KANG MIN-WOO
It's strange how quiet things feel after a win.
You'd think the world would get louder, brighter. But instead, it's like the air around us has thinned into something sacred.
The day after the showcase, we're back in our dorm room, sitting on the floor surrounded by empty ramen cups and the remnants of a celebration that had been more exhaustion than euphoria. Our trophy sits on the windowsill like a polite guest—silent, gleaming.
Jae-hyun stares at it.
"We actually did that," he murmurs.
I lean back on my palms, watching him.
"Yeah," I say. "We really did."
He looks over, eyes soft. "I'm still waiting for something to ruin it."
I reach for his hand.
"Then let's not let anything ruin it."
---
EUN JAE-HYUN
We get an email the next morning from one of the judges—Ms. Kang, who also happens to work for a mid-tier music agency. She's asking if we'd be interested in a development contract. Just exploratory. No pressure.
I read it four times before showing it to Min-woo.
He whistles. "This is... big."
"Too big?" I ask.
"Never. But maybe... faster than we planned."
We sit with it for a while. The idea of going professional isn't new—but having someone offer it makes it feel real in a way it hadn't before.
Min-woo drums his fingers on the desk.
"Do you want this?" he asks.
"I think so. Do you?"
He smiles. "I want whatever lets me make music with you."
---
KANG MIN-WOO
We agree to a meeting. Nothing binding. Just a conversation.
We dress like we care, but not too much—black jeans, band tees, denim jackets. Jae-hyun's wearing that necklace I gave him. The one shaped like a tiny pick.
The agency office is all glass and plants. Ms. Kang meets us in a conference room that smells like espresso and ambition.
"You two have something rare," she says. "Chemistry. Not just romantically—though the internet seems obsessed with that—but musically."
She lays out the basics: they want to help us produce a mini album. Five songs. Studio time included. If it charts decently, they'll discuss longer contracts.
She waits for our response.
I glance at Jae-hyun. He's quiet. Thinking.
Finally, he says, "Can we keep our creative control?"
She nods. "As long as you're willing to collaborate."
We leave with a folder full of paperwork and two complimentary water bottles.
Outside, we sit on the curb.
"It's happening," I whisper.
Jae-hyun grins. "Yeah. It is."
---
EUN JAE-HYUN
We spend the next two weeks balancing classes, band rehearsals, and early album planning.
We're in the studio more than we're in the cafeteria. Min-woo builds melodies like a craftsman—careful, precise. I rewrite lyrics until the words taste right in my mouth.
There's a certain rhythm to it. Wake up, rush through class, meet up at the studio, record until midnight. Repeat.
Some nights, we're too tired to even talk. We just sit together on the couch, heads resting on each other's shoulders as rough mixes loop on repeat.
We fight once.
Just once.
It's over the bridge of the third track. I want it to drop suddenly into silence before returning with a layered chorus. He wants to build the tension with overlapping harmonies instead.
He raises his voice.
So do I.
Then, suddenly, he goes quiet.
"Why are we even fighting about this?" he asks.
"Because we care," I say.
He looks away. "Yeah. But I care about you more."
We find a compromise. A single beat of silence. Then harmony.
---
KANG MIN-WOO
We sleep less, but dream more.
One night, after twelve hours in the studio, we collapse onto the worn couch in the mixing room. Jae-hyun lays his head on my lap.
"You're snoring," I whisper.
"No, I'm not," he mutters.
"Like a chainsaw."
He opens one eye. "Still love me?"
I laugh. "More than ever."
Outside the soundproof glass, our producer gives us a thumbs-up. The mix is done.
Five songs.
Five pieces of us.
We take turns naming them—each title a reflection of something we shared. The second song is called "Metro Hearts," because we wrote it while waiting for a train that never came. The last one is called "Blue Echo," because that was the color of the sky the first time we played together.
---
EUN JAE-HYUN
We launch the album online first. No fanfare. No press kits.
Just a post: "Here's our story. Hope you hear yourselves in it too."
The reaction is instant.
Within hours, our DMs overflow.
"Track 4 wrecked me."
"Your music helped me come out to my parents."
"Are you and Min-woo still together? Please say yes."
I show that one to him.
He types back: "Yes. Definitely yes."
---
KANG MIN-WOO
Two weeks later, Ms. Kang calls.
"Check the indie charts," she says.
We do.
Number 17.
We stare at the screen, blinking.
"We charted," I whisper.
Jae-hyun hugs me so tight I forget how to breathe.
We spend the next hour just lying on the floor of our dorm room, staring at the ceiling.
"What now?" Jae-hyun asks.
I grin. "We write the next one."
---
EUN JAE-HYUN
I go home that weekend.
My mom cooks my favorite stew. My dad takes me for a walk.
We don't talk about the music at first. Or the relationship.
But before I leave, he says, "I listened to your album. Twice."
I freeze.
He continues. "You sound... like yourself. For the first time."
It's not an apology.
But it's something.
When I return to Seoul, Min-woo is waiting at the train station with two coffees and a grin.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Better than okay," I say.
And I mean it.
---
KANG MIN-WOO
We celebrate our chart debut with instant noodles and karaoke.
The whole band comes. Jiho, our drummer, sings a ballad so off-key we all collapse laughing. Our bassist, Hana, raps a verse from one of our songs—badly, but with heart.
Jae-hyun and I take the mic for the final song.
It's not one of ours.
It's an old love song. Classic. Cheesy.
We sing it anyway.
And somewhere between the second verse and the final chorus, he takes my hand.
No one cheers. No one teases.
They just sing along.
---
EUN JAE-HYUN
I lie awake that night, earbuds in, listening to the mastered version of "Wavelength."
I remember how nervous I was when we first wrote it.
Now, it feels like a timestamp. A promise.
Min-woo turns over beside me, half-asleep.
"You listening to us again?" he mumbles.
"Maybe."
"You're such a fanboy."
I smile.
And when I close my eyes, I hear it:
The afterglow.
The sound of everything we've been through—
And everything still ahead.