The moon hung low in the sky, a pale ghost of light casting long shadows across the room. The night felt heavy, as if the weight of everything that had happened—everything that had been left unsaid, undone, and forgotten—was pressing down on him. Ji-hoon sat at the piano, his fingers grazing the keys, the melody that had once been so familiar now feeling distant, like a song he couldn't quite remember.
There was a time when music had been his refuge, the one place where he could escape from the chaos of the world. But now, as his fingers hovered over the keys, there was only emptiness. The notes were cold, mechanical. They didn't feel like they used to. There was no warmth in the sound, no comfort. Just silence, wrapped in the hushed echoes of a past that no longer made sense.
The room around him seemed to breathe with him, every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the curtains in the faint breeze, a reminder that the night was the only thing left unchanged. He had been in this room countless times before, playing until his hands ached, until the melodies felt like they were a part of him. But tonight was different. Tonight, the music felt like a stranger, a distant memory he could never quite grasp.
His mind kept drifting back to the events that had led him here—to this moment, in this room, at this time. The things he had seen, the things he had learned… all the pieces of the puzzle that were still scattered, still waiting to be put together. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he wished for answers, there was no closure. Just fragments. The past was like a fog that wouldn't lift, leaving everything unclear.
A part of him longed for a time before everything had fallen apart. Before Si-wan had turned into something unrecognizable. Before the lies, the manipulations, and the betrayals had tainted every memory he had of their friendship. There had been a time when he had believed in Si-wan, when he had trusted him with everything he had. But now, that trust felt like a betrayal in itself. The foundation they had built together—whatever it had been—was crumbling, and Ji-hoon couldn't hold it up anymore.
He closed his eyes and let his fingers fall, softly pressing against the keys. The faint sound of the piano, a low hum of sorrow, filled the space around him. It was the only thing that seemed real anymore. The music. It was all he had left. But even that felt fleeting. He had been so sure that music was his anchor, that it could hold him steady in the storm. But now, the storm had swallowed him whole.
The memories of Si-wan came flooding back in waves. The moments when they had laughed together, shared quiet conversations in the dead of night, when everything felt simple and uncomplicated. Back then, Ji-hoon had believed that those moments were real. That the bond they shared was something unbreakable. But now, every memory of Si-wan felt tainted, like a lie he had lived for far too long.
He remembered the night of their first real performance together, the way Si-wan had looked at him, his eyes full of pride. They had played their hearts out that night, their music a perfect blend of harmony and tension, a reflection of everything they had been through together. That night had been the beginning of something—something Ji-hoon had thought would last forever. But now, looking back, he realized how naive he had been. Si-wan had never been the person Ji-hoon thought he was. He had been playing a game, a dangerous game, and Ji-hoon had been the pawn.
"Why didn't I see it?" Ji-hoon whispered to the empty room. His voice was small, barely audible, but the question echoed through him, reverberating against the walls. Why hadn't he seen the cracks? Why hadn't he noticed the way Si-wan had always kept him at arm's length, never fully letting him in? Why had he ignored the signs, the subtle warnings that something was wrong?
Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision as the floodgates opened, the dam he had built around his emotions finally breaking. He had tried so hard to hold it together, to keep his focus on the music, on the mission to expose Si-wan for what he truly was. But deep down, Ji-hoon had always known that this wasn't just about the truth. It was about the pain—the pain of losing something he had never truly understood until it was gone.
He had lost Si-wan. Not in the physical sense, but in a way that was far more painful. The man he had once called a friend, the man he had once trusted with his life, had slipped away from him, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but a ghost. A cold, distant memory of someone he had thought he knew.
And now, there was nothing but the music.
But even the music was slipping away from him. The one thing that had always been there, the one thing that had kept him grounded, was no longer enough to save him. Every note, every chord, felt like a reminder of everything he had lost. The sound of the piano no longer brought him peace—it only reminded him of the emptiness that had settled deep inside him.
He stood up abruptly, his hands shaking as he pushed the bench away from the piano. His breath was ragged, each inhale feeling like it took all the air in the room. He needed to get out, to escape, to leave the ghosts behind. But there was nowhere to go. The world outside felt just as suffocating as the room he was in. He was trapped, caught in the same cycle of longing and loss, unable to escape the truth of what had happened.
He stumbled toward the door, his mind reeling with thoughts he couldn't quite grasp. His heart was heavy with the weight of his own failure. He had tried to hold on, tried to keep things together, but it had all fallen apart. Si-wan had never been the person Ji-hoon had hoped for. And now, there was nothing left to salvage.
The night stretched out before him, endless and empty, and Ji-hoon felt like he was standing on the edge of it all, looking into the abyss. His hand hovered over the door handle, but he couldn't bring himself to open it. He couldn't escape. He couldn't run from the reality that had settled over him like a blanket of cold, unfeeling grief.
