Every Version Hurts - Jihoon
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member/pairing: Jihoon x reader synopsis: You write songs. He produces them. The lyrics are about each other—but you’re both too scared to say it. So instead, you watch fans fall in love with what you’ll never have. wc: 5.4k genre: Angst, Mutual Pining warnings: Emotional Distress, Romantic Tension, Fan/Public Attention, Separation, Distance a/n: happy birthday jihoonie!!
Working Title in Jihoon’s file: untitled_01.wav
The building hasn’t changed, but you have.
Or maybe it’s just that you notice the way your palms sweat now, standing outside the door you used to walk through without thinking. Back when this was just another music studio—not the place where your heart learned how to beat too loud.
You hear someone tuning monitors inside. Short, precise clicks. Familiar in a way that presses down on your lungs.
Jihoon.
You straighten your jacket, like that does anything about the tremor in your ribs, and push the door open.
The scent hits first—wood panels, clean equipment, faint coffee from a mug that probably hasn’t been washed in three sessions. The room is neat, except for the cluster of sticky notes and notebooks around his workspace. Lyrics, melodies, ideas in messy loops only he can decode.
He’s seated at the desk, hood up, headphones around his neck. His hair’s a little longer than before—softer, like he forgot to cut it or didn’t care to. When he turns, the surprise he tries to hide is instant and painfully familiar.
“Hey,” he says.
Your throat tightens. You used to hear that like it meant something. Now it’s just a greeting. Safe. Expected. Nothing dangerous unless you listen too close.
“Hey,” you manage, closing the door behind you.
Jihoon doesn’t get up. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away either. He just watches you, like you’re a lyric he can’t decide is beautiful or stupid.
“How was time off?”
You latch onto the question like it’s solid ground. “Restful.”
He nods slowly, eyebrows lifting just a bit—not disbelief, just knowing better.
“Right,” he murmurs, reaching again for his mouse. “You and rest always get along.”
You force a thin laugh. “I can relax.”
“You say that like you’re trying to convince the furniture.”
Silence again. Not tense—just… too loaded to call comfortable.
This is what you signed up for. Working with him again. Pretending time fixed anything other than teaching you new ways to miss him.
He gestures to the booth. “Warm up whenever. I’ve got a track I want to start with.”
You swallow. “You did something already?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” He shrugs. “Work happens.”
That used to make you smile. That used to sound like you.
You move past him, but he stops you without touching you—just a hand lifted mid-air.
“I, uh—” He looks suddenly unsure. “You cut your hair.”
It’s such a harmless comment. It shouldn’t feel like a bruise blooming.
“So did you.”
He mumbles, “Mm. Yeah.” His eyes drop. “Suits you.”
You shouldn’t feel lightheaded over two words. You do anyway.
You slip into the booth before you embarrass yourself, close the door behind you. The mic waits in front of you like a confession booth. A pair of old taped-on headphone pads you remember complaining about still sit on the stand.
He didn’t replace them.
You put them on. His voice crackles through the monitoring line.
“Check?”
You breathe in. “Check.”
The sound rings too intimate—his voice in your ears, your breath in his.
“Good,” he murmurs. “I’ll play something.”
A soft track fills your headphones—delicate guitar, low synth hum, a pulsing percussive heartbeat. And under it, a fluttering piano line that isn’t timid, just… held back. Like a feeling you chew on instead of saying.
It sounds like reaching.
“Wow,” you whisper without thinking. “It’s… beautiful.”
There’s a beat. “It’s unfinished.”
He always says that.
“You okay to hum around it? Just mood-sketching.”
You nod even though he can’t see. “Yeah.”
You close your eyes and let the melody hold you. You hum—long notes, gentle, drifting not because you’re lost but because you know exactly where this feeling sits in your chest.
You hum longing. You hum regret. You hum everything you don’t say when he’s close enough to hear you breathe.
The track fades. You open your eyes slowly.
Jihoon clears his throat. “We can build off that.”
His voice sounds rough.
You pretend not to notice.
He pretends too.
—
[Studio Note — your notebook]
I came back different. You stayed the same. That’s why it hurts.
If I breathe too close to you, I forget how to pretend.
(scratchout) I missed you.
—
You exit the booth. He shifts aside automatically, making space for you at the desk. You don’t take it. You keep a safe distance, leaning against the wall, arms crossed like armor.
