The practice room felt colder without Jiwoo's voice filling it.
Minjun sat alone on the scuffed wooden floor, legs crossed, mic resting against his knee. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, the only witness to the echo of what they'd built — now cracked down the middle.
He replayed old videos on his phone: Jiwoo teasing him between takes, laughing so hard he fell over when Minjun flubbed a high note. Their messy harmonies, the rooftop clips, the promises whispered into late-night ramen cups.
If you go down, I go down.A lie now — or maybe it was Minjun who'd broken it first.
He stood, walking through the choreography alone. His reflection in the practice room mirror was a ghost — movements stiff, voice hoarse. Without Jiwoo's voice wrapping around his, the melody felt wrong, thin like paper left out in the rain.
Every note stabbed at the space Jiwoo should've filled beside him.
He kept picturing Jiwoo's face when he'd found the folder — the disbelief curdling into hurt, then anger so sharp it left Minjun feeling skinned alive.
He'd tried to text him. Please, come back.No reply. He'd called. Straight to voicemail.
He'd even gone to the rooftop, hoping Jiwoo would be there, strumming their half-broken guitar like nothing had shattered between them.
But the rooftop was empty now — like a stage stripped of its lights.
He buried himself in practice instead. He told himself that if he got every note perfect, if his footwork was razor-sharp, if he hit the high note they'd written together — maybe it would matter less that he was singing alone.
Seojin's voice echoed in his head: Don't look back. You're not here for loyalty. You're here to win.
But the words didn't fit like they used to. The win tasted bitter.
When the clock struck midnight, Minjun collapsed against the mirrored wall, sweat soaking through his T-shirt. His chest heaved with each breath.
On the floor beside him, the scrawled lyric sheets for their duet stared up at him — lines they'd written half-laughing, half-dreaming, full of promises they'd believed were unbreakable.
His phone buzzed. For a heartbeat, hope flickered through him.
But it wasn't Jiwoo.
It was Seojin.
[Seojin | 12:01 AM]
Rooftop Boy. Ready for tomorrow? Remember — clean break. No drama. No dead weight dragging you back.
Minjun didn't reply. He just stared at the message until the screen went dark.
He thought of going to Jiwoo's dorm. Knocking until he opened the door. Explaining. Begging. But what would he say? I lied to your face, but please stand beside me anyway?
Outside, rain began to patter against the practice room windows — soft at first, then harder, until it drowned out the hum of the fluorescent lights.
Minjun dragged himself up and packed his bag. He turned back one last time, staring at the empty room — the mirrors reflecting the version of himself who'd stood here with Jiwoo night after night, chasing a dream they swore they'd hold together.
He switched off the lights.
Back on the rooftop, he stood in the rain until it soaked through his hoodie. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, letting the cold sting him awake.
Tomorrow, he'd step onto the stage — alone.
But tonight, under the rooftop where it all began, Minjun sang their song to the city. Just once more. Broken harmony, missing half its voice — a promise, a ghost, a goodbye.