I didn't sleep after reading the note.
> "They said they'd ruin you if I stayed."
Seven words.
And every one of them burned through my chest like a second heartbreak I didn't see coming.
I stared at my own reflection in the dark mirror across the room —
a version of me that had survived silence,
only to discover it was never mine to begin with.
---
For three days, I didn't talk to anyone.
Not Joon.
Not Miyeon.
Not the manager who kept leaving voice notes like my voicemail was a therapist.
I needed to be alone — but not to cry.
To hunt.
---
I started with old messages.
Ones I'd deleted.
Ones I shouldn't have.
His voice memos.
Clipped. Hesitant.
Always saying too little — but now, they felt like warnings.
I called the last number I had for him.
Disconnected.
I tried a backup line.
The one he gave me once during a snowstorm when we got locked out of rehearsal and he said,
> "This number's not for emergencies. It's for truths you're too scared to say out loud."
Still dead.
---
I began asking around.
Carefully.
I wasn't trying to make headlines —
I was trying to find the person who used to warm my hands between takes and whisper,
> "Don't break for them. Break for yourself."
I went to our old studio.
Gone.
I went to the rooftop he once took me to after our first underground win.
Locked.
Then, I tried the music forums.
Anonymous spaces where ghosts leave fingerprints.
That's where I found it:
A track.
No title.
No artist name.
But the sound…
I knew it.
I knew it.
His guitar tone.
The way he let silence hang before the drop.
His breath — uneven, as if holding back more than melody.
---
I downloaded it.
Played it in the dark.
At exactly 2:18… he spoke.
One line.
> "If you're hearing this… it means they didn't win."
My whole body went numb.
---
I followed the file's upload source.
Encrypted.
But I had friends in hidden places — ones who owed me favors.
The trace led to an internet café in Mapo-gu.
I got there just before closing.
The kid at the desk looked at me like I was lost.
> "Room 3," he said, without me even asking.
I walked in.
The chair was still warm.
On the screen: a message box.
Typed, but unsent.
> "I don't know if I'm brave enough to let you see me like this."
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Then I typed:
> "I already did."
I hit enter.
The screen blinked.
Then went black.
---
A knock.
From behind me.
Slow.
Measured.
Like a heartbeat returning after flatlining.
I turned.
And there he was.
Tired.
Smaller than I remembered.
But him.
No lights.
No music.
Just the silence between us,
and a lifetime of unsaid things sitting between our feet.
---
I stepped closer.
He didn't move.
> "Why?" I whispered.
He shook his head.
> "Because they promised they'd kill everything you loved.
Your name. Your music. Your truth.
So I let them kill me instead."
He looked away when he said it.
Like it was a confession.
Like he expected me to run.
But I didn't.
---
I reached for his hand.
It trembled — not from fear,
but from the memory of holding on too tightly to someone he thought he had to protect by disappearing.
> "You didn't have to disappear," I said.
> "I did," he replied.
"Because if I stayed… they would've used me to destroy you."
---
I felt the weight of every song I sang without him.
The notes I cracked on,
the verses I skipped,
the lines I couldn't finish.
But in this moment,
I didn't want a song.
I just wanted him.
Not the perfect version.
Not the public version.
The real one.
Broken.
Honest.
Mine.
---
He took a step forward.
One inch.
Then two.
Then he was close enough for me to smell the months of fear on his collar.
> "Can I stay this time?" he asked.
I didn't answer with words.
I leaned forward.
And for the second time in our lives —
we kissed.
Not as goodbye.
Not as apology.
But as an oath.
---
The world outside still wanted to silence us.
But inside this small moment —
he wasn't lost.
And I wasn't alone.