#martini)

[processes]

The Making of the Perfect Martini, Guy Buffet, 2000

[veryluckyclovers]

[noahverrier]

My oil painting of Martini and Uncrustable

[ptolemaeiia]

I’LL KISS YOUR GRAVE martin. edwards park ˖ 𓈒𓏶 ۪

I’LL KISS YOUR GRAVE 𓄲 in which, in Martin’s ideal world- he gets to co-produce a song with you- his current musical obsession. But you’re not the type to get wooed that easily- he’s gonna have to put up a fight to work with you. Will one evening be enough? Will a lifetime be enough? 21k w.c 𝓶. list

❪ 6102 ❫ ｡ ❛ 馬丁 ❜ 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 𝑖𝑛 ikyg 𓈒𓈒 based on @mkissed’s req. my blog is mostly nsfw so please minors don’t interact with it!

𓋵࣬ warnings : sfw, ANGST- down bad Martin x indifferent reader at first, fluff; skinship; love based on music taste (he falls in love with her music). ANGST. language barrier (chinese reader); bonding over music. did i mention ANGST? emotionally vulnerable characters, character death, chronic illness (unspecified), throwing up (not described), grief, funeral, lots of crying. ───── playlist

MAYBE SIRENS DID EXIST, for all Martin Edwards Park knew. Maybe you'd come out of a dark room, luring him with your music— and the only thing he would do is nod like an idiot.

Needless to say, he was hooked, hadn't been able to listen to anything else in weeks and only sound coming out of his AirPods was your music. Layered synths, a bass that hit just enough to make his shoulders move on their own, and that voice —god, that voice— cutting through the mix like it was whispering little secrets only he was meant to hear.

Maybe that was what mythological creatures were all about, he'd figured.

He'd replayed your latest EP until the waveforms were burned into his brain, every subtle reverb, every intentional breath between phrases, every tiny creative choice ? He'd memorized them all.

Your english was so precise and so devastating that Martin had to remind himself -sometimes- what you'd told an interviewer once.

That you'd learned the language just to write in it.

That you thought in mandarin, dreamed in mandarin, but chose english for your songs because- and this was the part that had replayed in his head more than any other- "it creates distance. distance is easier to be honest inside of."

You were so beautifully spoken he had a hard time believing you were his age, you sounded like you were 200 years old and had a lifetime of sorrow behind you. Martin secretly loved it, the way it bled into your music, the way he'd —shamelessly— shed a couple tears listening.

You were terribly deep in both languages.

He'd also watched the interview that quote came from three times— which was how he knew that when the host tried to follow up in english— ,you'd smiled politely and waited for your interpreter. He knew you'd nodded along with the translation and answered in your own language without self-consciousness, unhurried, like the language barrier was simply a feature of the landscape and not a high wall.

He was not okay with those facts. Embarrassingly so.

Probably captivated also.

Not with you, exactly- he kept making that distinction to himself, because it felt important.

It was the music.

He'd produced enough songs to know when someone was doing something only technically correct, and when someone was doing something true. And every single choice on that EP had been 'true' in a way that made his own recent work feel like a rough draft.

Martin needed to understand how your brain worked— he needed to be in a room with you.

Which was why— after two weeks of replaying your songs and one increasingly embarrassing pitch to his label about something like 'creative synergy' and 'sonic landscape expansion' (which had not been in his vocabulary prior to that)- Martin was now standing outside a studio door. He had his laptop bag on one shoulder, a track he'd rewritten six times since Tuesday, and —this was the part he was least proud of- a folded piece of paper with notes written in mandarin.

Rough mandarin- embarrassingly rough, typed into a translation app and then hand-copied because he'd read that you found it more sincere when people tried.

He wasn't sure where he'd read that and maybe  he'd made it up. Maybe he'd just wanted a reason to spend forty minutes practicing chinese characters at midnight.

The label had set this up as a "casual introduction," but Martin had spent the last three days rewriting his own beat just in case you asked to hear something.

He wanted- scratch that needed- to co-produce with you.

In his ideal world, the two of you would lock yourselves in this room for twelve straight hours, trading ideas until something magical happened.

But you weren't the type to be easily impressed.

He knew that much from the interviews he'd watched twice (okay, three times).

You were blunt, focused, and notoriously picky about collaborators. You didn't do fan-service. You didn't do ego-stroking. You just made music that stuck like chewing gum in people's heads.

And Martin was thirsty, hungry to finally figure out the person behind these songs, to know how a simple human brain could create lyrics so beautiful they made even the most intransigent men cry.

The door to the studio opened before he could knock.

You stood there in an oversized hoodie, headphones around your neck, one eyebrow already arched like you were sizing him up— in your hand was a book that he didn't recognize.

"Martin." your voice was exactly what it sounded like on the tracks- low, a little raspy, entirely unbothered. "Cortis."

That wasnt a question.

Your English landed cleanly, each word chosen like you kept an inventory of vocabulary, and it sounded like Martin was in a waiting room waiting for a job interview. If he was honest, you looked quite terrifying, intimidating but at the same time— you looked exactly like the melodies in your songs, scalding and forever impossible to reach.

"Come in. Thirty minutes. I have session after." you spoke.

Thirty minutes. In his ideal world- Martin would get thirty hours- a whiteboard and room service.

But he stepped inside, eternally grateful, trying not to grin like an idiot when your arm brushed his as you closed the door. The contact was brief, casual, but it sent a stupid little spark up his spine anyway. He imagined that was what fans felt whenever their idols would accidentally touch them- then he thought of himself as the biggest idiot in the world.

"I've been listening to your EP," he started, which was an understatement so severe it was nearly a lie. "The track- 红底鞋."

He tried the mandarin- and almost certainly fucked it up.

"Red Bottoms. The way you built the bridge- the vocal chops, and everything-" He shook his head like he was still in disbelief. "I've never heard anyone make these choices and have them sound so good."

You tilted your head, an avid listener.

"It's smart. Really smart. I brought some sketches I've been messing with. Thought we could try bouncing ideas."

You leaned back, arms loosely crossed, watching the screen

with mild disinterest. "Alright. Play then."

Martin queued up the first track and the room filled with his rough beat-, built around a sample he'd been obsessed with for days. You listened without nodding, without comment, fingers tapping once against your arm— and when it ended, you gave a small shrug.

"Clean," you nodded. "Structure is good." A pause. "What do you want from it?"

Martin had prepared several professional answers to this question. He said none of them.

"I- um... kept coming back to your music because it does something to me," he started, keeping his eyes on the waveform. "Not just the technique-though that's insane- but the way it hits emotionally. 'red bottoms' makes me feel this... sorry i'm gonna be corny but— ache, like nostalgia for a place I've never been. That's rare. That's why I pushed for this session. I think we could make something that does that even stronger."

You were quiet for long enough that Martin wondered if he'd said something wrong, or if the translation -the invisible constant translation running behind your eyes- was taking a moment.

Then you rolled your chair a little closer, your knee brushing his in the tight space. You didn't pull away, instead you reached over and dragged the trackpad yourself, restarting his demo from the beginning.

"Play again," you spoke, voice still cool but now carrying a thread of curiosity. "From the top. And tell me where you hear the ache."

   The thirty minutes became ninety— maybe Martin was in his ideal world. You'd pulled up your own project files somewhere around the forty-minute mark- swiveling your monitor slightly so he could see the arrangement without being asked and Martin had leaned forward without thinking, elbows on knees, studying your session like it was a text he needed to memorize before an exam (he'd given up on school long ago.)

Your layers were immaculate. That was the word that kept arriving, they weren't clean- clean was what he'd been going for in his own work, clean was achievable- yours were Nobel prize worthy.

Alright maybe that was exaggerated.

But fuck, it felt true in the moment. Martin was leaning so far forward his elbows were digging into his knees, eyes glued to your screen like it held the secrets of the universe.

Your layers weren't just stacked— they breathed. There was this one vocal stem buried so deep he almost missed it, a whispery mandarin phrase reversed and pitched down, sitting right under the main hook.

You pointed at it with two fingers. "You can't hear that one."

"I... yeah, no. But it's there," he said, half-laughing in disbelief. "Why bury it?"

You shrugged, the oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. "Because it should feel like memory. Not loud. Just... there."

Martin's brain short-circuited for a second. God, she's cool. Like actually, terrifyingly cool. He wanted to say something smart but all that came out was, "That's fucking genius."

You gave him a small look— half amused, half 'why is this guy like this' —and dragged the playhead back. "Play again. From the ache part."

He did. And this time when the bridge hit, he actually pointed out the exact moment his shoulders had lifted the first time he heard your EP. You listened without nodding, but your fingers tapped a different rhythm on your arm, not matching his beat but something of your own.

The thirty minutes bled into ninety, then two hours. Your manager knocked once but you waved her off with a quick mandarin phrase that sounded like 'five more minutes'. Martin didn't speak the language but he understood the tone: don't fuck with my flow.

At some point you pulled out a half-empty bag of spicy peanuts from your bag and offered him some without ceremony. He took a handful, immediately regretted it when the heat hit, and coughed like an idiot.

"Shit—warn a guy," he wheezed, eyes watering.

You actually smiled. "Weak."

"My spice tolerance is bad, sorry."

That got a soft huff out of you and Martin felt it like a hook sinking into his ribs. Don't get flattered, dumbass.

But it was hard not to when you started explaining your process. You talked about sound like it was weather— how certain frequencies felt like fog rolling off the Yangtze, how a good drop should hit like summer rain on hot pavement. He hung on every word, even the ones where your English tripped and you switched to typing on your phone for precision.

You were unconsciously poetic— the thing was, you didn’t even realise what you were saying was potent and moved something deep inside his chest.

Then you asked him something —a technical question, he thought, about sidechain compression and whatnot, but the sentence had restructured itself between your brain and your mouth.

Lost in translation.

And Martin was aware of something now that he hadn't let himself be aware of before.

There was a door in this room that neither of you had a key to.

He was fluent in your music. He could hear your creative language with accuracy —could predict, sometimes, where a track was going, could feel when a choice was wrong before he could articulate why.

In that language, he and you were almost eerily aligned.

You'd leaned back at some point arms loosely crossed, and for once your expression softened by a millimeter. "We're not so different in here," you said quietly, tapping the screen. "Outside... maybe. But here?" A small shrug. "Same language."

Around the 2 hours mark, your manager knocked twice and opened the door without waiting, she said something in your language, one hand on her hip.

You looked at him. "I have to-" You gestured at the door. "Session."

"Right." He started closing his laptop. "Yeah, of course."

You were looking at his screen- at the demo, still open, the waveform sitting there half-discussed. Then you walked him to the door, which wasn't a long walk in a studio that size- and when he stepped into the hallway you were already turning back toward the board.

No 'nice to meet you'. No 'I'll be in touch'

Just- back to work. Like he'd been a parenthesis.

Gosh- had he really been that awkward?

"I'll send you the updated file," he spoke to your back.

You raised one hand- not really a wave, more like an acknowledgment and the door closed. Martin stood in the hallway for approximately four seconds, then started walking.

Fuck my life, he thought.

He sent the file that evening. Clean mix, properly labeled, a short note underneath—  because he didn't know what the right amount to say was and defaulted to less.

He watched the delivered receipt appear, then he watched it stay delivered for three whole days.

MARTIN THOUGHT MAYBE it was because of the language barrier- maybe you preferred working with people who could actually understand you without having to use Google translate.

Maybe after he left you'd sat back down at the board and thought, 'never again', and that had been that.

He also wondered if maybe you hadn't liked his music- his way of working- or maybe it was his personality?

He'd talked too much about what your music did to him, which in retrospect- was possibly a lot to say to someone he'd met eleven minutes prior.

He could've come across as a lot.

He was potentially a lot.

Instead of spending hours trying to figure out what he could change about himself— Martin chose to do something much healthier with his time— listen for the umpteenth time to your EP.

The first time he'd ever encountered you- your name had not been immediately googleable. He'd heard the track on Juhoon's phone- he had it queued in a playlist, one of those late-night sessions where nobody was making anything, just listening, sprawled across studio furniture with takeout going cold.

And Martin had sat up halfway through the second verse and said 'who is this'.

Like he needed to know right know or he'd die.

Juhoon hadn't known the artist name offhand. Had to dig through the playlist- and the name that came up was your alias- two words.

When Martin searched it, the results were sparse.

A Soundcloud with six tracks, oldest upload three years ago, an Instagram with maybe forty posts, mostly studio photos -equipment, waveforms, the occasional selfie.

He'd found an interview eventually- a small music publication, with english subtitles- you were on screen in a plain chair in what looked like your own studio, answering questions.

Your English in the interview was functional but minimal- you chose words lik you were packing a bag for a short trip— nothing unnecessary.

But when you talked about the music you lit up in a different way.

