EUN JAE-HYUNG
Our first show on the tour was a blur of nerves, neon lights, and the familiar scent of backstage sweat. The venue was a little grungy—a repurposed gymnasium with a patchy sound system—but the crowd? Electric. Packed wall to wall with college students from all over the district, eager to see what the "rising talent" circuit had to offer.
We set up in a rush, tuning and checking mics, adjusting amps. Jiho fluttered from the drums to the edge of the stage and back, bouncing on his heels like a kid about to go to recess. Hana was cool and collected, silently checking her bass with precise hands.
Min-woo limped a little but insisted on no crutches tonight. He'd walked the entire length of the venue twice to "loosen up." I didn't say anything, just handed him his guitar when he sat on the stool center stage.
We opened with "Gravity," one of our softer tracks, and by the second chorus, the room felt like it belonged to us. People swayed. Phones lit up. I locked eyes with Min-woo during the bridge and saw it—pure joy.
Afterward, our greenroom buzzed. Students trickled in with compliments, some asking for autographs or photos. Our manager, a short but assertive grad student named Seokjin, handed us bottled water and ran through tomorrow's itinerary.
But I barely heard any of it. Because Min-woo was talking to someone.
Someone I didn't know.
Tall. Sharp-jawed. All black. He leaned close, speaking into Min-woo's ear like they were already old friends.
My chest tightened.
KANG MIN-WOO
"He's just another guy from a band on the roster," I said later, catching up to Jae-hyung near the vending machines at the hotel. "His band plays tomorrow. He liked our set."
Jae-hyung shrugged. "Didn't ask."
"You're upset."
"I'm tired."
He didn't meet my eyes. Something cold flickered beneath his usual fire. I could see it in the way he wrapped his hoodie tighter, how he tapped his fingers restlessly against his thigh.
I reached for him, fingers brushing his wrist. He flinched. Not away. Just… delayed.
"Jae, you know it's you, right?" I said, voice low. "You're the one I—"
"Don't," he cut me off. "Not here. Not when we're about to be trapped on a van together for the next two weeks."
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me with a stale granola bar in one hand and a stomach full of unease.
JIHO
It didn't take a genius to notice something was off.
Min-woo was quieter than usual. Jae-hyung barely cracked jokes during rehearsal.
The tension in the van was so thick I could've carved it with a spork.
"So," I blurted on day three, "can someone please explain why our lead singer and our lead guitarist are acting like exes who were forced to co-parent a poodle?"
Silence.
Hana smirked into her hoodie.
"Not your business," Min-woo said from the backseat.
"Too late. Already emotionally invested," I replied.
Neither of them answered.
That night, in a tiny motel room with thin blankets and thinner walls, I heard the sound of Jae-hyung's guitar strings being plucked. Aimless. Off-tempo. Like he was trying to find the melody to something he didn't know how to write.
EUN JAE-HYUNG
I told myself it was nothing. I told myself that I trusted him, that I didn't care who talked to him after shows.
But I did care.
And worse—I hated that I cared.
I thought being with Min-woo would be simple once we crossed that line. But it wasn't. Love wasn't a clean song with a perfect chorus. It was messy. Minor chords and broken strings and rewrites.
He noticed. Of course he did.
"Are we okay?" he asked as we loaded up after the next show.
"We're fine."
"You don't sound fine."
"Well maybe I don't always want to sound how I feel."
He stared at me for a long second, eyes dim.
"Then how am I supposed to know?"
And I didn't have an answer.
Later that night, I sat alone in the stairwell outside our hotel room with my guitar in my lap and my notebook open on my knee. The words didn't come easy. Everything felt half-said. Like a sentence left dangling at the end of a voicemail.
Min-woo came looking for me.
"You writing?" he asked.
"Trying."
"Want help?"
"Do you want to help?"
He sat beside me, close enough for our shoulders to touch. He smelled like citrus shampoo and the peppermint mints he always stole from hotel lobbies.
"I know this is new," he said. "And hard. But I'm in it. I'm in it with you, Jae."
I looked at him, heart thudding.
"What if we mess it up?"
"Then we try again."
His fingers brushed mine. We sat like that, sharing quiet, the kind that only existed between people who knew what it meant to lose and still choose to stay.
KANG MIN-WOO
The fifth show was the best yet. We nailed every transition, fed off the crowd, even improvised a riff that got people screaming. Afterward, we were mobbed outside by fans. Jae-hyung ducked out early, claiming he needed air.
I found him twenty minutes later, leaning against the side of the venue, headphones on, staring up at the sky like it might drop him a sign.
"I'm not going to apologize for people liking me," I said, stepping beside him.
He pulled off one headphone. "I know."
"But I will apologize if I made you feel like I didn't choose you."
He didn't speak for a while.
Then: "You didn't. I just… I don't know how to do this. Not in public. Not with eyes on us. Every time someone new gets close to you, I feel like I'm waiting to be replaced."
"You're not replaceable."
"You don't know that."
I turned him toward me. "Then let me prove it."
And in the shadows of a cracked brick alley, with laughter echoing from down the block, I kissed him again.
He kissed me back.
The melody we'd lost started to return.
But I knew—we still had verses left to write.