“Where do you want to start?” you ask.
He taps a pencil. Looks at the screen. Not at you.
“Anywhere but the truth,” he says under his breath.
You blink. “What?”
“Chorus,” he says louder, like the other line never existed. “Start with chorus.”
You nod slowly. Right. Work. Safety. Distance. The usual.
He doesn’t look at you again.
You don’t look at him because you’re tired of giving yourself away.
You open your notebook. Pen hovers. The first line comes too fast:
“I write like I’m bleeding.”
You strike it out. Too much, too soon. Too honest.
He watches the scratch of your pen like he knows what you erased. Like he hates not seeing it. Like he’s relieved he doesn’t.
The room hums with unspoken things. The computer fan, the soft buzz of speakers. Your pulse.
He finally breaks the quiet.
“It’s good to have you back.”
You look up—startled by the sincerity. It sits awkwardly in his throat, like he didn’t plan to give you that much truth today.
“It’s good to be back,” you say softly.
It would be easier if it weren’t.
He nods once. Small. Careful. Like the wrong movement might spill everything.
And then, business-like, like he’s rebuilding the walls as fast as they crack:
“Let’s make something people will feel.”
Not us.
Not I missed you.
Just work.
Just pretending.
You open your notebook again.
You write another line you’ll pretend isn’t about him:
“If they fall in love with our song, will we ever let ourselves?”
You don’t show him.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
—
Jihoon’s project folder name: folder_with_no_name
It starts simple, like heartbreak always does—with a morning that pretends to be ordinary.
The studio smells like the same burnt coffee he insists isn’t burnt. The blinds are still crooked from the time Seungkwan tried to “brighten the creative environment” and nearly broke them. Jihoon hasn’t fixed them. You don’t know if it’s laziness or sentiment.
He’s already at the desk when you arrive. Hoodie, glasses, hair slightly damp from a rushed shower or from not drying it at all. His eyes flick up the second you walk in.
It’s so fast you’d miss it if you weren’t waiting for it.
“Morning,” you say, voice soft, hoping it lands safer than your thoughts do.
“Mm.” He pushes his chair back. “Warming up?”
You nod. He nods. Silence returns, patient as ever.
Nothing is wrong. Except everything is, quietly.
You set your bag down, flip open your notebook, and write a line before you can second-guess yourself:
“I am most honest in the things you’ll never hear.”
You close the notebook too fast.
Jihoon doesn’t see the words, but he sees your hands tremble. His shoulders stiffen. He pretends to adjust a cable.
“You seem… different this week,” he says without looking.
“That good or bad?”
He pauses. Just long enough to hurt. “I’m not sure yet.”
You exhale through your nose. You don’t know if you should thank him or bleed.
“Track?” you ask instead.
He nods toward the screen. Hits the spacebar.
It starts: a beat slower than last time, like a heartbeat trying to steady itself. Strings swell in slowly—delicate, violins on tiptoes, a piano chord that lands soft but heavy.
It sounds like someone reaching and stopping themselves mid-reach.
“Thought we’d try something more raw today,” Jihoon murmurs, pen tapping his notebook without rhythm.
You swallow. “Raw how?”
“Less safety.” He shrugs. “More honesty.”
It hits you in the sternum.
You hum a response as you slip into the booth, pretending your pulse isn’t an alarm. The mic smells like dust and ghosts—the kind of place secrets go to pretend they aren’t.
You don’t look at him. You can’t.
He hits record. The red light pins you to the truth you keep burying.
You sing nothing—just hum—soft vowels, airy, aching. A melody that trembles like it wants to be brave but keeps choosing survival instead.
Your voice catches on one note. You don’t know why.
No— you do.
Him.
You open your eyes to see him watching through the glass. Not the screen. Not the meters.
You.
His expression is unreadable—except for the part where it isn’t.
Wanting hurts, even when you don’t name it.
You force the last note out. He stops recording. Doesn’t speak.
Not good. Not bad. Just silence, thick as a bruise.
You step out. He doesn’t move.
Then, suddenly:
“You wrote last night.”
Your breath stalls. “…How do you know?”
Jihoon points to your notebook on the desk—the one you definitely remember closing.
“The pen mark. You pressed too hard. The page dented.”
