away from you like that again. And I won't let you go through anything alone ever again. I'm gonna be here for you from now on. I promise.”

The words linger for a moment of fragile vulnerability. He breathes in like he wants to say more, but it leaves him in a shaky exhale instead.

Without even thinking, you rise onto your toes, drawn to him, ready to close that tiny space that’s been tormenting you all night. But just as your lips hover close to his, something explodes outside. A sudden hiss and crackle of something igniting, followed by a choir of shouts and laughter. You both jolt, breaking apart as the sound grows louder.

When you step out onto the porch, the night sky blooms with sparks of color. Fireworks burst over the lake, reflecting on the rippling water, painting the crowd’s cheers in flashes of red, green, and gold. Jisung stands beside you, quiet, the soft glow catching on his profile.

While his attention is fixed on the bursts of color painting the night sky, you shift closer, rising onto your toes just enough to brush a soft kiss against his cheek. It’s fleeting, just a whisper of contact, but it's enough to make his head snap toward you. His grin blooms beautiful and boyish, until the cut on his lip protests, pulling his expression into a wince.

A warm laugh slips from you, unable to be contained, and he shakes his head like he’s embarrassed. But his eyes give his heart away.

He extends his hand toward you, palm open, and you take it without hesitation, fingers weaving through his. The fireworks roar louder, scattering the sky with light and color. But his gaze keeps flicking back to you, stealing glances at your every gasp and awe.

And for the first time in years, as you stand here with him beneath the crackling stars, feeling his pulse quicken each time you smile at him, something steady and safe settles within you.

::

The week leading up to the Fall Festival is a blur of final practices and last-minute preparations. The whole town seems to come alive with colorful streamers being strung up, kids darting around with sticky fingers from kettle corn, shop windows painted with bright letters announcing Fall-themed sales.

Everything is coming together.

Well, almost everything…

Every afternoon, after work, Jisung vanishes. No explanation, just a small smile and a hushed, “I’m working on something. It's a secret.”

By the third day, you stopped asking. But the curiosity still gnaws at you.

One time, you attempted to follow him undetectably, but you ended up losing him around the block when the crosswalk light turned red right as you approached it.

The night of the festival arrives with warm spirits, lively music, and kids in homemade costumes. The nostalgia hits you strong as the town square transforms into a Fall paradise.

Strings of golden lights zigzag overhead, booths line the edges with food and trinkets, and the stage glows faintly blue under makeshift spotlights. Music pulses from the speakers, the crowd buzzing with anticipation to see their kids play and sing to welcome in the new season.

You’re half-busy wrangling students from the music school when you hear the mic on stage suddenly turn on.

Jisung is on stage. Alone. A guitar slung across his chest, hair messy from the humid evening, and eyes straight on you.

He steps up to the mic, taps the thing to make sure it's on, and clears his throat.

“I know you guys were expecting the kids, but I hope you don't mind an opening act. I'm not as good as they are, but I'll give it my best shot.”

The crowd obviously loves him, even a small one like this. It's just the town folk, his neighbors, the bookstore owner, the barber, the baker. But he holds the stage as if it was a hundred thousand screaming fans, and he only cares about one.

“This song is for someone I owe a lot to. Someone I hurt more than anyone else. I don’t deserve it, but I hope someday, I can make it up to her. Maybe this song can be a start.”

And then he begins to sing, melting your heart with each strum.

I’ll wish you back, whoa oh

I’ll wish you back, whoa oh oh

I’ll wish you back, whoa oh

Sometimes I’m gonna get hurt,

But I’ll call you until you come back,

Let’s go back to those times, our day

To how it was, turn everything back, back, back,

You were my story,

Your words come to mind endlessly,

Just by being able to look back at it,

Like a photo that will be engraved deeply in my heart,

I’ll gather my memories one by one and cherish them in my heart,

Your scent became the wind and flew far away,

But I’ll remember it forever,

I just want you to stay with me all day,

All day,

So baby, love me again if it’s okay,

Is that okay?

His voice floats through the square, flying effortlessly above the noise of the crowd until it reaches who it’s really meant for.

You.

Every note, every lyric, every intention, sung as though he’s not performing for the town, but for you alone. The crowd may still cheer and sway along, but it all fades into a dull, blurred background. In this moment, Jisung sings only for you.

His guitar hums with a sound you know by heart. His fingers glide over the strings with that same effortless passion and confidence that once seemed lost to time.

