The days after the secret show felt unreal.
People began sharing the performance online — bootleg clips, grainy vocals, shaky videos.
They weren't perfect.
But they were raw.
And raw was enough.
Suddenly, strangers were messaging me again.
Not for contracts.
Not for money.
But for meaning.
> "Your song helped me leave a man who never listened."
"You said what I couldn't say to my mother."
"I cried for the first time in years."
---
And for once, I didn't panic.
I wasn't falling back into the machine —
I was climbing out of it.
With Miyeon and Joon by my side, we began working on a short EP —
just five tracks,
each one stripped bare,
recorded in a single take.
It was called:
For the Silence Between Us.
I didn't think it would go viral.
That wasn't the point.
But it did.
---
Then the emails came.
Labels.
Magazines.
Talk shows.
Suddenly, the same people who once called me "unstable" were offering me curated redemption.
"Come tell your story."
"Let us show the world how strong you've become."
"Market your scars."
I ignored most of them.
Except one.
---
It wasn't an offer.
It was a question.
From a private address I didn't recognize.
The subject line simply said:
"Do you know the whole story?"
I clicked.
The email was short.
Cold.
> "He didn't walk away from you.
He was forced to."
Attached: a single image.
A contract.
---
I stared at it for an hour.
It had the name of my former agency.
A clause I had never seen.
A confidentiality demand.
And his signature.
But the date…
The date was the night before he disappeared from my life.
---
My hands trembled.
I called Joon.
No answer.
I called Miyeon.
Straight to voicemail.
I felt the air collapse around me.
Everything I had worked to accept —
every belief I had built on grief —
began to unthread.
What if he didn't choose to leave?
What if… I built a whole new life
on a lie?
---
I left my apartment and walked without direction.
The city lights blurred.
The sky threatened rain but never delivered.
I ended up in front of the old café we once hid in after rehearsals.
It was closed.
Of course it was.
Everything old was.
Except the pain.
---
At home, I printed the contract.
I stared at the signature.
It was real.
His handwriting.
But no note. No context. No explanation.
I turned the page over.
And then I saw it.
A post-it, faint, barely clinging to the paper's edge.
Seven words.
Written in a way only I would recognize.
> "They said they'd ruin you if I stayed."
---
I collapsed to the floor.
Not from sorrow.
From rage.
All this time… I thought he'd given up.
But he was silenced.
And they never told me.
They took his voice —
and made it look like his choice.
---
I picked up my phone.
Typed a message.
> "I know."
Then I deleted it.
Because this wasn't about him anymore.
It was about them.
---
And for the first time in months —
no, in years —
I wasn't crying.
I was planning.