You stare at him. He stares back like it’s normal to memorize the pressure of your handwriting.
“It must’ve been… passionate,” he says carefully, “or painful.”
Your heart lurches. “Why does it matter?”
“It matters if it affects the song.”
Liar, you think. It matters because you felt something. You always do, and you hate that you can’t hide it from him.
“I didn’t write anything usable,” you say.
He tilts his head, studying you. “I don’t believe that.”
You force a laugh. “It was nothing.”
He hums. Low. Disbelieving. The kind of hum that knows exactly what you’re afraid of.
You turn away before he reads you too well.
That’s when it happens.
You click the wrong folder.
A file opens — your private demo. The one you recorded at 3 AM when missing him felt too big for silence. It’s quiet, raw, your voice shaking on every line:
I love in shadows so it never becomes real.
Jihoon freezes. You freeze harder. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
You slam the window shut. Too late.
Jihoon stands. Slow. Controlled. Like he’s worried too much movement will break something.
“Was that—”
“A mistake,” you say sharply.
He watches you like you’re a wound he wants to touch even though it will hurt him. “It didn’t sound like one.”
Your throat burns. “It wasn’t finished.”
“Neither are feelings before you admit them.”
You choke on air. “Drop it.”
“No.” His voice is too gentle. That’s worse than anger. “It meant something.”
“It was a draft,” you snap.
He looks at you.
Quiet. Devastating.
“So are we.”
It feels like someone yanked the floor out from under you.
You can’t breathe.
“You shouldn’t have heard that,” you whisper.
“You shouldn’t have hidden it,” he replies, soft but sharp. “Not from me.”
You stare at him. He stares back. Too long. Too real.
Then, just as the truth thickens enough to swallow you both—
He steps away.
Walls back up. Mask snapped on.
“Break,” he mutters, voice flat now. “Fifteen minutes.”
He leaves before you can answer.
The door shuts behind him. The room collapses into silence.
You sink into the chair he abandoned, head in your hands, pulse everywhere at once.
You whisper to the empty room:
“I wasn’t ready for you to hear that.”
I only mean it when nobody’s listening.
You heard. Now I don’t know how to breathe.
When you leave the studio, the hallway feels too narrow.
Jihoon is leaning against the wall, head bowed, fists in the pockets of his hoodie like he’s fighting himself more than anything.
He looks up as you pass him.
And he says nothing.
Which is somehow worse than if he’d confessed everything right there.
Because silence is safer.
And safety hurts just as much as the truth.
—
Working track title in folder: “don’tlookatme_like_that.wav”
The internet ruins everything.
Or maybe it just tells the truth before you’re brave enough to.
It starts with a clip—three seconds long, posted by staff. Harmless, except it isn’t.
You and Jihoon in the studio.
You adjusting a mic.
Him watching you like you hung the moon and never asked for credit.
Someone zooms in. Someone adds soft music. Someone writes:
tell me this isn’t love.
Hashtags multiply like wildfire. Fan edits. Slow-motion gifs. Thread analyses. Screenshots with circles around the way he looks at you.
And suddenly your phone vibrates nonstop.
You shouldn't check—but you do.
One comment punches right through you:
“They look like they’ve already lost each other.”
You close the screen. Your chest feels like it’s collapsing inward, quietly.
The studio door opens before you can breathe through it.
Jihoon walks in with his usual quiet presence—but his steps hesitate when he sees your face.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod quickly. Wrong move—he notices the lie immediately. He always does. You wish he didn’t.
“You saw the clip,” he says, not a question.
“You did too?”
“Seungkwan sent it,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “And Jeonghan. And Mingyu. And Vernon. And—”
You almost laugh. “Okay. I get it.”
He exhales, pacing once. You can see it—the panic he’s trying to swallow. Jihoon isn’t scared of cameras, crowds, expectations.
He's scared of being seen.
Especially with you.
“What do we do?” you ask quietly.
Jihoon’s gaze flicks up. “There’s nothing to do. Let it pass.”
But his voice wavers. Barely—but enough to bruise.
“Unless…” he starts, then shuts his mouth like the words taste dangerous.
“Unless what?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
You step closer. “Jihoon.”
His eyes jump to yours—sharp, vulnerable, cornered.
“Unless,” he says slowly, “we tell them they’re wrong.”