And in that moment, he realized that the night they had forgotten—the night when everything had changed, when Si-wan had slipped from his grasp—was a night he would never be able to forget.
Ji-hoon's fingers still hovered over the door handle, but the weight of the night kept him rooted to the spot, as if something unseen was holding him in place. His mind was swirling, a mixture of confusion, anger, and sorrow that tangled together like a chord he couldn't unwind. The weight of his thoughts pressed against his chest, suffocating him. Each breath felt like a struggle, but it wasn't just the air in the room. It was the crushing realization of what had been lost, what he'd never get back.
The silence of the room was deafening, wrapping itself around him, a reminder that no matter where he went, no matter how hard he tried to escape, the truth would always follow. The night had been forgotten, or so it seemed. But for Ji-hoon, it wasn't just a moment lost in time—it was the night everything had fallen apart. The night when he first began to feel the distance between himself and Si-wan, when the cracks in their friendship had started to show. A night that he had buried deep inside, unwilling to confront, until now.
He thought back to that time. The night when they had been backstage, preparing for their final performance. Si-wan had been unusually distant, a shadow of his former self. Ji-hoon had noticed it, of course, but he hadn't said anything. He had been too caught up in the excitement of the performance, too consumed with the hope that everything would turn out just like it always had. But deep down, he had known that something was wrong. Si-wan wasn't himself. The walls he had built between them had become too high to scale, and Ji-hoon had been helpless to break them down.
The performance had been flawless, or so it seemed on the surface. The music had flowed, their instruments in perfect harmony, the notes melding together as if they were one. But behind the music, something was broken. Something was unraveling. And in the aftermath, as they stood together in the silence of the stage, Ji-hoon had seen the truth for the first time. Si-wan's eyes had been cold, distant, and Ji-hoon had realized that the man he had once called his best friend was slipping away from him. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.
His hand clenched around the door handle, his knuckles turning white. The memory was too much to bear. The anger, the betrayal, the loss—it all surged to the surface, threatening to drown him. He wanted to scream, to break something, to let out the fury that had been building up inside him for months. But instead, he stood there in silence, his chest rising and falling with each breath. It was easier to be angry at the situation, easier to blame Si-wan for everything that had gone wrong. But deep down, Ji-hoon knew it wasn't just Si-wan's fault. He had been a part of this too. He had ignored the signs. He had chosen to look the other way when he should have confronted the truth head-on.
The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open, the faint sound echoing in the empty hall. The dim light from the hallway outside filtered into the room, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor. It was almost like the light was trying to push back the darkness, but it couldn't quite reach it. The shadows, much like the memories, were too strong, too entrenched.
Ji-hoon stepped into the hallway, his feet dragging as if he were walking through water. He moved without purpose, each step more automatic than the last. There was no real destination, no place he wanted to go. His body was on autopilot, carried forward by some invisible force, while his mind remained trapped in the past, in the memory of the night when everything had changed.
He didn't know how long he wandered through the empty corridors. The silence of the building was suffocating, the kind of silence that makes you feel as if you're the only person left in the world. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, the weight of the night, of everything that had happened, pressing against him from all sides. He felt like he was suffocating, drowning in his own thoughts, and there was no way to escape it.
As he passed the practice rooms, the faint sound of a violin drifted through the door of one of them. It was a delicate, mournful melody, the kind that could only come from someone who was lost in their own pain. Ji-hoon stopped in his tracks, his heart suddenly aching as he recognized the song. It was Hye-jin's playing. The same song she had been practicing for weeks, the one that had always made him think of her—of the kindness she had shown him, of the way she had been there for him when no one else had been.
The music stopped, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Ji-hoon's hand hovered near the door, his mind torn between wanting to hear more and the fear of what might be behind it. He had been avoiding her for days now, ever since the last time they spoke. He didn't know what to say to her, how to explain everything that had been happening, everything that had been falling apart. He didn't want her to see him like this—broken, lost, desperate for something he couldn't name.
But as he stood there, his thoughts racing, he realized that maybe he wasn't the only one who was lost. Maybe she was too. The uncertainty, the confusion—they were both living in the same darkness. And perhaps, if they could just reach out to each other, they could find a way to navigate it together.
With a deep breath, Ji-hoon pushed open the door. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the dim lights, and there, sitting at the piano, was Hye-jin. She looked up at him with wide eyes, her hands frozen mid-motion, as if she hadn't expected anyone to come in.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," Ji-hoon said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His heart was pounding in his chest, his thoughts scrambling for the right words, but none came.
Hye-jin didn't say anything for a moment. She just stared at him, as if trying to read his expression, trying to figure out what was going on in his mind. Finally, she spoke, her voice gentle but with an underlying edge of concern.
"You're not disturbing me," she said quietly. "But... what's wrong, Ji-hoon? You've been distant lately."
His heart twisted at her words. He had been distant, hadn't he? And now, standing there, facing her, he realized that it wasn't just Si-wan he had been running from. It was everything.