Here is the thing Martin had not said to Juhoon, or Seonghyeon, or even James, because there wasn't a version of it that didn't sound insane:

You were extraordinarily beautiful and but it was almost completely irrelevant.

He'd seen your face for the first time in a video someone had posted from a small showcase- grainy phone footage really. You looked objectively nice- screw that- nicer than anything he'd ever seen.

Martin wasn't foreign to pretty girls trust me— but the knowledge that you made music so touching added even more to your already beautiful face.

So yes, you were beautiful, in the way that became a secondary fact.

Like learning that a book you loved also had a gorgeous cover.

Noted. Filed. Definitely not the point.

YOU ALMOST DIDNT GO.That was the thing anybody could've known from looking at you in that lobby -standing there, weight on one foot, like an idiot.

You'd listened to his file the night he sent it. That was the other thing. The delivered receipt wasn't indifference- er.. maybe it was.

You couldn't pin point it though- what had brought you there in that specific moment.

Here is what you knew about him before the session; Cortis.

The group, the name, the general thing, not much more.

You existed in the same industry without overlapping much —your world was smaller, quieter, more underground, and you'd kept it that way deliberately. But you'd heard his name in production circles.

'Good ear', some guy had said once. 'Real one'.

Then he'd walked in your studio and said your EP name in mandarin, badly, clearly practiced, and you'd found it secretly endearing.

Funny guy, you'd thought, awkward and weird.

People talked about your music in a particular way- in interviews and comments and the occasional review- random words that seemed way too complicated. You'd learned to receive those words with the same expression you received everything: mildly, without giving away whether they'd landed.

But Martin had said it much more simply, 'nostalgia for a place I've never been' and then had looked almost embarrassed about saying it, eyes on the waveform instead of you, and something in your chest had done a thing you hadn't anticipated and hadn't appreciated.

Because your music wasn't all that complicated- it wasn't "ethereal" or whatever stupid word critics used to seem smart; your music was simple, based on experiences and stuff you'd learned, there was no need to get pretentious.

And you'd never heard anyone say it back to you in those words. Humble. In mandarin or rnglish or anything in between.

Now— the receptionist at the Hybe building had been professional about it.

You'd asked for him by name in english, careful enough to be understood, explained in the most efficient possible sentence, and you waited.

You'd been fine while waiting.

And then the elevator had opened and Martin had walked out in dance practice clothes, slightly out of breath, water bottle in hand- hair unmanaged.

He wasn’t expecting to see you— understandable— so his eyebrows rose to his forehead, mouth opening and closing like a blob fish.

Funny, you thought as he scrambled for words.

"You said you'd show me," you raised your chin."The bridge. What you would put there." You made a pause that wasn't awkward because didn't seem to do awkward. "I have time now."

Martin stood there for approximately three seconds wondering what the fuck was going on.

Three weeks. Three weeks of delivered-and-nothing. Martin still wasn't even sure you remembered his name and now all of a sudden, you came looking for him.

"Erm- okay," he ended up saying.

He almost heard Keonho's voice in his ears, "what wouldn't you do for the huzz..."

And apparently he needed to add 'absolute pathetic douchebag' in his personality traits.

The elevator ride up was quiet. Martin was aware that he was in dance practice clothes. He was aware that his hair was doing something crazy on top of his head. He was also very aware that you were standing approximately two feet away from him in an elevator that felt, for no reason, very small.

He wanted to ask 'why now', but he didn't.

The elevator opened on his floor.

"It's not a proper studio," Martin announced, leading you down the hall, which was true -it was a production room, good equipment, acoustically treated, but smaller than what you were used to, he guessed, based on the setup he'd seen at your session. “We use it for demos mostly. Personal stuff."

You nodded, taking in the hallway with the same mild attention you seemed to give everything. He opened the door, the room was exactly as he'd left it that morning —his project file still open on the monitor, three empty water bottles on the desk that he immediately wanted to remove.

You walked in and went directly to the monitor. Not the couch, not the chair- the monitor. You leaned forward and read the open file without touching anything, just looking.

Martin watched you clock the timestamp, the track name, the arrangement and whatever else your brain extracted in those few seconds.

"You kept working on it," you stated, neutral.

"Ah- yeah..."

You straightened and looked at him. "Play it."

He set down the water bottle, moved to the chair, pulled up the current version -not the one he'd sent you, three iterations past that now- and pressed pay.

You listened with your arms loosely crossed, expressionless. And when it ended, the silence was a different kind than before.

You looked at him, he wasn’t sure what exactly what was going on— you’d came in, all business, and hadn’t even explained the past few weeks, acting like you were just two friends making music.

"What do you want to do," you asked him. "What are you expecting?"

Martin opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn't even know what to say.

"Well-" He exhaled. "Erm." He turned the water bottle in his hands once. "I don't know, I thought maybe you'd- I thought if you replied, we could maybe discuss a possible-" He paused. "Well. But you didn't really reply."

You looked at the monitor, trying to figure out what to say. "I was out of country,"

Lie. You'd been in this city for the entire three weeks.

"The-" You paused, reaching for the word. "Computer. Was not working." Also not true. "But I'm here now. Yes?"

"Yeah." Martin nodded. "Yeah, I can see that. I was- well. What I'm trying to say is- if maybe you'd consider giving me a chance. I really wanna work with you."

You rubbed the center of your chest once, almost absentmindedly, the way people do when heartburn hits. Then you leaned forward again as if nothing happened.

"Is this why you sent demo?" you asked flatly. "You want work with me. Really bad."

"Yes." it was immediate with no hesitation. "I'm sorry if I was being pushy- I just really like-" He stopped to correct himself. "Love your music."

You were quiet, assembling words in your mind to make a sentence.

"I don't know," you said finally. "I'm busy these days. I don't know."

"Well- I could give you time to think about it, if you—”

"No." you cut him, dry, but not unkind. "I'm busy these days, I said. Maybe one day."

Martin was quiet for a moment but then decided to stop being careful and to say it in his own stupid messy way.

"Look. Let me put it clearly. I've never felt this way about any other music. Not like this." He held your gaze. "Please consider this. Or- heck, I don't know."

A short, slightly helpless exhale came out of his mouth, "Free your schedule. Let's do something outside and I'll show you I'm really serious about this." He paused. "Please."

You considered him- maybe because the word 'please' in english always sounded more exposed than in mandarin, you'd always thought. Less formal architecture to hide inside- it just sat there, plain and asking.

"I can't," you concluded. "Have two meetings later. Can't."

"Tonight then?"

You looked at him.

"Please," Martin insisted.

"Tonight?" You repeated it back.

"Yes. Tonight."

The room was very quiet as you wondered if you should give him a chance. Maybe something- anything could come out of it. Maybe you'd gain some sort of competence- maybe even new english vocabulary.

"Not long then," you decided.

Martin's expression did something he didn't fully manage to contain- like a kid being allowed to eat sweets.

"Not long," he agreed, immediately like he was agreeing before you could change your mind.

You looked back at the monitor. At his arrangement, still open, the bridge sitting there, "Finish the session first," you said. “I meet you there later.”

THE RECORD SHOP was the kind that didn't have a sign you could read from the street. It was just a door and a window with a few sleeves propped against the glass and —when you pushed it open— the smell of old vinyl and central heating.

Martin was already inside.

He'd worn a mask and a cap pulled low, the standard-issue attempt at anonymity that you recognized because you'd put on your own mask for the same reason.

He was flipping through a section near the back when you came in, and he looked up with the expression of someone who —had been trying to look like they hadn't been watching the door.

"You found it," he observed.

"The pin was good," you said.

He smiled, slightly. The mask hid most of it but not the way his eyes changed. You put your hands in your pockets and looked around the shop- it was small and dense, organized neatly with color coded alleys.

"Do you come here a lot?" you asked him.

"When I can." He moved to make room beside him. "Which is not a lot. But- when I need to think about something differently. About music. I come here and I remember what made me want to do it."

"What made you?" you interrogated- like the answer would help you make a quicker decision.

"The feeling of hearing something for the first time that-" He paused for a beat "That takes the top of your head off. You know?"

You knew- for a fact— what he meant. You didn't say so but you moved to the nearest shelf and started looking, because that was easier than going into depth about the tragic reason why you started making music.

You moved through the sections without talking much, which suited you and Martin drifted nearby - doing the same thing. He'd pick something up occasionally- hold it out for you to see without commentary- you'd look, and either nod or make the small sound of approval.

"Okay," Martin began, after a while. "Favorite album. What do you go back to."

You considered the question seriously, the way it deserved. You had quite a few in mind, but only one sat at the top of that list, so you walked three shelves over, found the section you wanted, and flipped through it.

When you found it you pulled it out and held it toward him, he took it— looked at it and went very very still.

Jar of Flies- Alice in Chains.

The cover art faced up in his hands, worn at the corners, a used copy that someone had loved before it got here.

"You like Alice in Chains," he almost choked out.

It wasn't quite a question though- he had the living proof in his hands.

"Yes." You watched his face. "Why. You don't like?"

"I-" He looked up. "I love."

You recognized the thing people did in reaction to your broken english- they accommodated without even realizing- started to use the same manner of language unconsciously. It was funny.

Something in his expression had shifted entirely though— replaced by something unguarded and disbelieving.

"I love them. I just didn't-"He stopped. You watched him recalibrate. "Well. Now that I think about it." He looked at you. "You do seem like the type of person who listens to good music. Since you make good music and all-"

"Martin."

"Yeah?"

"What's yours," you cut him off. "Favorite album."

"Oh-" He paused. Looked down at the sleeve in his hands. "Um. Well." A short exhale, almost a laugh. "It's kind of in my hands, actually."

You looked at the record. Then at him. "What. Jar of Flies?"

"Yeah." Martin turned it over, looked at the tracklist like he'd memorized it a long time ago and was just confirming. "I always go back to that one. I listen to it when I need to breathe."

“You make it sound like medication.”

“It kind of is.” he shrugged.

Silence stretched between you as Martin ran his thumb along the edge of the cardboard sleeve.

“My dad used to play records when I was a kid.” He shrugged. “Not because he was one of those vinyl purists. He just couldn’t afford Spotify for a while.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“So we’d sit on the floor and he’d play albums from start to finish.” His eyes stayed on the record. “No skipping. No playlists. If track three sucked, well…” He lifted a shoulder. “Too fucking bad.”

“You had to earn track seven.” you added, speaking from experience.

“Exactly. But it fucked me up, though.”

“How?”you tilted your head, very mcuh aware that you were having a full blown conversation in the middle of the shop like it was a coffee table.

“I can’t listen to music casually anymore. I think like… if an album doesn’t feel like someone’s whole nervous system got printed onto plastic…” Martin grimaced. “I don’t know. It just feels empty.”

You stared at him for a second “Music is different for everyone.”

His eyes lifted but you looked away first.

“In China,” you said carefully, searching for words, “my father…He worked. So, no music allowed in the house. Only in the headphones. So it was private. When I was young everything was loud.”

You hated speaking English. Every sentence felt like dragging furniture through a doorway too small.

“But music…” You touched two fingers against your chest without thinking. “…made one room.”

Martin didn’t answer immediately, people would think he didnt understand what you meant because your english was messy— (and to be fair I don’t think you readers understood what y/n meant either). But that went behind the point, because he could see clearly through your thoughts, like he’d known you for years.

“Jesus.” he said. “I’ve never heard anyone explain headphones like that.”

You frowned. “Is it bad English?”

“No.” he smiled fondly, “It’s good truth. You’re doing great.”

It felt nice. You’d been around enough people to know that accents— especially a chinese one, were constantly mocked, made fun of and used for shits and giggles. Nobody saw through that— nobody saw the girl standing in a country far too big, head still in a place her feet don’t recognize anymore.

You folded your arms tighter. “I don’t think people hear songs. I think they hear themselves.”

“Hm.”

“They say they love an artist, but really…They love who they become for four minutes.” you gestured vaguely, “who do you become when you listen to Alice in Chains?”

Martin stared, as if the answer wasn’t just sitting on the surface waiting to be spoken.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “Smaller. Not in a bad way. Just… the parts of me that are always trying to explain themselves kind of shut up.”

You glanced around, the shop empty felt like you were both existing in a secluded space in time— one where conversations were truly meaningful and went beyond weather-talks. One in which you could be yourself and not be called ‘too emotional.’

“So?” you said.

“So?”

“You want to produce with me.”

“I do.” Martin let out an amused laugh, kind of nervous at the same time.

“Because I speak weird? Or because what?”

“I want to produce with you because your demos pissed me off.” he admitted

You blinked. “…huh?”

“They’re unfinished but they still made me feel like shit.”

You scoffed, cocking an eyebrow, “…Thank you?”

“I mean that as a compliment.” Martin clarified.