You freeze.
He rushes on, voice too calm to be real.
“It’s better for you. Your image. Your safety. We can't feed rumors like this, it— it could affect you more than me.”
There it is. The knife. Wrapped in worry, disguised as protection.
He’s not saying we're not. He’s saying we shouldn’t be.
Pain blooms quietly, dignified. You inhale like it doesn’t cut.
“That’s what you want?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer. That’s the answer.
You nod once, careful. Measured. Professional.
Just like him.
“Okay. We deny.”
His shoulders drop—relief or regret, you can’t tell. You don’t want to know.
You move to your seat. He moves to his.
A gulf sits between you, wide as oceans, quiet as heartbreak that never gets permission to speak.
He plays the track again—the soft one, the one that sounds like confession strangled by fear.
You write.
You don’t look at him.
He doesn’t look away from you, even when you pretend not to notice.
Time drips. The air tastes like everything you don’t say.
Halfway through a verse, his voice cuts through:
“Can I ask something?”
You don’t look up. “You’re going to anyway.”
“Do you regret working with me again?”
You freeze.
He adds quickly, “If you do, tell me. I can— I don’t know, rearrange things. Give you space.”
You clench your pen.
Space. As if distance ever saved you.
“No,” you say, too fast, too raw. “I don’t regret it.”
He lets out a breath like you just pulled him back from a cliff.
“Okay,” he whispers.
Silence again—but softer this time.
Then he plays something new. A melody you haven’t heard yet. It’s fragile, ascending like a held breath—and when strings swell at the pre-chorus, it feels like hope pressed between pages so it doesn’t wilt.
It sounds like longing in sunlight.
Your eyes sting.
“You wrote this?” you ask.
He doesn’t look up. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“Why did you?”
He glances at you finally—eyes tired, soft, scared and wanting.
Like every version of him you’ve loved without permission.
“Because the clip didn’t lie,” he says quietly.
You stop breathing.
But before you can speak—before truth can bloom or ruin everything—his phone buzzes.
His expression shutters.
Manager. Urgent.
A message. A short one. You see his jaw clench.
“What happened?” you ask.
He swallows hard. “They want us to address the rumors publicly.”
You feel your pulse in your fingertips.
“How?” you whisper.
“They want us to say we’re just friends.”
Just.
Nothing has ever sounded smaller.
He watches your face when he says it. Like he's testing whether it breaks you.
Like he already knows it will.
And then, quiet, almost apologetic, “It’s better this way.”
You nod like it doesn’t crush you.
“We should— get back to work,” you say, voice steady only because you kill every feeling before it escapes.
He nods.
You both return to the track. Pretending is muscle memory now.
—
[Lyric draft — your notebook]
We don’t lie
We just don’t say the words.
When the world asked who we were,
you chose silence.
(scribbled out) I would’ve chosen you.
—
[Jihoon’s marginal note on his staff paper]
We don’t deny what we never had—right?
You don’t see that scribble. Not yet.
He tears the corner off and pockets it before you can.
—
Night falls by the time you pack up. Lights dim to studio-late quiet. The world is asleep, but your heart won’t shut up long enough to rest.
You slings your bag over your shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”
Jihoon nods. “Yeah.”
You reach the door.
“Hey,” he calls softly.
You turn.
He hesitates—lips parting, closing, then opening again like he might finally stop hiding.
“I didn’t—” he starts, voice cracking. “I never meant for any of this to feel like—”
Like rejection. Like running. Like you are something he wants but won’t risk wanting out loud.
He exhales, defeated.
“Good night.”
You swallow every version of love in your mouth and answer, “Good night.”
You leave.
He doesn’t move until you’re gone.
Through the door, through the hallway, you hear one last soft thing—a whisper, not meant for you but meant for the truth you both keep strangled:
“I’m sorry.”
It should help.
It doesn’t.
—
[Voice Memo — unsent (yours)]
I wasn’t asking you to choose me.
But I wish you didn’t make it sound so easy not to.
—
Working file: chorus_unfinished_finaltake.wav
The studio feels smaller today. Closer. Every surface holds the ghost of the last argument, the last glance, the last note you hummed when he wasn’t looking. The hum of monitors, the faint smell of stale coffee, the faint echo of old piano keys—it’s all heavy. Too heavy.