But now, it’s back.

This is the sound that carried you through your youth, the sound that stitched itself into your dearest memories. And hearing it again, exactly the way it used to be, makes something inside you unravel. You never thought your heart could feel this way again. Yet, here it is, so full it begins to ache.

Applause erupts around you, but you can’t bring yourself to join. Your hands won’t move, your feet won’t budge. You can only stand frozen in place, staring at him as though the entire world has stopped, as though your heart might split wide open right here in the middle of the street.

A small tug at your sleeve pulls you halfway back to reality. One of the children peers up at you with bright, expectant eyes, clutching their instrument nervously, waiting for you to lead them on.

As the cheers begin to die down, Jisung leans toward the mic again.

“I think the real stars of this festival deserve their turn now, what do y'all think?” he asks warmly, and the crowd cheers louder in reply.

The children explode with excitement, rushing forward as he gestures them onto the stage. You follow them up, ushering them into their places, making sure instruments are where they need to be, mic stands are in place. But your focus fractures when Jisung moves closer.

His hand brushes against yours in a fleeting, deliberate touch. Your head lifts toward him instinctively, and in that single heartbeat, your eyes meet his.

Just one look. One quiet, unspoken confession, hidden in plain sight, but understood only by the two of you.

And suddenly, it’s like you're seventeen again. Like when you and Jisung spoke entire conversations through eyes that carried all the truth your voices never dared to say. For the first time since his return, he feels like himself again. And it’s because you’re looking at him the way you used to.

You force yourself to turn away and be with the children, steadying them as they begin. Their small voices rise, sweet and slightly off-key, but pure in a way that only makes the moment more beautiful.

The crowd claps along, encouraging their little ones with shouts and whistles. Jisung plays on the side, his guitar the perfect accompaniment to the children's song, and it makes you feel warm even in the Fall breeze.

Even from up here, Jisung doesn’t hear the children right away. He hears you, your voice soft and sweet as you guide them, your hands gently directing their voices, your smile warm enough to melt through every anxious crease in their little brows.

The kids look at you like you hung the stars in the sky, and Jisung can’t blame them. You always had that gift, the ability to make people feel safe enough to try, brave enough to keep going, loved enough to shine.

Jisung was perhaps the first person to ever be offered that gift by you. And even though he screwed it up, he wants to believe that he now has a chance at getting it back.

The music is sweet, simple, a little uneven in rhythm, but Jisung swears it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. Not because of the song itself, but because of you. Because of the way you beam at every child, clapping along even when they falter, quietly mouthing the words to keep them on track. Your presence fills the stage, and his heart.

That's when he feels it again, that tightening in his chest, that dangerous swell that nearly steals his breath. He’s supposed to be listening to the kids, to their little victory in pulling through a performance they've practiced months for.

But all he can do is watch you.

Reality hits him suddenly and inevitably. He’s not falling for you again. He never stopped. Even after all these years, all this distance, somehow you’re still the center of every song he’s ever played, every hope he’s ever held, every thing he's ever wanted.

Jisung catches himself smiling, stupid and probably way too obvious, but he doesn’t care. Because looking at you right now, laughing when a child plays a note too early and gently guiding them back to the right place, he could fight the whole world just for the chance to stay with you in this square, in this town, in this life.

It's safe to say the Festival is a huge success. The kids drink up every last bit of attention and praise they can get, the food is served steaming and delicious, and the people are together in a way only small town folk can be.

Later, after the stage is cleared and the crowd has moved on, Jisung finds you.

His hands clutch the strap of his guitar with a nervousness you didn't expect once the performance was over, but there's a tremor in his fingers that implies he’s still got one last show.

He smiles at you, soft and almost shy as he offers you his hand. “Come with me?” he asks, voice quiet, clearly trying to sneak you away from everything else. “I want to show you something.”

For a moment, you just stare at him, enchanted by the way the Fall lights paint his features gold, softening the sharpness of his features and making him look both familiar and brand new all at once. There’s something in his tone, in the way he holds himself, not demanding or assuming, just hoping. Hoping you'll give him this chance.

“Okay,” you breathe, taking his hand and allowing him to lead you far away from the crowd.

You follow him down a path lit faintly by candles inside paper lanterns. Their glow flickers on the dirt, casting soft halos of light that guide the way. The path winds past the last of the festival booths, slipping away from the chatter of the streets until the rest of town fades into the distance.