“You Americans are confusing.” you rolled your eyes, slightly amused.

He stood there from his 6ft-something tower, looking down at you like you were the craziest thing he’d ever met, the brilliant shell of a woman— and didn’t even get mad when you confused his nationality because at least you were acknowledging his presence.

“I’m Canadian.” he simply said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh.”

And God, you hated that you sounded like a bitch.

“…Sorry.”

“I’ll recover.” he gave an awkward laugh, hand on the back of his neck.

A tiny smile threatened the corner of your mouth before you killed it, but he noticed anyway.

“There it is.”

“What?” you brought back the poker-face.

Martin’s cheeks got red for an instant, “You smile.”

“I don’t.”

“You literally just did.”

“Oh, fuck you.” it slipped out faster than intended, and you clutched your mouth.

Cursing was bad— you’d learned it from a very young age. You never cursed, having always been taught to be put together and classy— but inside your mind? You did nothing but.

“There she is.” Martin chuckled when you rolled your eyes.

Martin smiled like he’d won something— not the argument— just the sound of your laugh. And it was very you, very beautiful. He committed it to memory, keeping it in a locked box inside his brain, one he planned to open every now and then just to remind himself of how sweet it sounded.

“You know,” he said after a moment, quieter now, “I don’t actually care if we make a track… I mean—I do. But that’s not why I asked you to come here.”

“No?”

He shook his head. “I heard your music before I saw you. And I had this really stupid feeling that whoever made it might understand me.”

The shop was quiet around you until somebody somewhere decided to put a needle down and the soft opening of a familiar song filled the space.

'I want someone badly' by Jeff Buckley.

Here we go. You braced for impact.

You couldn’t tell him why the song had affected you. For one, trying to explain it in english would be impossible, and his mandarin was practically nonexistent. But mostly because there was nothing to explain that wouldn’t sound completely ridiculous.

You knew it was. You’d always known there was something a little wrong with you.

Music was the only thing that didn't need translation for you- social relationships did- but music didn't.

And now, standing there with heat creeping up your face, you wondered if it was really possible to start liking someone simply because they liked the same songs you did.

He was a stranger —with good music taste— but a stranger nonetheless.

You wanted to believe that music taste told a lot about who a person was- that maybe if you listened to 'Jar of flies' with him- you could figure him out in minutes.

And the Jeff Buckley song only accented that- because you believed if you stood there for a few minutes more— you'd actually start to appreciate his presence.

You ended up buying three records. Martin bought two, including a pressing you'd pointed at without comment- that he'd looked at for a long time before putting under his arm.

When you got out, the city had gotten colder— you and Martin walked in the direction of nothing in particular, which was the only direction either of you seemed to have— bags from the shop in hand, masks back up against the cold and the recognition.

"Not long," you reiterated, which was what you'd agreed to, and which had now been almost two hours.

"Right," Martin nodded, glancing sideways at you. "Are you hungry?"

You considered it. "A little."

"There's a noraebang near here." He said it carefully, watching your face. "Not a big one. Private rooms. We could-" He paused. "Or not. If you have to leave-"

"Noraebang," you repeated.

You thought about your empty apartment- your studio, which you'd been in for nine hours before coming here. The two meetings that had ended at six and left you with an evening that had no shape yet. Boring.

"Okay," you ended up saying, shrugging.

Martin looked straight ahead but you saw his shoulders do a weird something.

The place was small, the way he'd said— a narrow staircase down from street level, a front desk staffed by a woman who didn't look up from her phone, and corridor of numbered doors.

The room he booked was just large enough- a curved booth, a screen, two microphones on the table, and a tambourine absolutely nobody was going to touch.

The song catalog was on a tablet between you- a small speaker in the corner played an upbeat song while you ordered food from the laminated menu, communicating with the front desk through a buzzer system that required no language whatsoever. It suited you.

"You pick a song first," Martin said, sliding the tablet toward you.

"Me?"

Yeah you, idiot.

"You." He leaned back- arms crossed. "I wanna see what you pick."

You looked at him for a moment before you took the tablet. You found your song without much searching- you'd known before you sat down, if you were being honest, from the moment the song had come through the record shop speakers and made you feel conflicted.

You typed Jeff Buckley into the search bar, found the song almost immediately, and stared at it for a second before pressing queue.

The opening drifted through the room’s speakers—softer than it had been in the record shop, but it carried the same strange shift in temperature, the same subtle way of changing the air around you.

You reached for the microphone, your fingers wrapping around its base.

This was dangerous. For all you knew, you’d end up crying before the song was over. Loud music had always done something strange to you, overwhelming you with an inexplicable urge to cry, as though your body responded to volume before your mind ever could.

Still, you knew this song the way you knew your own name in both languages, so you sang it.

You didn’t look at Martin. Instead, your gaze settled somewhere in the middle distance—the place singers on television always seemed to look, as if fixing their eyes on something far away was the only way to stop their feelings from spilling out.

So you let the song do what it had always done.

It arrived fully, without asking permission, in that particular way Jeff Buckley had of slipping into your mind and wrapping himself around your brain tightly.

Your singing voice in English barely sounded like your speaking voice, it was steadier somehow, as though the language created just enough distance for honesty to slip through the cracks.

Now I want someone badly. Got a girl here tonight, want someone new. Someone new. A little cry, want someone badly I wanna know if this is a bad lease on me

(I want to know) I want to know. Am I sure that I heard you right. I want to know

If you're leaving, just do it tonight. Now I want someone badly. To burn in here with me, you better listen, baby 'Cause I, I cry all over madly

Don't do anything, do it for me Ooh-ooh, I wanna know (l wanna know. Am I sure that I have your love I wanna know (I wanna know). If you're leaving, just make sure it's right. Now I want someone badly.

Could it be true that someone is you?

You finished the last line and let the note go- the backing track faded and the room was quiet for a moment that lasted. You lowered the microphone and looked at Martin- who'd been silent the whole time.

He was facing the table- and when you looked more carefully—

"Martin."

He didn't look up immediately, but when he did, he was weird- you registered it in pieces. The brightness in his eyes- the way he was pressing his mouth together- the extremely controlled quality of his breathing.

He was crying.

Martin Edwards Park was crying.

The evidence was there, undeniable, in the corners of his eyes and the particular set of his jaw- and the wetness on his cheeks.

You stared at him and he made a sound that was almost a laugh.

"Don't-" He stopped. Pressed the back of his hand against one eye, quick, like he could undo it. "Sorry. I'm-" Another sound, closer to a laugh this time. "Shit. I'm so sorry this is ridiculous."

"You're crying," you remarked.

"I'm aware," he deadpanned. "Thank you."

"Why?"

"It's the-"

Martin exhaled, looked at the ceiling briefly and when he looked back at you his eyes were still bright, his expression had shifted into something that was equal parts embarrassed and helpless.

"This is- I feel stupid. I feel genuinely stupid right now."

You looked at him- something happening in your chest that moved up into your face before you could manage it, and you laughed.

Martin stared at you. "You're laughing at me," he spoke.

"No-" You pressed your hand over your mouth. "No, I'm not- I'm-" The laugh came again, quieter. "Sorry. Sorry, it's not-"

But the words wouldn't come- not in english.

There was so much you could've said to him if only he'd understood your language.

"It's a little bit at me." Martin tilted his head.

"It's a little bit at you," you admitted.

He looked at you for a second, then he laughed through the tears too.

"I can't help it," he explained, when he'd recovered enough. "I've been like this since I was a kid. My members make fun of me for it. Keonho once caught me tearing up in the studio and told the whole group chat. That was a difficult week."

"You cried in the studio," you repeated, trying not to laugh.

"I was mixing something really sad- well it wasn't really that sad. But i tend to- like... feel music way too deeply. Until it becomes overwhelming, i can't help it... i'm sorry."

You wanted to say a lot of things- but the language barrier wouldn't let you. To be honest it wasn’t the only reason, you were just scared of oversharing if you opened your mouth— because wMartin was so relatable in that moment it felt comical.

"What song." you shifted your attention elsewhere.

He told you- and you knew it. It was the kind of song that deserved that reaction, at least in your book. And when you told him so- Martin looked at you with an expression that suggested nobody had ever validated this particular aspect of his personality before.

Like maybe he wasn't all that ridiculous for feeling too much and too intensely.

"I thought it was-" He searched for the word. "Too much. That I was too much about it."

You considered this as a person who’d been endlessly told she was too much and took too much place.

"That’s not true. Music should feel like something... big. Or, what is it for?"

The room was quiet as Martin looked at you for a long moment.

"Yeah," he ended up saying quietly. "Yeah, exactly."

You could tell in that moment- the moment when two souls shared the same ugly sensation.

That same dramatic feeling when meeting someone and thinking- this is the person.

The brain says it's absurd but not the heart.

The feeling when living a whole life of never being fully understood and finally being seen for something. That naive and ridiculous thing that- rationally - shouldn't exist with someone you've been around only a few times.

But you didn't step back this time, you weren't sure why. Maybe it was the record shop. Maybe it was Jar of Flies worn at the corners in his hands.

Maybe it was the crying -the way he hadn't tried to hide it and hadn't tried to explain it away until you'd already seen it, and even what he'd said. 

That he felt music too deeply, like that was something to apologize for- rather than the only correct way to feel it.

So you didn't make a big deal out of it.

"Your turn," you told him, nodding at the tablet.

He took it without argument, scrolled for a moment and queued something without showing you the title, wiping his face.

The opening came through the room's speakers- just guitar at first, bare and unhurried- and you placed it immediately.

Alice in Chains. Down in a Hole. Unplugged version.

You looked at him and he'd already picked up the microphone. He was looking at the same place you'd looked during Buckley when he started to sing.

You had not been prepared for that. Not for his voice itself -you'd known, abstractly, that he was an amazing singer, that singing was the thing, professionally, that he did.

But there was a difference betwen knowing- and then sitting three feet away from Martin Edwards Park in a small room while he sang Down in a Hole with his eyes half-closed.

His voice did something low and unhurried and raspy in exactly the right places- those were different experiences entirely. It came from somewhere far inside his body- like it had to travel a long way to get out.

You went back and forth for a while after that-you'd pick something, he'd pick somethingz. Then the food arrived and got slowly eaten between songs- the tablet passing between you with less and less ceremony.

You sang 'Rotten Apple' at some point— he listened without moving and when you finished he smiled. Martin sang something of his own after- slower, something you didn't recognize, not a cover. You didn't ask, you just listened the same way he listened to you.

It was a good song, it grieved in exactly the right place but ou didn't tell him that yet.

Instead you said :

"I think- We could make good music together."

And Martin's head turned like he'd been waiting for this.

"I was being complicated," you continued, looking at the table. "I just didn't want to- involve myself. I have um-" You paused, reaching. "What is the word? Deadlines. And I don't know....I'm not good with working with others. Usually."

He was quiet for a moment- reflecting.

"That's okay," he finally said. "I respect that. I'm not asking for much- I just wanted you to consider it. I really like what you do. And I think we could do good things. Fuck that. Great things."

He held your gaze without flinching, which you noted, because most people didn't do that when they'd just said something that exposed them.

"Yeah," you answered slowly. "You're right- but I don't know how it's going to work. I don't speak very good english and you—well…”

You gestured at him, at the general fact of him—korean and obviously busy; operating in a world that ran on a language you'd taught yourself through song lyrics and netflix tv shows.

"I'm learning mandarin," Martin responded quickly, like it was already decided. "I can learn."

You looked at him for a moment before your lips curved into a laugh.

Silly boy.

"Mandarin." You shook your head. "You can't learn it in a week, Martin."

"Well-" He made a face. "Yeah, you're right. But we'll make it work. And plus I don't think there's much to be said anyway. When we're making music. I feel like— Okay this is gonna be corny."

"Say it," you encouraged.

"I just... I feel like you get me. A little bit. So you'd understand me. In there." He tilted his head toward an imaginary studio, an imaginary session, something that hadn't happened yet.

"I don't get you," you replied. "But i get your music, maybe."

"That's the same thing," he maintained. "My music is basically- Me. It's just me. Everything I can't say out loud or don't know how to explain- it goes in there. So if you get the music, you get me.”

"Okay," you concluded. Like it was a decision. Probably a bad one at that.

"We try. One session. Properly." You held up one finger. “One. And if it doesn't-"

If it doesn't work. If the door is still there. If the language is still a wall.

"One session," Martin agreed immediately before you could attach more conditions to it. "That's all I'm asking."

You nodded- looked at the tablet and woke the screen.

"One more song," you announced. "Then I go."

"One more," he agreed with a hint of a smile.

You handed him the tablet.

"You pick," you said. "Something that's you." You touched your chest. "From here. So I can- So I know what I'm working with."

