The sound of Ji-hoon's steps was muted against the soft carpet of his apartment, each movement a quiet reflection of the weight on his shoulders. The evening had crept in, and the soft glow of streetlights outside filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. His fingers had returned to the piano keys, but the melody was distant, as though it had lost its shape in the dark. His mind swirled, caught between the lingering scent of cologne and the hollow silence that had followed the man's departure.
He had tried to distract himself, to shift his focus away from the unsettling conversation, but it was like the words echoed in his head—repeating, expanding, evolving into something he couldn't ignore. Don't let it be the only thing you are.
The piano, once a sanctuary, now felt like an obligation. It was no longer the comfort he had once sought, but a reminder of something he couldn't outrun. The weight of the grief he carried felt heavier now, more apparent, like it was waiting to suffocate him.
Ji-hoon sighed, letting his fingers rest on the keys, not playing but feeling the cold surface beneath them. The apartment was still and quiet, just as it had always been, yet tonight it seemed too vast, too empty. He had always been alone here—ever since his mother's death—but the solitude felt different now, more oppressive. A strange tension lingered in the air, thick and almost suffocating.
The sudden ring of his phone startled him, pulling him out of the quiet reverie. He didn't need to look at the screen to know who it was. Seo Joon-won, his closest friend, his manager, and the one person who had never faltered in his presence.
Ji-hoon hesitated for a moment before answering. "Hey."
"Ji-hoon," Joon-won's voice came through, full of warmth but laced with something softer, more concerned. "You alright?"
Ji-hoon sat down heavily on the edge of the piano bench. He wasn't sure how to answer. How was he supposed to explain this suffocating emptiness, the gnawing feeling that he was losing something—or someone—he couldn't even name? The weight of the man's words, the cologne, the lingering sense of his mother's absence... He didn't know where to start.
"I'm fine," Ji-hoon lied, his voice thin.
"You don't sound fine," Joon-won replied. There was a brief pause, and Ji-hoon could almost hear him moving around, shifting in his chair. "I get that you want to be alone right now, but you've got a recital coming up, and we can't afford you getting stuck in this… this space."
"I know," Ji-hoon muttered, his gaze unfocused, staring at nothing in particular. The truth was, the recital loomed over him like a shadow. It wasn't just the performance—it was the expectation, the weight of people wanting something from him, from his music. He felt like he was being pulled in two directions: the one that longed for the escape of silence and the one that was desperate to push through the fog of his grief and perform. But he wasn't sure if he could keep up the facade for much longer. "I'll be ready," he added, more out of habit than belief.
"You've always been ready," Joon-won said, and there was a gentleness in his voice that made Ji-hoon feel even more lost. "But Ji-hoon, this is different. This isn't about playing the piano anymore, is it?"
Ji-hoon froze, his chest tightening. His fingers clenched around the edge of the piano bench. He didn't want to talk about this. Didn't want to admit that the music that had always been his refuge was now the very thing that kept him chained to the past. "I'm fine," Ji-hoon repeated, more firmly this time, but it lacked the conviction he usually carried.
Joon-won didn't respond immediately, but Ji-hoon could tell he wasn't letting it go. There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and Ji-hoon could hear Joon-won exhale heavily, as if weighing his next words carefully.
"You know I've always had your back, right?" Joon-won finally said, his tone more serious now. "But I need you to be honest with me. You've been carrying this weight alone for too long. We need to face it—whatever it is, together. You're not the only one who remembers her, you know."
Ji-hoon's breath hitched, and for a brief moment, he couldn't speak. He didn't know how to respond to that. You're not the only one who remembers her. The words caught him off guard, as they always did. Joon-won had never known the depths of Ji-hoon's grief, never understood the full extent of what it felt like to lose someone so profoundly. And yet, here he was, trying to reach out, trying to bridge a gap Ji-hoon had never allowed anyone to cross.
"I don't know what you want me to say," Ji-hoon said quietly, his voice breaking at the end. "I don't know if I can do this anymore, Joon-won. I don't know if I can keep pretending to be the person everyone expects me to be."
Joon-won was silent for a moment, the pause hanging heavy between them. "I don't want you to pretend, Ji-hoon. I just want you to be you."
"I don't even know who that is anymore," Ji-hoon admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The weight of those words felt heavier than anything he'd said in a long time. And for the first time in weeks, he let the vulnerability seep through. He wasn't sure if it was exhaustion or desperation, but in that moment, he needed someone to hear him. "I don't know who I am without her."
The silence on the other end of the line stretched longer, and Ji-hoon could almost hear Joon-won's thoughts swirling, trying to find the right response. Finally, Joon-won spoke again, his voice low but firm.
"Then we'll figure it out together. But I'm not going to let you drown in this, Ji-hoon. Not alone."
Ji-hoon didn't know how to respond. He didn't know if he believed him, but for the first time in a long while, the thought of not facing this alone felt like a weight lifting, just a little bit.
"Thanks," Ji-hoon said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll try."
The line went quiet again as Joon-won seemed to consider something. "One more thing," he said softly. "If you need to get away for a bit… just let me know. We'll figure out something."
