KANG MIN-WOO
The night of the showcase arrives like a lightning strike—sudden, charged, impossible to ignore.
The university auditorium is packed. Rows of students, professors, and curious outsiders fill every seat, some sitting on the stairs or standing near the back walls. The lights dim and shift like waves, a current of excitement buzzing just beneath the air.
Backstage, I can feel Jae-hyun's nerves before he says a word. He's pacing in small loops, fingers twitching at the hem of his hoodie, muttering something under his breath.
I step beside him. "You okay?"
He stops. Looks at me. "Ask me again after we survive this."
"You've got this," I say, more sure than I've ever been. "We've got this."
He nods, but I see it—the tremble in his shoulders, the doubt lingering in the corners of his eyes.
I reach out, touch his wrist gently. "Close your eyes."
He frowns. "What?"
"Just do it."
He does. I guide his hand to my chest.
"Feel that?" I ask. My heartbeat's racing. "You're not the only one scared out of your mind."
He opens his eyes slowly. "You're better at hiding it."
"Years of practice," I grin. "But that fear? It means we care. It means this matters."
For a second, something shifts. He straightens, breathes a little deeper. Nods once.
"Then let's matter."
---
EUN JAE-HYUN
The host calls our name: "Next up, an original piece by Full Volume—let's hear it!"
The crowd applauds politely.
We step out into the light.
It's blinding. Everything feels louder, brighter, sharper. My mind flashes with static. What if I forget the lyrics? What if my fingers slip? What if my voice shakes?
Then I glance sideways.
Min-woo's already at the mic, guitar in hand, calm as ever. He catches my eye and gives a little nod. That's all it takes.
The track begins. My fingers move on instinct, triggering the intro sample. The synth washes over the room, gentle and pulsing.
Then his voice enters.
Smooth. Confident. Steady.
And I follow.
I sing.
It's not perfect. My voice trembles on the first line. But I don't stop.
Verse by verse, chorus by chorus, we fall into rhythm. Something unspoken passes between us. Every glance, every breath—it's communication. Music that doesn't need translation.
As we reach the bridge, I step forward.
Min-woo steps back.
And I sing lead.
The spotlight hits me square in the chest. My hands shake. But my voice doesn't crack.
I pour every hour of doubt, every minute of hiding, into that moment.
And the crowd—
They're quiet.
Not because they're bored.
But because they're listening.
We end on a soft harmony. Our voices wrap around the final line, holding until the last echo fades.
Then: silence.
One beat. Two.
Applause erupts.
It's not polite this time. It's loud. Real. Sustained.
I blink at the lights, overwhelmed. But Min-woo leans in.
"Breathe," he whispers.
And I do.
---
KANG MIN-WOO
We exit the stage to a chorus of cheers and low whistles.
Backstage, the coordinator grins. "You two just made my night."
Jae-hyun sits down on a flight case, dazed but smiling.
I crouch in front of him. "You killed it."
"I didn't die."
"Close enough."
We both laugh. The adrenaline still hasn't faded, but something else kicks in underneath. A deep, thudding realization.
We did something real.
Together.
People start to crowd us—classmates, other performers, even a few professors. Compliments flow like confetti.
"You guys have insane chemistry."
"Didn't know you could sing like that, Jae-hyun."
"That was original? Unreal."
He looks stunned by the attention. But I see it—the way his spine straightens with every kind word, the glow building behind his eyes.
He's starting to believe.
And nothing's more dangerous—or more beautiful—than someone learning to believe in themselves.
---
EUN JAE-HYUN
After the crowd thins, we sneak out the back and head to the rooftop. Same one where it started.
Min-woo pulls out a soda and hands me one.
"To new beginnings," he says.
We clink cans.
"Do you think it'll last?" I ask quietly.
He looks at me. "The applause?"
I nod.
"No. But the music will."
I don't reply right away.
Then I say, "I think I want to write more."
He grins. "Then let's write more."
The city sprawls out in front of us—lit windows like stars, traffic a distant heartbeat. We sit in the silence, and for once, I'm not afraid of it.
"I used to think music was something you made alone," I say.
"And now?"
"Now I know it's something you share."
He looks over. There's something different in his eyes. Softer. Warmer. Like the space between us has changed shape.
I feel it too.
A shift.
Something unspoken.
Something we're not naming yet.
But it's there.
Like a melody waiting for its chorus.
---
KANG MIN-WOO
It's been two weeks since the showcase, and the air feels different now.
People are talking. And we're listening.
But something inside me starts to shift too. The newness of it all, the excitement, it starts to grow into something heavier.
I can't stop thinking about the feeling of Jae-hyun's voice next to mine. The way our harmonies fit like they were made for each other.
It doesn't help that he's been acting differently lately. He's quieter now, but in a way that doesn't feel uncertain—more like he's absorbing something new, learning to exist in spaces he's never been in before.
I catch him staring out the window in the studio sometimes, his fingers absentmindedly strumming a melody that isn't ours.
There's a tension between us now that wasn't there before.
It's not uncomfortable. But it's there.
Like a chord that doesn't quite resolve.
---
EUN JAE-HYUN
I'm restless.
The high of the performance is fading, replaced by something else—an ache. A feeling I can't quite put into words. Every time Min-woo gets close, I feel like there's a magnet pulling us together, but at the same time, something's pushing us apart.
He catches my eye during class one day, and for a second, it's like we're back on stage, like we're still singing that song together.
But the moment breaks when the professor calls on me.
I can't focus. Not with the warmth of his gaze still lingering.
Later, we meet in the studio to write more. We're a little quieter now. The space between us feels more charged, like we're both waiting for something to happen, but not sure what.
We work through the night, our fingers moving in sync like before. But this time, it's different. Our movements are slower, more deliberate. Every touch feels heavy, like it means something more.
When we finally stop for a break, I sit down, feeling the weight of the silence between us.
He walks over and hands me a drink, and for a moment, we just stare at each other.
Then he speaks.
"Do you think we're going to be okay?"
The question catches me off guard. But I answer anyway.
"I think we already are."