He found it extremely endearing the way you couldn't name your body parts so you resolved to pointing at them. It was on top of a long list of things he couldn’t possibly keep track of.

The room, without the music, was just a room again. Like you, sort of.

You put your mask back on and so did Martin; the street was quiet- a  few people passing but nobody paying attention to anyone else.

Martin looked in the direction of the road while you held your bag strap with both hands.

This was the part, you were realizing, that the evening hadn't prepared you for- the inside of the record shop had been easy- the noraebang room had been easy.

But out here there was no music

"I'll-" Martin started.

"Yes," you said, at the same time- realizing you sounded like a complete idiot.

"I was about to say I'll get you a car," he continued. "It's late."

"I can get myself a car"

"I know you can." He answered "I just want to."

He was already on his phone, the app open- and you let him, because the english for "i dont like when people pay for my stuff" wasn't available and you weren't going to pull out google translate.

You stood beside him on the pavement while he sorted it- realizing you were both going to go back to being separate people in separate places, after sharing one of your most intimate forms of art.

"Three minutes," he updated you, showing you the phone with the little car moving on the map.

"Okay," you nodded. "Thanks, you didn't have to. And for the session, I'll have my manager reach out. For scheduling."

"Yeah," Martin agreed. "Yeah, that works."

Formal, correct.

The language of two professionals who hadnt just spent the last two hours singing 'Alice in chains’ to each other in a small warm room

A car turned onto the street, the one on the map, slowing toward you. You picked up your bag properly, adjuste your mask.

Martin stepped to the curb slightly, checking the plate and confirming it then he opened the door for you, standing there with his hand on it, close enough that the city noise seemed slightly further away.

"Thank you," you said "For the record shop. And the-" You gestured back in the direction of the noraebang.

"Thank you for coming to my company building," he looked down- cheeks flushing. "With your laptop bag. And your face."

Your lips curved into a smile, revealing your teeth.

"That came out wrong," he shook his head immediately.

"It's okay, I make sure to bring my face again next time, yeah?"

You got in the car— feeling the driver's impatience.

You gave him one last smile- because apparently you were smiling now- and Martin gave it back sheepishly, cheeks the same color as tomatoes.

THE SESSION WAS SCHEDULED for a Thursday. Two weeks after the noraebang- long enough for the ugly feelings to slowly fade- leaving the usual indifference you'd always had.

Your manager had coordinated with his people; scheduling it in a neutral studio, not yours, nor his- a place in the middle that belonged to neither of you, which you'd requested without explaining why.

Yours felt too much like yours- and his felt too much like walking into someone's space.

You'd told yourself it was one session.

You were still telling yourself that on Thursday morning when you packed your laptop bag and stood in your apartment for a moment before leaving- and thought, it's just music.

Martin was already there when you arrived -the studio already open, monitors on and a project file open on the screen that he closed as soon as you came in. He was in a plain sweatshirt and the same cap from the record shop, and he looked up when the door opened, hair doing a bouncy thing on his head.

"Hey," he greeted.

"Hi," you responded simply.

You looked at each other for a moment- it felt strangely professional- like standing inside a corporate office and talking to a co-worker.

Two weeks of voice memos, file exchanges and a scheduling chain that had gone through four different people- had set you guys back to separate people in separate worlds.

"Coffee?" he cleared his throat.

"Please,"

The first five minutes were practical- coffee, bag down, laptop out, the equipment check that you did automatically in any new space- testing the monitors, looking around.

"Okay," he finally said, settling into the chair beside yours. "So I was thinking-"

"I have an idea," you said, at the same time.

You both stopped.

"You first," he let out a breathy laugh.

"No," you conceded. "You."

"Well- i've been building something. Since the noraebang actually. I wasn't going to show you yet but-" He reached for his laptop. "Can I just play it? And you tell me what you think."

"Play it," you nodded.

He queued it up and the room filled with it- a rough sketch, clearly, but the bone structure was good. Better than good.

You listened without moving- trying to figure out what part of the tune sounded the most like him.

When it ended you concluded, "The intro is too long."

"Yeah," he agreed immediately. "I know. I couldn't figure out where to cut it."

"Four bars," you indicated. "Cut first four bars, start where the bass comes in."

He nodded, already reaching for the mouse. "And what about the—"

"The mid section needs something. It's missing-" You reached for the word. "Weight. In the low end. It floats too much in the middle."

"I was thinking sub," he said. "But I didn't want to make it sound weid"

"Sub would work. Careful with the frequency. It can get muddy there."

"Yeah, I was going to sidechain it to the kick."

The first hour was good. Better than good -actually. Professional, filled with a bunch of overcomplicated words. You could point at a section of the waveform and he'd already know what you were about to say. There was no need for google translate.

You built on his sketch, adding layers, pulling things back, making decisions that you could feel both of you arriving at simultaneously from different directions.

He'd pick something up and you'd extend it- it worked surprisingly well.

This part of you- didn't need translation. You'd known that from the first session— from the way you could finish each other's musical thoughts mid-sentence.

Then you were working on the bridge- the section that had been the conversation piece since the very beginning- nd you had an idea for it that you'd been developing for three days.

Something specific.

You started to explain it in english- and you got through the first sentence fine- and then in the second sentence, which was where the actual reasoning lived, you flunked it.

"I want it to feel like-" You paused to reach for a word. "Like when you are in a place that used to be- Like the moment before you remember something that-"

You pressed your fingers against your temple briefly. "There's a word. There's specific- in mandarin there is a word for this exact thing and I can't-"

"Take your time," Martin said, gently.

"I don't want to take time," you shook your head. "I want to say the thing."

"Okay," he said, recalibrating. "Well explain it to me."

"It's like-" You tried again. "You know when you're in a city. And the city look like home but is not home. And your body thinks it's home and then- And then it isn't. And there's this -this feeling in the chest-"

"Like a false recognition?" Martin hypothesized.

You looked at him- expression indecipherable

"Is that-" He gestured with his hands "Like something that looks like home but isn't."

"Yes," you nodded. "That. That's what the bridge should feel like. That specific-" You put your hand to your chest briefly. "Here."

"Okay," Martin said, nodding, leaning forward. "Okay I get that- so you want it to feel like-"

"Like 乡愁," you said, and it came out in mandarin because that was where it lived- the ache of homesickness.

English had the word 'homesickness' but it was a flat translation that didn't carry the weight that '乡愁' carried.

Martin had his phone out- he typed it in. You watched him type the characters, getting them wrong the first time and correcting, the translation app loading.

"Homesickness," he read.

"Yes," you said. "But more than that- homesickness is- it's too simple. 乡愁 is the grief of it. Not just missing. Grieving. For a place that is still there but you are not in it, and you might not-"

You stopped again- the words were spinning in your head and you wanted to honestly cry- you could've been so much clearer, so intelligible in your own language. You could’ve sounded so smart.

"Might not go back," Martin finished quietly.

You looked at the screen instead of him- nodded, feeling like a complete idiot.

"So the bridge," he said, carefully navigating back to the music, which you appreciated. "You want it to carry that. The grief of a place that still exists without you."

"Yes. And to do that I need to strip it back. Because 乡愁 is- it's a quiet feeling. it's not loud. It lives here-" You touched your sternum. "Quietly. All the time. So the bridge needs to be quiet. Remove layers. Let it breathe."

He reached for the mouse and started pulling layers out of the bridge section, muting tracks, and when he'd done the obvious ones- there was still something wrong.

Something that'd been lost in translation.

"The piano," you pointed. "Move it. It's sitting in the wrong place-"

"Where do you want it?"

"Later. Two bars later. After the-"

"After the vocal comes in?"

"No, before. One bar before."

He moved it. Played it back.

"That's- no," you shook your head. "That's not-"

You knew you were being a pain- deep down- but you were so frustrated- so so frustrated, because in some ugly way- you wanted him to see how smart you could be in your own language.

"Too early?" Martin asked.

"No it's not about early or late it's about-"

You stopped because the word wasn't coming. The specific word for what was wrong with it- the word that would explain why the placement felt off, was sitting in mandarin and wouldn't translate into something useful.

"It needs to feel like it arrives after the feeling. Like- like someone who sees you crying and doesn't say anything but puts their hand— i don't know how to say."

"I understand," Martin said simply. "Let me try something,"

He moved the piano in a different position, slightly later, a rhythmic placement you wouldn't have chosen but that he seemed sure about.

It was close. Very close. But something was still sitting wrong.

"It's almost right," you said.

"Almost where?"

"Almost- The note. The first note of the piano. It's-"

"Too bright?"

"It's not a technincal thing- When you write in English, and you want to say something sad- you choose words that sound like the thing. The sound of the word matches the feeling. Yes?"

"Yeah," Martin said, following you. "Like sonic texture in language."

"Yes. The first note of the piano sounds like-" You searched. "Like question. And it should sound like statement. Like something that already been decided. Like grief... is not asking to be felt but is simply- felt. Present. 已经在了."

You said the last part in mandarin without meaning to- already there and Martin reached for his phone again.

And something about that- the translation app, the inevitable flattening of '已经在了' into something that would come back technically correct but emotionally miles from the thing you'd said— made you loose your patience completely.

"I could really-" You stopped to take a breath.

Martin looked up at you- curious.

"I could really be myself right now," you told him. "And say the things I want to say. If I were speaking mandarin."

"I know," Martin nodded quietly.

"You don't know," you said- not unkindly. "You hear what I say and you think you know what I mean. But I'm giving you—" You held up your hand, fingers close together. "This much. I'm giving you this much of what I actually mean. Because this much fits in the English i have." You looked at him. "The rest-" You opened your hand and motioned letting it go.

"The feeling I'm trying to describe," you continued, "In my language it takes one word. One word and you understand exactly and we move on and the music would be correct." You looked at the screen. "Instead we are here."

"Then teach me," Martin said very quickly.

"I can't teach you '乡愁' in an afternoon, Martin." You said it flatly. "I can't teach you what it feels like. You have to have felt it. You have to have been far from a place and felt it missing from your body. Like here" You touched your ribs.

"But, I have." Martin claimed.

"Then you know '乡愁," you said. "You just don't have the word for it."

"But you do," he continued. "And I don't. And that's the problem.” He stopped.

You looked at the screen. At the bridge section, the piano sitting in its almost-right position, the bridge almost carrying the thing you needed it to carry.

"I'm not-" You started. "I'm not frustrated with you. I want to be clear. I'm frustrated with-" You gestured at the space between you. "This."

"I know," Martin nodded. "I do- but it's gonna be okay- we'll end up understanding each other. If we try a little more."

"I came here today and I had things I wanted to make- I could hear them and I could feel them and I-" You exhaled. "I can't get them out in a language that isn't mine. I don't want music to feel dumb- just because i don't speak the language."

"It's not." he shook his head. "Hey, one day you said something in an interview. You said it in english- i remember it. You said that- 'music doesn't need translation the way relationships do.' And not to be weird or anything- but i think you sound smart in all the languages. You dont need a translation because you already have the feeling- that's enough."

The thing about being seen in a language that wasn't yours was that it arrived differently than being seen in your own.

In mandarin, someone understanding you was expected- the words did their job. But in english, when someone reached through the reduced version of you- through the compressed thought, it was a different kind of 'being seen'.

"I've been trying to learn mandarin,” Martin continued when he saw you were struggling to reply, "I know it's not enough. Iknow a few words and tones I'm mispronouncing and a phrase I looked up at midnight isn't- enough. I know that."

"It's not about learning Mandarin," you finally spoke, a small smile tickling the corners of your lips. "It's about- It's about the fact that I have been far from home for two years. And in those two years I have said- Maybe thirty percent of what I actually think. But today I wanted to say the full thing. So we could understand each other."

Outside, somewhere in the building, music was playing from another session. Another song. Another room. Someone else making something in whatever language they had.

"Do you miss it," Martin asked quietly.

"Every day," you smiled. "The food first, I know that sounds- fat"

He found it amusing, the way you'd used the word "fat".

"No it doesn't sound fat, i miss korean food too when i'm abroad." he chuckled.

"There is a- a specific noodle. From a specific place near where I grew up. I try to find it here. Something similar. I can't." You shook your head. "And my mother makes soup. In winter. And I can smell it sometimes. When I'm in the studio very late and I'm tired."

The boy listened, eyes bored on you, like listening to a very interesting TED talk.

"I miss speaking without thinking," you continued. "I miss saying exactly the thing I mean without building it first. Without losing half of it. My thoughts in mandarin are so interesting. In English they are dumb.”

"I'm sorry," Martin replied.

"Don't be," you shrugged. "I chose this. I chose to come here, to work here, you didn’t drag me out of china.”

And you realized maybe you'd said entirely too much until Martin spoke again.

"Earlier you said you missed noodles. Specific noodles. From a specific place. What kind ?"