Jihoon sits at the desk, headphones on, scribbling over a lyric sheet. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel the weight of his gaze anyway. You settle into the booth, mic in front of you, notebook open, pen poised over lines you’re afraid to finish.
He taps a rhythm on the desk. Slow. Gentle. But it’s charged—every tap a pulse in your chest.
“You ready?” he asks. Not really a question. You know it.
You nod. Voice caught in your throat, because yes, you are ready, but only to feel it all collapse.
The track begins. Piano first. Sparse. Vulnerable. A soft thrum of strings underneath. Your voice cuts in, tentative at first, brushing over the notes like a finger over a wound.
And then—you lose control.
The lyrics pour out, raw, unedited, uncensored, because the song is the only place you can tell the truth:
I keep my distance,
but I hear your heart in the lines I write.
Every melody knows what I won’t say.
You swallow. Voice breaks. You close your eyes. Breath shakes. This is more than singing; this is confessing with every ounce of courage you didn’t know you had.
Jihoon freezes at the desk. His pencil hovers mid-air. His jaw tightens.
I’ve tried to hide behind harmonies,
to write myself out of wanting you.
But you live in every chorus,
in every chord I can’t play right.
Your hands shake. You can feel the room closing in. The words you wrote, deleted, rewritten, erased, hum in the air like ghosts, and he hears them all. Hears everything you’ve refused to speak.
“Stop,” he murmurs, and the word isn’t harsh. It’s almost soft, strangled. You freeze. Mic still live. Your heart hammering. Silence fills the booth. You want to beg, but your voice won’t cooperate.
He’s at the glass now, tapping lightly. Not knocking. Just… presence. You can feel him more than see him. His eyes wide. Vulnerable. Scared. Wanting.
“Do you… do you mean that?” His voice cracks. Barely audible over the playback.
Your pen slips. Notebook open to blank page. You don’t answer. Because saying yes will shatter both of you. Saying no is a lie.
Jihoon exhales. Long, soft, trembling like he’s trying to hold himself together. “It’s okay,” he says finally. “We… we don’t have to finish it.”
You want to tell him: no, don’t stop. Let it spill. Let us drown together. But your mouth doesn’t work. Instead, you nod, head bowed.
The track keeps playing, even after he’s gone back to the desk. You hum the rest, softer now, fragile, a whisper between notes:
Every version of us hurts.
Every melody I write is a version I can’t have.
By the time the session ends, the studio feels empty in a way that’s unbearable. You pack up, pretending to be casual, ignoring the way Jihoon’s eyes follow every movement. Pretending you don’t see his hand twitch as if he wants to reach for something he can’t have.
Finally, he speaks. Quiet. Direct. Dangerous.
“I… I don’t know if I can listen to that again.”
You blink, caught. “Why not?”
“Because it’s too… real.” He shakes his head. “It’s not supposed to feel like this. Not between us.”
Your throat closes. “We… weren’t supposed to exist like this anyway,” you whisper.
He exhales. Looks down at his desk. Scribbles something on a sheet of paper. Then he slides it over. Not a note to the staff. Not a lyric. Just words for you, in messy scrawl:
I would rewrite the world if it meant we could be honest.
You don’t take it. Not yet. You stare at it. It burns.
Finally, he leaves. Booth door closes. Silence stretches. But the words linger. The melody hangs. Your heartbeat echoes in the quiet room.
You open your notebook and write anyway, ignoring everything:
I sang it all. And you heard.
I am not brave enough for us, yet you know.
The page trembles under your hand. Because he knows.
And that knowledge is both a wound and a home.
—
[Jihoon’s Studio Marginalia (on lyric sheet)]
She sings like she’s bleeding.
I can’t stop listening.
What do you do with someone who’s always this honest?”
—
Working file: “untitled_solo_draft.wav”
The studio feels colder now. Not physically, but in the spaces between you. You avoid eye contact with Jihoon, keep your notebook close, fingers clenching the pen like a lifeline.
He notices. Of course he notices. Always does. But he doesn’t confront it—not yet. Instead, he buries himself in work: tweaking tracks, adjusting vocal lines, leaving you to navigate the tension alone.
You’re exhausted before the day even begins, each movement measured to avoid provoking conversation, proximity, feeling.