But Jisung doesn’t stop there. His fingers are intertwined securely with yours and every so often he gives a gentle squeeze, as if to remind you that you’re safe, that he’s not letting go.

“Where are we going?” you ask with a childlike giggle.

He only glances over his shoulder, a grin tugging at his lips as he quickens his pace. “Trust me.”

The lanterns lead you deeper through the trees. Then suddenly, the path opens into a clearing, and at the end of the clearing…

The pier.

But not the broken, rotting boards you remember from the last time you were here. This pier stretches strong and sure far into the lake, its frame rebuilt with firm care. Lanterns line the wooden rails, their glow spilling across the surface of the water like little reflections of shimmering stars. Along the shore, clusters of flowers bloom, their colors vivid even in the lantern’s light, softening the edges of the scene with touches of colorful life.

Jisung bends down, plucks one of the flowers, and presses it gently into your hand.

It feels like something from a dream.

You stop at the edge of the boards, tears already stinging your eyes. “You fixed it?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets go of your hand, walks down the length of the pier until he stands at its very end. There, he turns back to you, his guitar cradled in his arms, his eyes solely on yours.

And then, he begins to play.

I’m getting anxious, can’t think straight,

I’ll give you an armful of cosmos flowers because I love you,

I wanna place myself in a spot next to you,

I’ll hug you,

Don’t know if it was the wind, or the feeling of my affection that stirred the air,

It goes high above the sky into the universe,

I’ll hold you tight and say I’ve always been waiting for this moment,

I can't hold it in any longer,

Pink chroma key background, the surrounding scenes,

Love is so intuitive while everything else changes,

The start of a typical romance,

Even though I know it all, I deeply fall into you and get my hopes up again,

The moment I first saw you, it was meant to be,

For me, it’s always been you,

A pointless war of nerves is a waste of time,

For me, it’s always been you,

I’ve seen it all before but I keep freezing up,

Guess I’m not used to love,

I know it’s pain, but I really want it so bad.

The melody is sweet but painful, the kind that burns as it melts into your bones. His voice cracks halfway through, but he doesn’t stop. He pours his everything into it. All his regret, hope…love. You take a step closer, your hands flying over your mouth. The pier doesn't creak beneath your feet anymore. As you make your way to him, it's steady and trustworthy.

He blinks at you then, eyes just as wet, chest rising and falling with each line he sings.

Your vision blurs as more tears begin to form, now dripping down your cheek relentlessly. You don't even realize you've begun to run until you're about to crash into his arms.

His guitar cuts off right before you collide with him. He swings it onto his back, his arms catching you just in time.

Your kiss is not tentative or unsure or hesitant. It’s healing, all-consuming, the kind of kiss born from years of silence and longing that's finally breaking free. The world tilts as Jisung lifts you off your feet, arms locked around your waist. You cling to him, arms looped tightly around his neck as he spins you once, twice, three times.

His laughter bubbles against your lips, boyish giggles muffled and sweet, meant only for you. The lake splashes beneath the pier, lantern light streaking across the water, and it feels like the whole world is dancing with you both. Your smile keeps breaking the kiss, but he only chases it, kissing you harder, deeper, until you’re dizzy and breathless and completely drunk on him.

When your feet finally find the wooden boards again, it feels like ripping your heart apart to let even an inch of space exist between you. He presses his forehead to yours, unable to stop himself from stealing another kiss. And another. And another.

“I love you,” he whispers against your skin as he kisses you again and again, over and over until he’s kissed every part of you he can. “I’ve always loved you, ___. Even apart, even when I couldn’t say it, I never stopped. I’ll never stop.”

And when his mouth finds yours again, his kiss is different. No longer desperate, but certain, sealing the promise he's waited far too long to make.

You cradle his jaw and whisper back the words he’s waited eight years to hear, “I love you too, Jisung.”

The moment your lips meet his is like an exhale after holding his breath for his entire life. Every heartbeat, every sleepless night spent wondering if he’d lost you forever, dissolves in an instant. Relief floods him so sharply it nearly buckles his knees, because you’re here, kissing him back, clinging to him like you’ve been waiting just as long.

It feels like he's finally come home. Like every wrong turn in his life has led him back to this single, perfect moment.

And in this kiss, Jisung knows with absolute certainty, he doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

With his promise in every lingering kiss, you finally let yourself believe, trusting in him and in the future you'll make with him. And it resonates in your chest like a song you’ve known all along, like the way you used to sound.

::

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