You looked at him for a moment, one eyebrow raised.

"Why," you questioned.

"Because I wanna know," he said simply.

"重庆小面," you replied, "重庆, It's the city where I'm from." And 小面 means like- small noodles. But small is wrong. The translation is wrong. They're not small. They're humble, maybe. That's better. Humble noodles. Street noodles."

Martin listened, the track long forgotten.

"The woman who made them- she was there since before I was born. Very small, very fast. I watched her when I was a child."

"Is she still there," Martin asked, eyes bright now. Like he was smiling with his eyes.

"It's her daughter now," you said. "Same hands. Same speed."

So you told him about your country. Like you'd tell a good friend about things that didn't really matter in that moment- since you were both supposed to work. You told him about Chongqing, about the food, about your old house... a little about the rivers and the mountains. The fog that came in off the Yangtze in the mornin- the hotpot restraints open until four- the smell of charcoal. Many many things.

You talked- he listened, and then he told you about where he came from, the food he enjoyed, the things he did.

And you started to understand a little more why Martin was the way he was. He'd grown up full of love- a child with too many passions- and it showed now, in his adult form.

"Songpa-gu is where i grew up," he said. "Seoul. So technically I'm from here- but it didn't feel like this city when I was growing up. It felt like its own thing."

"Your family is here?," you asked.

"My mother is Korean," he said. "My father is Canadian. So- It was always a little bit of both. A little bit of neither, sometimes."

You looked at him. "You grew up between two languages."

"Yeah, we lived in Ottawa for a year and a half when I was a kid. So English came early. And then Korean at home with my mother."

"Did you like it, Ottawa?"

"I liked the snow," he said. "And I liked that nobody knew who anyone was. Like-" He paused. "I was just a kid there. Not a Korean kid or a half-Canadian kid or anything with a label. My sister hated it though. She was thirteen and very unhappy about the whole thing."

"You have a sister," you said.

"Older," he said. "By a few years. She's the reason I'm serious about anything- she was always more disciplined than me. More focused. I had way too many interests."

"Like what?” you asked- finding him more and more relatable.

So he told you about the passions, plural and overlapping. Music first and always, but also: drawing, which he'd done seriously until he was a teenager and then stopped without knowing why— photography, briefly, one summer. Cooking- specifically one dish he'd learned from a YouTube video at seventeen and had since made approximately two hundred times.

"And then there was the fish," he announced with a smile.

You looked at him, deadpanning. "The fish."

"I went through a phase of wanting to learn everything about deep sea fish. Specifically. For about eight months when I was sixteen."

"Why," you chuckled.

You thought maybe you'd heard it wrong- maybe your english was that bad, but turned out Martin was really talking about fish.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "I genuinely don't know. I just became very interested in the fact that there were things living at the bottom of the ocean that had never seen. I thought that was— something."

Martin had grown up full of love- a child with too many passions and a father who cried at Nutshell on the third listen. A mother who fed everyone who came through the door.

It made sense that he'd been moved by Layne Staley's voice at twelve, everything made sense.

He'd grown up being listened to, and it had made him into someone who listened the same way.

LATER THAT DAY. . .

Martin thought about countless ways he could make you smile, for days. You looked like you weren’t necessarily doing good— and in all likelihood he would have to do something about it- that’s just the way he was. He spent the afternoon looking for places that had your specific noodles, one that wouldn’t be too far away but familiar enough.

He thought about getting you something, a gift maybe, then he opted out— that would make him look ridiculous. Come on, he didn’t even know you all that well. But he spent the next few days planning how to ask you regardless— drafted different messages in different tones, compared them withthe help of James, and decided to just send a quick, ‘hey, i wanna take you somewhere to eat, is that okay?’

He stared at the sent message for a solid ten minutes, heart doing that stupid flip thing again. ‘Fuck, what if she thinks I’m a creep? Or worse, what if she says no and I just ruined the whole music thing?’

Your reply came two hours later, which felt like two years.

You: Okay. When?

Martin almost dropped his phone. He typed back way too fast.

Martin: Tomorrow night? 7? There’s this place I found. Chongqing style. No pressure tho

You: Fine. Send location.

That was it. No emojis. No “sounds good.” Just Fine. Martin grinned at his screen like an idiot anyway.

‘She said yes. Holy shit she said yes.’

The restaurant was small, tucked between a closed karaoke bar and a convenience store. Red lanterns hung outside even though it wasn’t a holiday, and the smell of chili oil and garlic hit Martin the second he opened the door for you. You walked in first, mask down now that you were inside, scanning the place with that same careful look you gave everything.

The auntie behind the counter lit up when she saw you, like she could just tell you were a native. She said something fast in Mandarin and you answered back without hesitation, your voice suddenly smoother, faster, like English had been weighing it down the whole time.

Martin stood there awkwardly, smiling like he understood a single word.

You glanced at him. “She says the noodles are fresh today. Sit.”

He followed you to a corner table like a puppy.

The place was half-full, mostly locals, and the auntie brought water and a menu without asking. You ordered for both of you— Chongqing small noodles, mild for him, normal for you—then handed the menu back.

The noodles arrived fast, steaming bowls piled with green onions, peanuts, and that dark red sauce. You picked up your chopsticks and took the first bite. For a second— just a second—your whole face changed, your eyes softened, shoulders dropped, and you made this small satisfied sound in the back of your throat.

“Fuck… good,” you muttered, almost to yourself.

It seemed the curse words just couldn’t stop flowing around him, like you could finally speak your thoughts without being called ‘vulgar.’

Martin laughed, nearly choking on his first bite. “Holy shit this is spicy. My mouth is dying.”

You looked at him, chopsticks paused. “You picked mild. Still too much?”

“Yeah but I’m surviving. I’ll be aight.” He took another bite, eyes watering. “Tell me about the real place. The one near your house.”

You ate slowly, like you were savoring every strand. “重庆小面. The auntie there knew me since I was small. Always extra peanuts for me. She yelled at boys who tried to talk to me after school.” A tiny, rare smile tugged at your lips. “I sat there every day after class. Did homework. Ate. Listened to music on cheap earphones.”

Martin watched you, mesmerized. “Sounds nice. I wish I could’ve had that, I became a trainee when I was like… thirteen? Fourteen? Everything after that was schedules, practice rooms, sleeping in the dorm.”

You tilted your head. “Thirteen? That is very young. No normal childhood?”

“Nah. I mean, it was fun sometimes. But I missed a lot. First dates? Never really had normal ones. Just… sneaking around or group stuff where everyone was watching.” He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly. “My last ‘relationship’ was mostly texting between schedules. She got tired of me canceling plans. Can’t blame her.”

You nodded, understanding flickering across your face. “Idol life. I saw some. Very… strict. I stayed underground longer. More freedom. But lonely too.”

“Yeah?” Martin leaned in. “Any crazy ex stories? Or am I being nosy?”

You took another bite, chewing slowly. “One. Trainee too. Thought music was competition. Always compared our streams.” You made a small dismissive sound. “Annoying. I ended it. Better alone than pretending.”

“Damn. Brutal but fair.” Martin grinned. “I had one who said I was too emotional because i cried during sad movies. She called it cute at first, then said it was embarrassing in front of friends.”

You looked at him directly. “Crying is honest. Nothing wrong.”

Martin’s chest did that warm flip again. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that without laughing.”

The auntie came back, refilling waters and chatting with you again in. You spoke more freely this time— laughing quietly at something she said, gesturing with your chopsticks. Martin just watched, smiling softly.

You translated bits for him without him asking.

“She says you look like a good boy. But too skinny. Eat more.”

He laughed. “Tell her I’m trying. These noodles are trying to kill me though.”

You relayed it and the auntie clapped her hands, saying something that made you huff. “She says Korean boys cannot handle real spice. Come back when you are stronger.”

Martin clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. Tell her I’ll train every day.”

You did, and for a moment the three of you were laughing— you translating between languages, the auntie patting your shoulder like you were family. Martin caught the way your face lit up when you spoke your own language.

It was so rare. Beautiful. He wanted to see it more.

As the bowls emptied, conversation drifted deeper. You talked about your friends back home, asked him about his music, about Cortis. He told you about sneaking snacks into the dorm, swarmed airports, and how stressful it all was. Then he talked about how lonely it felt not to be able to live teenage life normally, how happy he was back when he could mess around with girls without consequences.

“I had zero game,” he admitted, poking at the last peanuts. “Still don’t, honestly. I get too excited about music and forget how to talk like a normal person.”

You were quiet for a second, pushing a stray hair behind your ear. “You talk fine. When it is about music. Real.”

Martin felt his face heat. “Thanks. Coming from you that means a lot.”

The flutter came back while you were talking— a familiar tightness under your sternum. You pressed two fingers there lightly under the table, breathing slow.

Not now. It must’ve been the spice.

You hid it well, sipping water like nothing happened. Martin didn’t notice. Or if he did, he thought it was the heat from the noodles.

After he paid (he insisted, waving off your protest), you stepped out into the cool evening air. The city was loud around you, neon mixing with the leftover chili warmth on your tongues.

“You liked it?” he asked, walking beside you.

You nodded. “Yes. Tasted like home.” Your voice was quieter now, the exhaustion was creeping in, hollowing out the small joy from the noodles. But you didn’t say it. Couldn’t.

You felt grateful, that he’d taken time out of his day to make you smile like that— it wasn’t his job— but he did it anyway.

Martin walked close but not too close. “I’m glad. I spent way too long googling places. James called me pathetic.”

You huffed, almost a laugh. “Not pathetic. Thoughtful.”

That sentence died the second you started coughing, you folded in half, hand over your mouth. Martin thought it was probably the cold night air— or the spice again.

He stopped under a streetlight, turning to you. “Hey.” His hand lifted slowly, giving you time to pull away.

When you didn’t, he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear, his fingers lingered half a second longer than necessary. “Are you fine? Breathe.”

You straightened up, pressing the back of your hand on your mouth. “I’m okay. Just spice.” you cleared your throat, suddenly very aware of his hand.

Your breath caught. His eyes met yours—searching, soft, like he was trying to read every layer you kept buried. For a moment it felt like he could see straight through the careful english and the guarded expressions, right into the tired, aching parts you hid even from yourself.

“I’m glad you smiled today, looks good on you.” he said quietly. “Are you okay though?”

You looked away first, heart doing something complicated. “I am fine.”

The lie tasted heavier than the noodles. You felt seen— dangerously seen—and it made guilt twist in your chest right next to the flutter.

He is trying so hard. And you are hiding. Always hiding.

Martin pulled out one earbud from his pocket and offered it to you. “Here. Walk back with this, we don’t have to talk.”

You took it, surprised, and he started playing one of his unfinished demos on his phone— The shared sound connected you as you walked, shoulders occasionally brushing.

It felt intimate. Too intimate for two people who barely knew each other. But it also felt terribly right.

At the corner where your car would pick you up, you stopped. “Thank you, for the noodles. For trying.”

“Anytime,” he said, meaning it. “So… more sessions? Real ones this time?”

You hesitated, the guilt and exhaustion heavy, but the music pulled stronger. “Yes. More sessions. One more at least, we will see.”

Martin’s smile was bright enough to cut through the night. “That’s all I’m asking.”

You climbed into the car when it arrived, watching him wave through the window. Alone again, you pressed your palm flat against your chest and closed your eyes— thhe flutter had settled, but the hollowness remained.

Martin made you feel seen in a way no one had in this city. That was terrifying.

Because the more he saw, the harder it became to keep hiding how much everything— the distance, the language, your body— was wearing you down. You leaned your head against the seat, replaying the way his fingers had brushed your hair.

Just music, you told yourself. It has to stay just music.

But you already knew it wasn’t.

Music was deep. Martin was even deeper.

The next time— you arrived first, laptop already open, the rough demo from last time playing low on the monitors and Martin showed up ten minutes late, hair messy like he’d run here, two iced coffees in hand and a stupid grin that made him look twelve instead of his own age.

“Sorry, practice ran long,” he said, sliding into the chair right next to yours. The wheels squeaked as he scooted closer without asking. Your arms were already brushing when he set the coffee down. “One’s for you. No idea if you like it sweet or whatever, so I got it kinda in the middle.”

You took it, fingers grazing his. “Thanks.” You sipped. It was too sweet, but you didn’t say anything. The chair was close enough that your knee kept bumping his when you moved.

Martin leaned in, elbows on the desk, peering at your screen. “Okay so… we’re really doing this? Finishing it today?”

You nodded, mouse already moving. “Yes. Let’s finish.”

He bumped your arm on purpose this time. “Bossy. I like it.”

You gave him a sideways look but didn’t pull away; the work started easy, you tweaked a vocal chop while he messed with the low end— arms brushing every few seconds. Accidental at first, then erm… not so much.

