EUN JAE-HYUN
Returning to our old university felt like stepping through a time portal.
The buildings hadn't changed. The graffiti near the back stairwell was still there. Even the vending machine with the perpetually stuck keypad still glitched out when you tried to buy water.
But we had changed.
"Full Volume" was no longer just a group of misfits jamming in borrowed classrooms. We were performers now—public ones. We had fans, followers, and an EP that charted in three different campus radio networks across Seoul. We'd grown into our sound, and the world had started listening.
We'd been invited back to perform at the university's spring arts showcase as guest alumni. It was surreal. Our name was printed on the posters. We had our own green room, if you could call a curtained-off corner with lukewarm coffee that. Still, it meant something.
For me, this was more than a gig.
It was a return to the roots of who I had been—and proof of how far we'd come.
---
KANG MIN-WOO
The quad looked different when you weren't just passing through it between classes.
There was a buzz in the air—an electric kind of anticipation. People were crowding into the open space, taking photos, recording behind-the-scenes clips, looking at us like we were celebrities.
We were still university kids, deep down. But the moment our feet touched the stage, we were also something more.
"Tighten your tuning on the D string," Jiho whispered to me, eyeing my guitar.
I did.
Jae-hyun stood at center stage, shoulders squared. His hair was pushed back under a loose black beanie, the kind that always made his eyes look even more intense.
He scanned the crowd like he was searching for something—no, someone.
"You okay?" I murmured as I came up beside him.
He nodded slowly. "Just thinking. This is where I first realized I wanted to do this. All of this. With you guys. With... you."
I smiled. There wasn't time for a longer response. The announcer had already started hyping us up from the sidelines.
"And now, give it up for our returning stars—FULL VOLUME!"
The roar was deafening.
---
EUN JAE-HYUN
We opened with an old crowd favorite: "Soundcheck Heartbeat."
The crowd sang along. It was overwhelming—the sound of people knowing your lyrics, shouting your name. I lost myself in it until we reached the final chorus, and the adrenaline steadied into clarity.
Then came our original, unreleased track—"In Between Beats."
That was the one I was nervous about.
It was a ballad.
Personal. Vulnerable. About the liminal moments between decisions—between confessions.
And, of course, about Min-woo.
We'd written it after the radio festival, during one of those late-night writing binges when he fell asleep with his head in my lap.
The lyrics had pieces of us stitched into every line.
As we began to play it live for the first time, I felt like I was handing the audience a letter I'd never had the courage to send.
Min-woo's guitar began the melody—soft, steady, precise. Then Hana came in on keyboard, her harmony like a breath at the back of my neck.
I closed my eyes. Sang.
And let the truth bleed out.
---
KANG MIN-WOO
Jae-hyun was always beautiful when he sang.
But tonight, it felt different.
He wasn't just performing. He was revealing.
Every line pulled at the memory of the first time I saw him at open mic night. Back when his voice trembled. Back when mine did too.
And now we were here—sharing one mic, one stage, one life.
The song built into the bridge.
I moved to step closer to him for the harmony.
That's when I noticed it.
A faint glint in the rigging above us.
One of the hanging light fixtures was swaying.
Not gently. Erratically.
---
EUN JAE-HYUN
We reached the final chorus.
Min-woo stepped up beside me, our voices weaving together like always. Our eyes met—and just for a moment, I smiled.
Then his expression changed.
Eyes wide.
Brows drawn.
He wasn't looking at me.
He was looking past me.
I felt him move—a blur beside me—right as I heard it.
SNAP.
The screech of metal giving way.
I turned.
Above us, one of the massive lighting rigs had come loose. It tilted forward, its steel beam groaning, the spotlight attached still blindingly bright.
People in the audience gasped.
Min-woo reached for me.
The light fell.
My body froze.
He tackled me just as the stage erupted into chaos.
---
KANG MIN-WOO
There was no time to think.
Just move.
I saw the beam falling—knew the angle, the velocity. It would hit dead center.
Where he stood.
So I ran. Grabbed him. Shoved him hard to the left.
The world blurred into light and noise and shouts. The beam crashed to the floor with a gut-shaking BANG, sparks flying. A wave of screams broke from the audience.
Dust and fragments scattered.
I landed on my back, half on top of him, shielding his head.
Silence.
Then—
The lights shut off.
---
EUN JAE-HYUN
I couldn't breathe.
Not from injury—but from shock.
Min-woo's weight was across my chest, his hand gripping the back of my head protectively. Around us, people shouted. Crew members rushed the stage. Students screamed.
"Get help! Someone call an ambulance!"
I sat up—barely. He was still blinking, stunned.
"Min-woo! Are you okay?"
He nodded, dazed. A shallow scrape marked his cheek, and dust covered his shirt, but he was conscious. Shaken. Breathing.
We turned toward the rig—it had slammed down just inches from where I'd stood.
A second slower and it would've crushed me.
Or both of us.
---
KANG MIN-WOO
Security flooded the stage.
Stagehands shouted. One pulled Jae-hyun away to check him. Another knelt beside me.
"You hurt anywhere? Can you move your legs?"
I flexed my knees, my foot. Numb, but responsive.
The rig had missed us by a miracle.
But as I looked back at Jae-hyun, pale and shaking, all I could think about was what could've happened.
How close I'd come to losing him.
And how, even now, we hadn't said the words.
The real words.
---
EUN JAE-HYUN
As they helped Min-woo off the stage, I stayed frozen.
Cameras still rolled. Students whispered. The performance was over. The night shattered.
But the question echoed in my chest louder than any speaker:
What if I hadn't seen him again?
What if I had lost him before I ever told him—
I loved him?
He turned back to glance at me as he was guided away.
And that look—the soft panic, the silent promise—I'd never forget it.
The music stopped that night.
But something else had started.
A beat.
A breath.
And a fall neither of us would walk away from the same.