—
Your phone vibrates with notifications. The usual fans praising the chemistry between you and Jihoon. A few bold posts speculate “relationship confirmed.”
Your chest tightens.
You shove the phone into your bag. He glances at you, sees the motion, and says nothing—only the smallest tightening around his jaw betrays the effect.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That distance is safety. But every step away from him feels like walking on splintered glass.
—
You receive an email from your manager: an opportunity to compose for a solo artist abroad.
Excitement? Yes, but it tastes bitter. Leaving Jihoon means leaving the only person who understands the subtle language between your lyrics and his production.
You hesitate, debating whether to tell him.
You decide not to.
You can’t.
—
When you arrive for your next session, Jihoon’s energy has shifted. He’s quieter, more precise, but there’s a tautness in his posture, the way he taps the pencil, the way he hovers near the desk yet doesn’t sit.
You try to focus on the track, the melodies, the lyrics, but everything is colored by the unspoken. Every chord you play feels like a question you’re too afraid to ask.
At one point, you hum a line accidentally—a lyric meant for your solo draft:
If I leave, promise you won’t write me into someone braver.
He freezes mid-note. His pencil hovers. You know he heard it.
“I didn’t—” you begin, but he cuts you off.
“You shouldn’t sing that here,” he says quietly, trying to sound casual.
“I wasn’t… it’s nothing,” you lie.
He doesn’t respond. Silence thickens like molasses.
—
Later, in the break room, Jihoon answers a call with another producer. You catch snippets:
“…she’s leaving soon. Not sure if it’s permanent…”
“…yeah, it’s probably better to keep them separate…”
Your stomach twists. You misinterpret his tone. He’s trying to manage expectations professionally, but in your mind it becomes a confession: he doesn’t want you there.
You leave the room quietly, hurt simmering.
—
You can’t sleep. You open your notebook and write half-formed lyrics, your pen shaking:
I leave tomorrow, but I’m already gone in your eyes.
You think you’re protecting me; I think you’re breaking me.
At the same time, Jihoon scribbles notes on a scrap of paper, one he won’t show anyone:
She’s leaving. I can’t stop thinking about her. I don’t know if this is fear or love, but I don’t want her to go.
Neither of you knows the other wrote nearly the same thing, nearly the same panic, nearly the same confession.
—
The next day, you avoid him in the studio. You bury yourself in the keyboard, in notebooks, in the track’s quiet hum. He doesn’t press you, doesn’t touch the topic. But he watches. Every small gesture, every scribble, every breath—it’s all measured, all observed.
When you leave for the night, you pass each other in the hallway. Neither of you says a word.
“See you tomorrow,” you whisper, voice low.
“Yeah,” he answers, but there’s no warmth, only tension.
You can feel it in your chest: the space between you isn’t empty. It’s charged. Dangerous. Silent.
—
[Studio Lyric Drafts (Your Notebook)]
I write songs for the spaces you don’t fill.
I sing to the silence you leave behind.
Distance is a melody we play on repeat, hoping one day it hurts less.
—
[Jihoon’s Side Note (Scrap Paper, Marginalia)]
Every time she leaves the room, I hear the echo of her voice in the wrong key.
I can’t fix it. I can’t stop it.
And I can’t tell her.
—
The chapter ends in quiet desperation. Both of you are aware, painfully, that leaving or staying doesn’t matter—the version of “us” you can’t have is already written into every chord, every lyric, every unspoken word.
—
Working file: “every_version_hurts_final_take.wav”
The studio is quieter than usual. No chatter, no humming, just the hum of monitors and the faint tick of the clock on the wall. It’s late. Too late for ordinary words. Perfect for confessions hidden inside music.
You step into the booth. The mic stands in front of you, cold and familiar. He’s already at the desk, headphones around his neck, pencil tapping against his pad. But it’s different now. He isn’t distant. He’s there. Present. Watching. Waiting.
You swallow. Try to steady your hands. Try to act like this is just another session. It isn’t.
“Ready?” he asks, soft, like he’s afraid you might shatter if he’s too loud.
You nod. Voice trembling. The track begins: a fragile piano line, strings floating like glass shards in air, soft percussion mimicking a heartbeat.
You hum along first. Tentative. Testing. Feeling out the space between the notes and the words you can’t say.