“You’re so focused, stop biting your lip so hard” Martin said, laughing under his breath as he dragged a fader. “I know you were desperate to collab with me but damn…”

You huffed, a small amused sound. “Right. Funny guy.”

“Oh c’mon, we’re past that now.” He nudged your chair with his foot. “We’re practically best friends now.”

“I did not say that,” you said, adjusting a reverb tail. Your elbow brushed his again. “I never said it.”

Martin snorted. “Mmhh… right. Okay. Whatever you say bossy.”

You shook your head, fighting a smile. “You are dramatic. Crying in noraebang. What’s next, crying in this studio because we’re not friends ?”

“Probably,” he admitted cheerfully. “But also if this bridge comes out right I might actually sob. Fair warning.”

You both laughed at that—quiet at first, the chairs so close your shoulders touched when you leaned back. It felt easy. Stupidly easy.

Martin queued up a silly sample he’d added yesterday —a cartoonish boing sound. “What do you think? Genius or garbage?”

You listened, head tilted. “Garbage. Delete.”

“Jeez, tough crowd.” He clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him. “I worked so hard on that boing. Two whole minutes.”

“Two minutes wasted.” You reached over and deleted it yourself, your arm fully pressed against his now. “Better.”

He groaned dramatically but was grinning. “You’re so mean when you’re focused. I respect it though. My members just nod and say everything’s fire even when it’s ass.”

You took another sip of the too-sweet coffee. “They lie to protect your feelings. I don’t lie about music.”

“Brutal honesty. Noted.” He bumped your knee again. “Okay, real talk though— did you actually like the noodles or were you just being nice because I looked desperate?”

You paused the playback. “I liked them. Really. Tasted close enough to home. The auntie was funny too.” Your voice softened just a fraction. “You googled a lot for that, right?”

Martin rubbed the back of his neck, ears going pink. “Yeah… maybe too much. James said I was down bad. I told him to shut up.”

You let out a short laugh. “Down bad. What does that mean exactly?”

“Like… really into someone. Can’t stop thinking about them. Pathetic levels.” He glanced at you, then quickly back at the screen. “Not saying that’s me. Just… the phrase.”

“Uh huh.” You dragged the playhead, arms brushing again for the nth time, “You are a little pathetic. But nice pathetic.”

“Hey” He poked your arm lightly. “Rude. I bought you coffee and everything.”

You poked him back, surprising yourself. “Coffee is bribe. Not enough.”

He laughed, bright and loud, the kind that filled the entire room and made him look like a kid again. “Okay, fair. Next time I’ll bring a whole offering or something, deal?”

“Deal.” You restarted the section.

Martin started humming along off-key on purpose. “This part needs more… soul. Like this—” He did a ridiculous vibrato that cracked halfway.

“Shutup.” You couldn’t help laughing. “Or what do they say again? Shut you ass up??”

“Yeah don’t say that” But he was laughing too, leaning into you so your arms pressed fully together. “Dont say this okay? Thats not something you tell random people, you can say it to me but don’t go saying it to other people or you’ll get into trouble.”

“Okay, shut your ass up then.”

“Yes maa’m.”

The work continued like that— talking over the music, fixing tiny things while trading stories. Martin told you about the time he accidentally walked into the wrong practice room and danced to girl group choreography for ten minutes before realizing. You told him about sneaking into underground shows back home when you were sixteen, pretending you were older.

“Trainee life sounds exhausting,” you said, mouse clicking steadily.

Your pinky brushed his on the desk— mind you the room was big enough to avoid that— but your bodies kept finding each other’s.

“It was. Still is. But worth it most days.” He turned his hand slightly so your fingers touched more. “What about you? Ever get homesick so bad you wanted to quit everything?”

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But then I make something and it feels less heavy.”

Martin nodded, eyes soft. “Yeah. Same.”

The demo was coming together. You added a layer; he adjusted the bass, complementary.

At one point Martin tried to reach for the keyboard and nearly knocked his coffee over. You caught it just in time, both of you freezing with your hands overlapping on the cup.

“Nice reflexes,” he said, voice a little quieter.

“You are clumsy,” you replied, but there was no bite to it.

He didn’t move his hand right away and quite frankly neither did you.

Your manager had texted earlier saying she’d be late picking you up, so time stretched. The song kept playing on loop as you refined it.

The tension was thick, you knew it. Palpable even. Your heart was doing that annoying flutter again, but you ignored it, pressing your free hand lightly under the table against your sternum for a moment.

It was probably the coffee.

Martin noticed the small movement but misread it. “You okay?”

“Fine.” You straightened a little, but your knee stayed locked with his.

The demo was nearly done when Martin played the full thing from the top. You listened with your eyes half-closed, shoulder pressed solidly to his. When it ended, the laughter faded into comfortable quiet as you both focused on the final stretch.

The song was beautiful, it was as if you’d carved out both your souls and put them in a mixer together. A pretty mix of you both.

Neither of you had moved away in the last forty minutes and the forced proximity had become its own kind of conversation— every brush of fabric, every shared inhale, every accidental graze of fingers feeling heavier than the last.

Martin turned his head slowly, his face was only inches from yours now, you could smell everythung from the coffee on his breath to the scent of his hoodie.

His eyes searched yours, except he wasn’t playful anymore. His gaze dropped to your lips for a long second before flicking back up, like he was asking permission without words.

It was the song, you told yourself, the artistic euphoria of making something beautiful and wanting to let those feelings spill out- it was a human reflex.

But the tension had been building for hours—the physical was aligning with the emotional— everything you’d felt for him, everytime your soul had recognised his, it translated into body language now.

Want. Fear. The terrifying knowledge that this was crossing a line you didn’t know how to uncross.

Martin swallowed hard, his voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about this since… the record shop. Since… fuck, since the first session probably.” His hand lifted slowly, giving you every second to stop him, his fingers brushed your cheek, then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with aching gentleness. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong. Tell me to stop and I will, okay?”

You didn’t speak, instead, you leaned in just a fraction— barely anything, but enough. Your nose brushed his. The air between you holding all the things you couldn’t say properly in english or mandarin.

The body did not know language barrier.

Martin’s breath hitched, then he closed the last inch.

The kiss was soft at first— hesitant, almost careful, like both of you were afraid of breaking something fragile. His lips were warm, slightly chapped from biting them nervously during the session. You felt like you were holding something very dear in your hands, never squeezing tight in fears of breaking it.

You tasted the sweetness of coffee and the salt of his skin when your lips parted just enough and his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair, holding you there like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

Your own hand came up to grip the front of his hoodie, knuckles brushing the warm skin at the base of his throat where his pulse hammered wildly.

His other arm wrapped around your waist in the cramped space, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. Your knees pressed hard together, your chest against his. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric—fast, unsteady, matching the flutter in your own chest.

Could Martin feel yours? Could he feel how wrong it was beating, trying to catch up with his rythm?

The music was still playing softly in the background as he fell in deeper.

It felt like drinking straight out of the bottle when you had spent your whole life using glasses. Risky. Dangerous. Messy and overwhelming and everything in between.

But it was all you had ever wanted. You felt incredibly overwhelmingly seen.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads still pressed together, breaths mingling, neither of you spoke right away. Martin’s eyes stayed closed for a second longer, like he was trying to hold onto the feeling, is thumb brushed your bottom lip gently.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked. A small, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long, is it… is that bad? Was that okay?”

But before you could say anything, his phone exploded with ringing on the desk.

He jumped, fumbling for it without thinking.

Juhoon’s name flashed and Martin answered fast. “Hey man, I’m kinda in the—”

Juhoon’s voice blasted on speaker because Martin had hit it accidentally. “Yo. So how’s it going with fine shit? You finally kiss her or what?”

Martin froze, face instantly tomato red. “Juhoon—what the fuck—”

You stared at the phone, then at him, amusement flickering across your face.

Juhoon kept going, oblivious. “Come on, did she friendzone you already? I told you not to be such a simp with the noodles—”

Martin looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him, he kept fumbling with the hang up button. “Dude. She’s right here. Shut the fuck up.”

There was a pause, then Juhoon: “Oh shit. My bad. Uh… hey. I’m gonna—”

Before he could hang up, you leaned in, grabbed Martin by the front of his hoodie, and kissed him again— firmer this time. A clear “not friendzoned” statement. Martin made a surprised sound against your lips but melted into it immediately.

From the speaker came a dramatic fake gag. “Oh god— ewww, I can hear that man. Gross. I’m hanging up now.”

The call ended with a click.

Martin pulled back, face burning, eyes wide. “I’m actually dead. Kill me. Please. He’s never letting me live this down.”

You were smirking, still holding his hoodie. “Fine shit? Friendzone?”

He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder, arms wrapping loosely around you “I’m so sorry. He’s an idiot. I’m an idiot—”

You laughed quietly, the sound vibrating against him. “It is funny. And I am not friendzoning you.”

Debatable considering what you’d said earlier.

Martin lifted his head, still red but smiling now and bumped his forehead gently against yours. “So… more sessions? Or did that just scare you off forever?”

You stayed close, your hand still loosely on his hoodie, the flutter in your chest was back, but the warmth from him made it easier to ignore. “More sessions. We can try.”

His grin came back, silly and bright. “Yeah?”

“Yes. But no more speaker phone. Ever.”

“Deal.” He bumped your knee one last time, reluctant to create any distance. “And maybe more coffee bribes. And no more surprise calls from idiots.”

The next few weeks blurred into something that felt a liiiitle too close to routine. After that night in the studio— things shifted without either of you naming it. You kept telling yourself it was just music, just proximity. (you were that delusional.)

But Martin made it impossible to stay detached.

He started texting more, just stupid shit that made you huff a laugh in your empty apartment, memes he thought you’d like.

Voice notes of him trying (and failing bad) new mandarin phrases he’d learned from Duolingo at 2 am “Nǐ hǎo, wǒ shì Martin. Wǒ xǐhuān nǐ de yīnyuè… and also you. Wait, that last part wasn’t in the app.” His tones were still garbage, but you laughed anyway, the sound surprising you.

One night he picked you up after a long session.

“Late-night walk?” he asked, already knowing you’d say yes. You ended up on some empty road outside the city, Martin’s hand found yours fingers threading together like it was the most natural thing.

“Remember when I sounded like a mess trying to speak mandarin?” he said, grinning. “Well, you’ll be surprised I’ve been practicing. Listen—”

He proceeded to butcher a full sentence about liking spicy food and— tall mountains??

You corrected him between laughs, your head leaning against him. The flutter in your chest came again many times, but you breathed through it, squeezing his hand instead of pressing against your sternum.

Another time you dragged him to a second record shop, smaller and dustier than the first. You pulled out underground Chinese indie—artists he’d never heard— and played snippets on your phone while flipping through sleeves. “This one,” you said, pointing to a track with raw, lo-fi production. “You need to listen, it makes me think of you.”

Martin listened with his whole body, eyes closed, shoulder pressed to yours in the narrow aisle. “Damn, that means i’m kind of sad...” He tried pronouncing the artist’s name and mangled it so badly you actually laughed out loud, covering your mouth.

He looked proud as hell. “Worth it just for that sound.”

You showed him mandarin rap next, late one evening in his dorm when his members were out. Sitting on his bed with laptops open, you translated bits while the aggressive beats filled the small room— Martin attempted to rap along to a line and sounded so ridiculous you had to pause the track, shoulders shaking. “You are terrible,” you told him, but your voice was softer than usual.

“Yeah, but you’re laughing,” he shot back, pulling you closer until your back rested against his chest. “I’ll take the L.”

Those months had pockets of warmth like that. Deep conversations that started light and turned heavy. One night after another record shop visit, you sat in a rental car in the parking lot, engine off, the city humming around you. You tried to explain the growing numbness— the way everything felt further away lately, like you were watching your own life through frosted glass.

“It’s not just missing home,” you said slowly. “My words fail again. Stupid. But i’m happy here with you. I wish I could take you home.”

Martin pulled you into a hug right there in the front seat, arms wrapping tight around you. His chin rested on your head. “Hey. It’s okay. I get it—you miss home. You’ve been here alone for so long.” He kissed your forehead, soft then another on your temple. “I’m here though. For whatever you need.”

You let him hold you, guilt twisting harder because he thought it was simple homesickness.

You didn’t correct him. Couldn’t. The flutter had been worse that week, and you were tired down to your bones. “I am okay,” you murmured against his hoodie. “Just tired.”

He believed you. Of course he did. He terribly wanted to.

You recorded vocals for the song a few days later the studio was dim, just the two of you. Martin hugged you after the take, forehead kiss again, whispering how proud he was. You leaned into him, letting the warmth cover the hollowness for a little while.

The turning point came quietly, the way bad things often do, you started canceling sessions. First one was “manager changed my schedule.” Then another: “tired today, tomorrow?”