Ji-hoon didn't respond right away, but the suggestion, the simple offer of escape, lingered in his mind. Maybe it was time to stop hiding, to stop drowning in the memories of what was lost. Maybe it was time to let the music take him somewhere he hadn't been in a long time—somewhere where it didn't hurt so much.
"Maybe I will," Ji-hoon muttered, half to himself.
The line went quiet, and Ji-hoon sat there, letting the words sink in. Alone in the dark, but for the first time in a while, the music felt just a little less heavy.
Ji-hoon sat still for a long moment after the call ended, the faint hum of his phone's battery fading into the silence. The weight of his thoughts hung in the air like the lingering notes of a song that had long since faded away. For a brief, fleeting moment, he considered everything Joon-won had said—the offers, the words of reassurance. But they felt distant, like they were meant for someone else, someone who wasn't bound by the weight of memory and grief.
His fingers, still resting on the piano keys, twitched as though they, too, were caught between the urge to play and the feeling of being utterly lost. The room, too, felt like it was pressing in on him—too quiet, too empty. His mother's presence felt like a shadow that never fully left, no matter how much he wished for the comfort of her embrace. But what would he do if she were still here? What would he say?
The questions swirled inside his mind, never finding a clear answer. What could he say to someone who had never been there when the walls closed in, when everything seemed to fracture beneath his feet? He never let anyone get too close, never allowed himself to rely on anyone, because in the end, it was always music that remained. Music didn't betray him. Music didn't leave.
But now, that too was slipping away from him. He couldn't find the notes in the same way, couldn't feel the connection between himself and the piano like he once had. Maybe it was just the grief—the never-ending ache of losing his mother, the betrayal of time that erased everything he had known. Or maybe it was just him, the person he had become. Maybe he was too broken to ever truly play again.
He stood up abruptly, pacing the length of the room, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. His senses were overwhelmed, and he needed to clear his head. The faintest scent of cologne still lingered in the air, as if his mind couldn't let go of the feeling, the memory that seemed to accompany it. It wasn't just the scent of his mother. It wasn't just the perfume she used to wear—it was something deeper, something more haunting. It was the scent of a past he couldn't escape, a past that refused to let him go.
His mind flashed back to the night she had died, to the crash, the blur of lights, the frantic sounds of the sirens. The empty streets, the cold hospital room. He could still hear the doctors, the words they said—We did everything we could—but in the end, nothing had mattered. She was gone. And he was left alone.
Ji-hoon clenched his fists, the muscles in his arms tight with the strain of holding back tears he refused to let fall. He hadn't allowed himself to cry in years. Not since that night. Not since he learned that the world, as he knew it, could just disappear in an instant. Since then, he had buried everything beneath layers of music, beneath layers of silence, anything to block out the pain.
He walked to the window, pressing his palm against the cool glass as he stared out into the city below. The rain had started again, a fine mist hanging in the air. The lights of the city glimmered like tiny stars, their reflections dancing across the wet pavement. For a moment, he could almost feel the cold rain against his skin, as if it were a reminder that the world still moved, that time still passed, no matter how much he wished it would stop.
He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the crisp air, trying to shake off the weight that had settled on his chest. The quiet continued to press in, and in the distance, the faint echo of a piano's notes seemed to call to him. It was a melody he hadn't heard in years, one he'd played countless times as a child, but it was distant now, fragmented. And yet, it felt as though it held the answer to everything he needed to know.
The thought struck him like a bolt of lightning—He could never let it go. He could never stop playing.
The idea was both terrifying and freeing, and for the first time in a long while, Ji-hoon felt something like clarity. He needed to find a way back to the piano, back to the music that had once been his escape. But how could he do that when everything he played felt like a hollow imitation of the person he had been?
The room was dark now, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside. His fingers ached to return to the piano, to let the music wash over him, but it felt like a battle—a battle between what he knew he had to do and the fear that had kept him from facing the truth. The music had been his refuge, but now, it felt like it was becoming something he had to face, something that required him to be vulnerable, to expose himself in ways he hadn't wanted to.
He stepped back from the window, turning toward the piano once more. His fingers hovered above the keys, uncertain, trembling slightly. The familiar feel of the ivory was both comforting and unsettling. How long had it been since he truly felt connected to it?
Without thinking, he began to play. The notes came out uneven at first, hesitant, as though the piano itself were testing him. But as he continued, the music grew stronger, more confident, as though it recognized him once again, welcomed him back into the fold.
It was a piece he had played a hundred times before—Nocturne in E-flat Major by Chopin, a song his mother had loved. The melody swelled around him, filling the empty space, and for a moment, he could almost imagine her sitting beside him, her voice humming along softly. He felt the weight of her absence, yes, but also the weight of everything she had left behind—the music, the legacy, the love she had poured into him.
The tears came then, but he didn't try to stop them. They fell freely, staining his cheeks, but they didn't feel like weakness. For the first time in years, he felt alive. He felt connected to something that wasn't just pain, something that wasn't just loss. He could hear the music, and in it, he could hear her too.
As the last notes faded away, Ji-hoon took a shaky breath, his hands lingering on the keys. The silence that followed wasn't empty anymore. It was full of something else—something he couldn't quite name, but that he knew was there.
He had come back to the music. And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.