I’ve written a thousand songs about you,
but they’re all drafts I’ll never play.
He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t even breathe heavily. He leans into the music, hands hovering over the keyboard, fingers tracing chords with care, precision—reverence, almost.
Every melody knows your name,
but I can’t let my lips do the same.
His voice enters quietly, harmonizing. Not rehearsed, not planned. Just instinctive. Just honest.
You freeze. Your chest tightens. He’s singing your truth back to you. Almost like he’s answering the confession you never had the courage to say.
I’ve held back all the versions that hurt,
but the one I want most is the one we can’t have.
The track swells, building. You and him—voice and production, lyric and melody—collide into something raw, something painful, something impossibly intimate. Every chord, every note, every word is a declaration neither of you can utter outside these walls.
You glance at him through the glass. His eyes are wide. Vulnerable. Full of unsaid things. He swallows. Turns slightly away.
If I stay silent,
will you hear me in the chorus?
You falter on a note. He reaches for the fader, lowers the background a fraction, waits. Doesn’t correct. Doesn’t judge. Just lets you bleed into the music.
When the final verse comes, you sing it together. Two voices, one confession:
Every version of us hurts.
Every version was still love.
The track ends. Silence fills the booth. You can hear your own heartbeat. His too, somewhere on the other side of the glass.
You can’t speak. You can barely breathe.
He scribbles something on a scrap of paper and slides it under the glass. You pick it up, read it.
I would have said it.
But music is the only truth I could give you.
You fold the note carefully, trembling. Hide it in your notebook. Pretend it’s safe. Pretend it’s just words.
But you both know. You both always knew.
When you pack your things, he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t ask you to stay.
And maybe that’s the hardest part: you leave the studio with everything unspoken, except for the song—the one that finally told the truth.
—
[Lyric Draft (Yours, Final Version)]
We never spoke the words,
but the melody did.
Every version hurts,
every version was still us.
—
[Jihoon’s Marginal Note (on track sheet)]
This one will haunt us forever.
Every note is a confession we were too afraid to say.
—
Working file: “reserved_for_you_final_mix.wav”
The airport is too bright. Too loud. Too full of other people with other plans. You clutch your notebook like a shield, pen tucked behind your ear, the USB drive in your bag like it contains your soul.
Jihoon doesn’t walk with you this time. He waits behind the glass doors of the studio, far enough to be unreachable, close enough that you feel him. You want to run back. You don’t.
Your phone buzzes. A message. It’s him. Short. Deliberate.
“Didn’t get a chance to say it. Neither will I. Safe travels.”
You stare at it. Your chest aches. You type something. Delete it. Type again. Delete again. The right words don’t exist.
You slide the USB drive into your bag. Inside is the final mix of your song—the one you sang, the one he produced, the one that confessed everything you were too scared to. You know he’ll hear it. You know he’ll understand.
You glance back at the studio through the terminal glass. He’s still there, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed somewhere between hope and restraint. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t call out. Can’t.
“Every version hurts,” you whisper to yourself, voice barely audible.
It’s true. Every version you wrote. Every version he produced. Every version that almost said, I love you.
You take a deep breath and walk toward the security checkpoint. Heart hammering, lungs tight. Each step feels like leaving a piece of yourself behind—and maybe you are.
—
[Airport Note (Yours, in notebook)]
I wrote you into every song,
I left the lyrics unsent.
You heard them anyway.
And it hurt beautifully.”
—
Jihoon watches from the studio window later that night. He doesn’t touch the phone. Doesn’t write. Just stares at the empty booth, at the mic you used to fill with confession, at the lines you’ll never speak aloud.
“I would have kept her here if I could,” he mutters to the silence.
“Every version of us hurts. And I let her go anyway.”
—
[Unsent Lyric Draft (Final Marginalia)]
Distance is a chord we can’t resolve,
silence is the key we both played wrong.
And yet… in every melody,
there’s a piece of you that stays.
—
You board the plane. Window seat. Headphones on. Play the track one last time. Your own voice, his production, every confession woven into the music. You close your eyes. Let the ache settle.
Jihoon will listen. He will hear. And that’s enough. Not the same as words. Not the same as holding each other. But it’s something.
Something you both can live with.
And maybe—just maybe—it’s a version of love that doesn’t need permission.