Martin noticed— you were quieter in texts, slower to reply—but he chalked it up to your busy schedule. You were an artist after all, underground didn’t mean easy.

In person it was harder to hide— you’d lost a little weight; your hoodie hung looser. You stared into space more at times,eyes distant while he talked about his day.

When he asked, you always said the same thing: “I’m okay. Just tired. Studio work is a lot.”

Martin believed you because he needed to. He’d pull you closer in those moments, arm around your shoulders, playing your shared playlist until you relaxed against him.

Your family started hearing about him around then— your mom called one evening while you were at his place, you answered in mandarin, voice lighter than it had been in weeks. Martin sat quietly on the couch, pretending not to listen but clearly curious and when you hung up, he raised an eyebrow.

“She asked who the boy who keeps stealing my time is,” you said dryly. “I told her ‘he is annoying but makes good music’.”

Martin grinned like an idiot.

Later that month you met his members—casual dinner at the dorm. Juhoon was there, of course, and immediately brought up the speakerphone incident. “So you’re the one who friendzoned him and then didn’t,” he teased.

Martin turned bright red and tried to smother him with a pillow while you watched, amused.

The others were nice—loud but welcoming. They teased Martin for being down bad and you for putting up with him. You didn’t talk much, but you stayed close to Martin’s side, his hand on your knee under the table.

He introduced you as “the genius behind the best song I’ve ever made.” The pride in his voice made your chest ache in many different ways.

It all piled up, messy, beautiful. You’d never felt so safe.

He kissed you often now— soft forehead kisses when you looked distant, longer ones in private when the music hit just right, hesitant and deep like he was still scared you’d disappear or walk away.

One evening after a shortened session you canceled the next day, Martin showed up at your building with flowers.

“Not a big gesture,” he said, sheepish. “Just… missed you. You’ve been quiet lately.”

You let him in, let him hug you for a long time. “I am fine,” you whispered into his shoulder.

The lie tasted worse every time, your body felt heavier,the numbness deeper. But his warmth made you want to believe it too, just for a little longer.

Your mom started asking more questions on calls. “This Martin boy— he treats you well? You sound tired, daughter. Come home soon.” You reassured her, but the guilt sat heavy.

Martin was trying so so hard— learning clumsy phrases, planning small dates, holding you like you were something precious— he met your guarded silences with patience and stupid jokes that made you laugh despite everything.

He thought the distance was just homesickness.

You let him. Because admitting more felt impossible, and the music— the song you’d made together— still felt like the only honest thing between you.

Those months were the brightest.

Martin e looked at you like you hung the stars, but underneath, the cracks were widening. You shortened more sessions, started off more. Lost more weight. Martin noticed the changes but always accepted “just tired” because the alternative scared him too much.

And you? You felt seen in a way that terrified you. Guilty for hiding, hollow in ways the music couldn’t always fix anymore. But you kept saying yes to one more drive, one more kiss, one more late night in his arms.

For now, that was enough.

He wanted to believe you were fine. Fuck, he needed to believe you— so he planned something stupid and big and hopeful.

A surprise trip to Chongqing, just a long weekend.

He’d cleared it with your manager through a million careful texts, booked tickets, found a small airbnb near the river, even researched noodle spots that matched the one you’d described.

He practiced the mandarin for “I want to see your home with you” until his tongue hurt.

This would fix it. Seeing home, even briefly, would bring you back.

Bring you back to him.

The insomnia was worse tonight, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, chest tight, breaths shallow. Every time you closed your eyes the flutter came — irregular, annoying, like your heart was arguing with itself.

You thought about telling him. Really telling him. But the words wouldn’t line up in english, and the idea of worrying him felt dreadful.

Just a little longer, you thought. One more good day please.

“Martin,” you started. “I need time.”

He froze from his side of the bed, phone in hand, “Time?”

You looked at the ceiling. “Time to go home. Really home. For a while. Things are… not good. I need space.”

The English came out wrong and clipped and distant. You meant ‘I need to return to China for my health, for rest, maybe a month or two’. But it landed like— I need time away from ‘this’. From us.

Martin’s face changed and the hopeful light drained fast. “Oh. Fuck. Okay… You need time from… us.”

You tried to correct it. “Not us. Home. My body—”

But he was already panicking, scooting closer, hands gentle on your arms. “Wait, please. I know I’ve been a lot— I can back off. I can give you space here. Don’t… don’t pull away completely. We can make this work. The song, us, everything. I’ll learn faster. I’ll be better.”

His voice cracked a little as he pulled you into a hug, tight and desperate, forehead pressed to yours. “I’m sorry if I made it worse. Just… don’t say you need time from us. Please.”

You let him hold you, pretending the flutter wasnt back, worse. You wanted to explain — the insomnia, the way food wouldn’t stay down, the way your heart kept skipping like it was tired of carrying everything alone. But the words stuck. “I am tired,” you said instead. “Very tired.”

Martin kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your cheek —small, frantic kisses like he could hold you together through touch alone. “Then rest. Here. With me. I’ll take care of everything baby. We don’t have to go out. We can stay in. Just don’t leave yet.”

You nodded because arguing felt impossible, because part of you wanted the warmth— also because saying the full truth was too heavy in this language.

You were pulling away. He could feel it. The surprise trip was supposed to fix things, but now you were saying you needed time and he was spiraling. He became clingier without meaning to, texting more when you were apart. Showing up with food after shortened sessions. Planning more small dates. Anything to distract from the huge gap in between you.

Every time you said “I’m okay, just tired,” he hugged you tighter. Forehead kisses turned into long embraces where he rocked you gently.

“I got you,” he’d whisper. “Whatever it is, I got you.”

To Martin it was still homesickness. Stress. He’d fix it by loving harder.

Sessions got even shorter at som. point. You canceled two in a row so Martin showed up at your door with takeout and that worried, hopeful smile.

“I’m giving you space but also… not really,” he admitted, rubbing his neck. “Sorry. I’m bad at this. But I’m here.”

You let him in, let him hold you on the couch while music played, the flutter was constant now. The numbness even deeper. You pressed your face into his shoulder and said nothing.

He thought he was helping, and he was, on some level. You felt so stupid for not being able to tell him, not being able to pick up the damn google translate and say the things that needed to be said. Because it would mean all of this had an expiration date, and you weren’t ready for that.

You felt the walls closing in, one misunderstood sentence at a time. Martin sensed the wrongness but kept reaching holding you closer every time you seemed distant.

You spiraled quieter— you blamed the studio air, the long hours, everything except the truth your body was screaming in a language only you could hear.

And Martin, desperately in love, heard only what he could understand: that you needed time.

He just didn’t realize how little time might be left.

You canceled two sessions in a row but when you finally met, you were quieter, staring at the studio screen without really seeing it. Your hoodie hung looser and your breaths came shallower.

“I’m okay,” you kept saying. “Just tired.”

He didn’t believe it anymore, but he pretended he did.

Martin stayed by the desk, fists clenched at his sides. His voice was barely a whisper as you reached the door a couple hours later.

“When you feel like leaving… just come to me. I’ll always be there. Even if it’s only half.” he said.

That night you fought. You fought because of a lot of things that don’t need explaining. People fight, people in love fight.

You fought because admitting the truth felt like handing him the knife— better to push him away with half-truths than watch him break trying to carry something he couldn’t fix.

He fought because love had made him porous. Every time you pulled back, he felt it in his bones, a fear so deep it tasted like childhood abandonment dressed up as adult terror.

“I’m right here,” he kept saying, the sentence looping “Why does it feel like you’re already gone?”

Two days after the fight, Martin showed up at your apartment door with a bag full of snacks, a new hoodie that looked exactly like your favorite oversized one, and red eyes like he hadn’t slept.

You opened the door in silence— he looked at you for a long second, then stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, voice rough. “I was an asshole. I heard what I wanted to hear instead of what you were actually saying. I’m really fucking sorry.”

You stood there in the hallway, arms wrapped around yourself. “You were scared,” you said finally. “I was tired. We both said things.”

Martin set the bag down and crossed the distance slowly, like you might bolt. When you didn’t, he pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you so tightly it felt like he was trying to hold all your broken pieces together. “I don’t want half,” he whispered into your hair. “I want all of you. Even the parts I don’t understand yet. Even when you need space. I’ll wait. I’ll learn. Just… don’t disappear on me.”

You let yourself lean into him- for once, you didn’t pull away. “Okay,” you murmured against his hoodie. “Not disappear. But I still need… slower.”

He nodded fast, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Slower. Got it. I’ll be whatever you need. Just let me take care of you a little. Please.”

That night he stayed over. He ran you a shower without asking twice and when you came out in his oversized hoodie (the new one he’d bought), hair damp, he was waiting with warm tea and your favorite peanuts arranged in a silly heart shape on a plate.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, but the corner of your mouth twitched.

“Ridiculously in love with you, yeah.” He pulled you onto the couch, settling you between his legs so your back rested against his chest. His arms wrapped around your middle, holding you tight. “Is this okay?”

You nodded. For the first time in weeks, the hollowness felt a little smaller.

He kissed the side of your neck, soft and slow. “I brought stuff from that auntie’s stall near your old house. The one you told me about.”

And God, he wanted to tell you about the trip— felt like his heart was leaping out of his body at how excited he was to surprise you.

You turned your head to look at him, his eyes were so earnest it hurt. “You did all that?”

“Obviously.” Martin kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your eye like he could kiss away the tiredness. “I’m going to make you feel better. Even if it’s just a little bit every day. You don’t have to be strong all the time with me.”

That night he held you in bed like you were something precious, one arm under your head, the other wrapped around your waist, legs tangled. Every time you shifted, he pulled you closer, pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he whispered when your breathing hitched. “Sleep. I’m right here.”

The next few days were devastatingly sweet.

Martin basically moved in, he canceled practices when he could, brought over his laptop so you could work from bed. When you were too tired to shower, he helped —gentle, careful, no pressure. He washed your hair with slow fingers, massaging your scalp until you almost fell asleep standing up, he wrapped you in warm towels after, carried you back to bed like you weighed nothing, then held you while your hair dried.

“You don’t have to do this,” you mumbled one evening, face buried in his neck.

“I want to,” he said simply. “Let me. Please. It makes me feel useful when I can’t fix the big stuff yet.”

He gave you pieces of himself in return.

One night he played you old voice memos from when he was a trainee —awkward, cracking voice singing covers, crying after a bad evaluation. “This is the me before I learned how to hide it,” he said, cheeks pink. “The overly emotional mess. I figured if you’re giving me the hard parts of you, I should give you mine too.”

You listened with your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. “I like this version,” you told him quietly. “The real one.”

He kissed you then —slow, deep, full of all the things he couldn’t say right. When he pulled back, forehead against yours, he smiled that silly, devoted smile. “Good. Because he’s all yours.”

Another night he cooked terrible Korean-Chinese fusion food and fed you bites when you had no appetite. He made you laugh with awful mandarin impressions, then held you tight when the laughter turned into quiet tears you couldn’t explain.

“I’ve got you,” Martin repeated like a promise, rocking you gently. “I’ve got you okay?”

He kissed every part of you only he could reach— your knuckles when your hands trembled, your closed eyelids when you were fighting sleep, the spot right over your sternum when you pressed your fingers there without thinking. “Whatever this is,” he whispered against your skin, “we’ll figure it out together. No more half. Okay?”

For those few days, it felt like enough. He was devoted in the most heartbreakingly pure way — cooking, carrying, kissing, listening even when you couldn’t explain. He thought it was homesickness and stress. He thought his love could carry the weight.

You let him believe it, like a stupid stupid mean mad-woman.

Martin woke up tangled in his sheets, smiling like an idiot before he even opened his eyes. The past week had been pure warmth. He’d held you every night, arms locked around your smaller frame like he could shield you from the world. He’d washed your hair in the shower, fingers gentle on your scalp while you leaned into him with a tired little sigh that made his chest ache in the best way.

He made breakfast that morning —terrible scrambled eggs and toast cut into hearts because he was a sap and proud of it.

He sent you a voice note in broken mandarin: “Good morning, sexy beautiful wonderful woman. Eat something today, okay? I’m coming over later with real food. Miss you.” His tones were still awful, but he knew it would make you huff that tiny laugh he was addicted to.

Martin felt hopeful. The fight was behind you, you were letting him in more, the trip to Chongqing was coming closer and closer.

But something felt off.

A low stomach ache had settled in his gut since he woke up, not bad enough to ruin the day, but persistent. Like his body knew something his brain didn’t.

He rubbed his abdomen absently while scrolling through social media— reading fan comments from cortis’ latest comeback.

It was probably just nerves, he thought despite the unease, or maybe he’d ate too much again.

The morning unfolded gently, the way good days were supposed to. He deep cleaned his laptop with music playing low —one of your unfinished demos.

Martin spent twenty minutes picking flowers from the small patch near his dorm building — pink and white ones, the kind you once said reminded you of spring in Chongqing even if they weren’t the same. He arranged them clumsily in a glass jar, feeling like the biggest sappiest idiot on earth. No reply yet, but that was okay. You were probably still sleeping. You’d been so tired lately.

By midday the stomach ache had sharpened, a dull twist that made him wince when he bent down to tie his shoes. He ignored it. Popped some medicine. Told himself it was anxiety about making the trip perfect. He wanted everything right for you. He practiced more mandarin on the way to your place, murmuring full sentences under his breath in the taxi. “Wǒ ài nǐ. Nǐ shì wǒ de yīqiè.” Martin’s accent was still terrible, but the intention felt real.

The driver asked if he was okay. Martin laughed it off. “Yeah, just excited. Taking my girl somewhere special.” The words felt good in his mouth. My girl. After all the half-steps and half-understandings, it finally felt like you two were moving forward.

His phone buzzed on his thigh and the screen lit up with your name. His heart did a full flip —that stupid, lovesick jump he never got tired of and he answered immediately, grin wide.

“Hey precious—”

“Martin?”

It wasn’t your voice.

The woman on the line sounded shaky, speaking careful english with a heavy accent. One of your friends —the one you’d mentioned a few times, that one producer you trusted. “This is Lin. I’m… I’m calling from the hospital. Y/n collapsed last night. They brought her in this morning.”

The world tilted on its axis.

Martin’s stomach dropped like a stone, the ache flared sharp and vicious. “What?— I’m coming… i’m coming right now—. where?”

“She’s stable for now,” Lin said, but her voice cracked. “Just… get here. She was asking for you before she lost consciousness again.”

He was already signaling to the driver, heart hammering so hard he felt dizzy. “Tell her I’m coming. Tell her I love her. Fuck— tell her I’m sorry I didn’t come over last night.“

“Martin. Just get here.”

He hung up and told the taxi driver the adress.

It was hell. Martin sat in the back, leg bouncing, stomach twisting into knots. Guilt ate him alive. Why didn’t he go over last night? you said you were tired, but he should’ve known.He should’ve pushed. He should’ve been there to hold you.

He thought it was just homesickness. Stress. He thought this love was enough.

The driver weaved through traffic while Martin stared out the window, phone clutched so tight his knuckles were white. “Faster, please,” he begged. Tears pricked his eyes.

He arrived at the hospital in record time, throwing cash at the driver and bolting toward the entrance. The parking lot was chaotic —cars honking, people rushing, ambulances pulling in. His stomach ached worse now, sharp and nauseating, he felt like throwing up, like the world was ending and he was the only one who hadn’t seen it coming.

His phone rang again. Same number. Lin.

Martin answered instantly, voice cracking. “I’m here! I’m in the parking lot, almost inside. How is she? Can I see her? Tell her I’m coming—”

“Martin.” Lin’s voice was different this time. And it made him sick to his stomach. “Are you somewhere safe? Where are you right now?”

“I’m in the fucking parking lot!” he snapped, panic rising. “Why? What’s going on? Is she awake? Can I talk to her?”

There was a long, horrible pause. Time was a fucking traitor.

“Martin… you need to come inside. But I need you to breathe, okay?”

His legs felt weak. “Why are you saying that? Why? What the fuck is going on???”

Lin’s voice broke completely. “She… she passed away while you were on the way. The doctors tried everything. Her heart… it just gave out. I’m so sorry.”

The words hit like a truck.

Martin stopped dead in the middle of the parking lot. Cars honked around him. Someone shouted. He didn’t hear any of it.

“What?” His voice was small. Childlike. “What did you say?”

“She’s gone, Martin. I’m so sorry.”

The phone slipped in his grip but he caught it, squeezing it like a lifeline, the world spun. His stomach ache exploded into pure agony, his body dizzy, vision blurring.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no— that’s not— Stop.”

His knees buckled.

And oh, Martin felt like a kid again.

He dropped to his knees, the hard concrete scraping the caps, bits of dirt engraving into his skin until it felt raw. He dropped to his knees except this time it wasn’t to love you.

The phone still squeezed in his grip, his other hand clasped over his mouth- fingers molding itself to the shape of his lips. Lips that once caressed yours with such duplicity, eating at you until you were nothing but scraps of flesh.

Martin wanted— in that moment— to call his mom. He wanted to crawl back in her womb, forget all that had your name, forget he even had existed for the tiniest moment.

Maybe he would finally, finally, learn. Learn how not to feel so deeply- so painfully- maybe he’d finally be less of a man.

But the only thing he could do in that moment, was sit there until his knees bled into the ground, until maybe the wind erased the smell of you from his clothes.

Cars kept honking, someone asked if he was okay. He couldn’t answer. The phone had gone silent in his hand. The world kept moving around him —people rushing to appointments, families laughing, life continuing like his hadn’t just ended in a hospital parking lot.

Martin wanted to bargain. That was until his stomach pushed out everything he’d eaten that day, and he heaved on the ground like a wounded animal. You’d never know he was on his way to see you. He threw up again, food and a bit of his heart.

Martin remembered the way you used to steal the last bite of everything. Not in a greedy way. Never that. You’d push your plate toward him at the end of every meal, fork hovering with that one perfect remaining piece —whether it was the crispy edge of a dumpling, the last strawberry in a bowl of fruit, or the final spoonful of rice. “You have it,” you’d say, voice quiet but certain, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I saved it for you.”

Martin had teased you about it once, early on. “You always do that. Why?”

You had shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. “Because you eat like the food might disappear if you don’t enjoy it. I like watching you enjoy things.”

It was such a small thing. Stupidly human. Just you — thoughtful in the quietest ways, saving the best for someone else even when you were the one who needed it more. He had fallen a little harder every single time you did it. You were his silly silly girl, his beautiful precious girl.

But now that small habit haunted every meal he tried to eat.

You left fingerprints on every version of his future.

They were everywhere, in the way he reached for two mugs out of habit and had to set one down with shaking hands. In the empty side of the bed that still smelled like your shampoo. In the way he caught himself practicing mandarin phrases out loud, only to realize there was no point cause he’d learned it for you, only you.

Learning you were gone was the closest he’d felt to dying.

And now the apartment still expected you. So did he.

The hoodie you’d worn last time hung on the back of the chair, a half-empty bag of peanuts sat on the counter where he’d left it for you. The playlist you’d made together still queued up automatically every time he opened his laptop. He kept thinking he’d hear the door open, that soft sound of your footsteps, your voice saying “Hi, baby— no! ‘Fuck face’, i learned that new word today!”

You were supposed to outlive his bad habits, you were supposed to be the one who stayed when he got too emotional, when he cried at songs, when he overthought everything. Instead he was the one left behind, staring at the ceiling at 4 a.m., stomach aching with guilt and grief so heavy it felt physical.

A few days blurred into nothing.

Martin didn’t cry, not even once. The numbness had settled in deep, like frostbite that reached all the way to his bones, he barely moved from the couch. His company had issued a hiatus notice — “personal reasons” —and the members checked in constantly, but their voices sounded far far away. He answered texts with single words. Ate when someone forced food into his hands. Slept in fits and starts, waking up reaching for you.

He learned afterward that you’d been sick for a long time— longer than anyone had let him believe— longer than he’d been holding your hand without realizing how carefully you had been rationing your strength, how many smiles had cost you something, how many times you’d said you were just tired when your body had already been quietly losing a war.

Everyone seemed to brace themselves for his anger when they told him, as though betrayal was the only thing love could become after death. But he never felt betrayed, not even for a second.

What would have been the point? Whatever reasons had made you carry that weight alone had died with you, and he refused to drag them back into the light just so he could resent someone who wasn’t there to defend herself.

He never wanted to ask why you hadn’t told him, the question had nowhere to go. There would never be an answer that could change anything, never be a version of the truth that ended with you alive again.

Maybe you had been scared.

Maybe you had wanted one part of your life to remain untouched by hospitals and pity, maybe you had convinced yourself you were protecting him, maybe you hadn’t known how to say the words out loud without making them real. None of it mattered anymore.

Martin loved you before he knew, and he loved you after he knew.

He didn’t need an explanation. He didn’t need someone to blame. He only wished, with a grief so quiet it never stopped hurting, that for just one evening, just one impossible hour, you had let him be afraid with you instead of letting you be brave all by yourself.

Your friends had texted him about the funeral, he read the message three times before it sank in. Closed casket. Private ceremony. They thought it would be easier that way.

He got ready on autopilot. Black shirt, black pants. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, wondering if the person looking back was still the one you had kissed so gently in the studio.

The funeral was small.

He sat in the back, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. Thank god the casket was closed. The thought made him feel like shit immediately — how could he be relieved not to see you? — but the other part of him ached with it.

He wanted to see his sweet girl one last time, the one who scrunched her nose when she was thinking hard— not the one who was gone.

Your friends and family spoke. Beautiful, painful words in mandarin and english. Stories about your laugh, your stubbornness, the way you poured everything into your work. He listened like a ghost haunting the edges of someone else’s life.

Then your aunt turned to him, eyes red but kind. “Martin? Would you like to say a few words?”

The room went quiet.

The boy stood up without thinking, legs carrying him to the front like they belonged to someone else. The paper in his pocket —the speech he hadn’t written —stayed blank. He gripped the edge of the podium, staring at the closed casket draped in white flowers.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He stood at the podium, hands gripping the edges like it was the only thing keeping him upright, no notes, no plan, just his heart cracking open in front of everyone.

"My sweet girl." His voice almost disappeared "You hated when I looked sad. So... this is awkward. But I just need to talk to you. Even if you can’t hear me anymore.”

Martin didn’t dare look at your casket— in hopes he’d find you to be anywhere but there.

“You… you remember the first time we met? I stood outside in that studio like a complete idiot and told you I’d learn mandarin so we could work together properly. You looked at me with that one eyebrow raised and said I couldn’t learn it in a short period of time. You were right.”

His voice shook, and broke.

“But I did, baby. I learned it. And now we finally speak the same language.”

His voice broke hard, a sob catching in his throat as fresh tears fell. He didn’t wipe them. “I’m so sorry, baby. I've been trying to remember our last conversation but I can’t. I remember your laugh, and… I remember what you were wearing, but I don’t— sorry. I don’t remember what i told you. I hope it was ‘I loved you’. I wish I could’ve learned your language earlier— cause maybe if I spoke it… then maybe I could’ve understood you better, maybe i could’ve loved you better.”

Martin’s voice shattered completely on the last words, shoulders shaking with deep, broken sobs he couldn’t hold back anymore.

“I found out afterward. I found out you’d been sick for so long, and… I didn’t even feel betrayed. Everyone keeps asking me if I’m angry that you never told me, and I’m not. I swear to God, I’m not”

“I just keep thinking about what it must’ve been like for you to wake up every morning already knowing something I didn’t. I’m wondering how many times you looked at me and decided, ‘Not today. I’ll let him be happy one more day.’”

His voice cracked again.

“You were protecting me.”

A tear slipped from his jaw.

“And that’s so unfair.”

Martin’s lips quivered. “Not because you lied to me. Because even while you were dying… you were still taking care of me.”

“You barely spoke my language when we met. Half our conversations were messy.” He gave a watery smile, “But somehow… you understood me better than people who’d known me for years.”

He looked down at his shaking hands.

“I used to think being understood was this like… huge miracle. Then I met you. And suddenly I wasn’t explaining myself anymore— I was just… existing. And you loved me there.”

His breathing faltered.

“I don’t know if you ever understood what that did to a person like me. To be loved by someone so precious— i’m sorry,” he choked on a sob, “By someone so smart and so creative. And I keep thinking about how you didn’t even realize it, like you thought you were just… existing, but you were doing so much more than that for everyone around you. Especially for me. And now I just don’t know how I’m supposed to unlearn what it felt like to be seen by you.”

His voice dissolved into tears. “So if theres a language that’s more appropriate for this… if you can hear me somewhere,”

He spoke the next words in Mandarin, slow, careful, with the same determination he’d had the first day he’d promised he’d learn.

“I love you. I loved you. I will keep loving you. Okay? You’re my girl.”

The room was silent, nobody spoke. He didn’t want to monopolise the funeral, so he retreated a bit.

"My sweet girl. I’m gonna leave now,” his voice shook, "I've never gone anywhere without making sure you were coming too. I don't really… know how to do this. So if you can...”

Martin closed his eyes, tears spilling out.

"wait for me a little, yeah?”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

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HENRY ASHTON & PETER CLAFFEY 'Shaken, not Stirred' gone wrong 😅

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Gingerbread Martini

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Espresso Martini Brownie Ice Cream