#and i dont want this moment to be over yet | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

igwb · 2 days ago

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First Love.

“though we are putting an end to our relationship, dont ever feel sorry to me, i will get to meet you again no matter what form, greet me happily then”

pairing: min yoongi x reader (pianoteacher!yg x pianist!oc)

genre: strangers to friends to lovers (?), angst + fluff

summary: for as long as you can remember, the piano has been your entire world. music runs through your veins, but what happens when you start to feel like you’re losing that passion? in the midst of your uncertainty, the only source of hope comes from a stranger—min yoongi, a musician who shares the same deep connection to music, and might just help you find your way back.

word count: 21K (one shot)

warnings: angst, anxiety, self-degrading, fear of losing a passion, age gap! (yoongi is 29 and oc is 22), music talk, min yoongi is a sweetheart ♡, no explicit romance, open-ending

It was almost laughable how you ended up here in the first place. The morning had already started on the wrong foot—you had one of the most important performances of the year ahead of you, and your piano teacher had made it painfully clear that you weren’t ready.

Deep down, you know she was right. And yet, you had to play.

And she was right. You weren’t ready—not because you didn’t know which keys to press, or how to press them, or at what speed. You had all of that down. But for people like Ms. Kim—and for you—that was never enough. The audience was captivated, their applause enthusiastic, but the moment your eyes met hers, you knew.

It wasn’t good enough.

She didn’t hold back. She told you that even a three-year-old could play with more feeling than you. And after throwing that in your face, she made it clear—she never wanted to see you in her conservatory again.

And that’s how you ended up here, at this university, with a teacher said to be the best around.

The only piano in the classroom stands alone, its dark wood worn from years of use, a small but sturdy instrument that carries the weight of time. It looks old, yet when its notes fill the air, the sound is anything but dull—it’s rich, full of life, resonating through the quiet space like a secret being whispered to those who care to listen.

Your gaze shifts from the instrument to the figure seated before it. His back is straight, posture effortless yet disciplined, the kind that comes from years of practice rather than conscious thought. His hands move over the keys with a quiet reverence, fingertips barely pressing yet commanding the sound with a grace that speaks of deep familiarity.

You can’t see his face, only the slight tilt of his head as he listens to the notes, adjusting ever so slightly, lost in the music. But even without seeing his expression, you can tell—whoever he is, he’s great. Not just technically skilled, but something beyond that. There’s emotion in the way he plays, something personal.

And suddenly, you find yourself unable to look away.

For a moment, you feel like you don’t belong there—like you’ve stumbled upon something too intimate to interrupt. The music seeps into your skin, quieting the restless thoughts in your mind, and you almost want to stay in this moment forever, unnoticed, just listening.

But then, without warning, the music stops.

His fingers still on the keys, a breath of silence stretching between the last note and reality. He turns his head slightly, eyes meeting yours from across the room.

And just like that, the calm shatters.

All the thoughts that had momentarily faded—the uncertainty, the hesitation, the weight pressing on your chest—come rushing back, crashing over you in full force. You shift under his gaze, suddenly aware of your presence, of the way your hands feel too stiff at your sides, of the way your heartbeat stumbles against your ribs.

Without a hint of discomfort or hesitation, he smiles at you—a soft, knowing smile. It doesn’t quite reach his cat-like eyes, hidden behind the thin frames of his glasses, but it’s there nonetheless. A quiet acknowledgment. An invitation rather than an intrusion.

There’s no irritation in his gaze, no sign that your presence is unwelcome.

“Hello?” you said hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper. You let your eyes wander around the music room, taking in every detail—anything to avoid meeting the gaze of another musician. Ms. Kim’s words were still too fresh, echoing in your mind like a melody you couldn’t shake.

The pianist watched you carefully, his gaze steady yet unreadable, while you did everything in your power to avoid meeting it. Instead, you focused on the details of the room—how everything was perfectly arranged, the simple monochrome décor giving it an air of quiet serenity. It felt calm. Simple.

So different from the practice rooms back at the conservatory, where the ceilings stretched impossibly high, like something you could never quite reach no matter how hard you tried. Even the air here felt different—lighter, easier to breathe. There was no weight pressing down on your shoulders, no invisible expectation suffocating you. Just the sound of the piano lingering in the silence between you.

His body was angled toward you as he remained seated on the bench, not even bothering to stand. Yet, his warm smile—quiet and unforced—spoke volumes of acknowledgment. That simple gesture was enough to bridge the silence between you both. After a brief pause, he finally spoke; his voice was deep and calm, each word measured and deliberate, as if carefully calculated to convey exactly what he meant.

“Good morning. How can I help you?” he asked gently, his gaze drifting over your face with quiet curiosity, as if he were reading you like an open book. And perhaps he could. Your body language betrayed you—stiff shoulders, fingers nervously gripping the strap of your bag, eyes darting between him and the piano.

You knew you looked hesitant, maybe even out of place. Scared. Ashamed. And yet, there was no judgment in his tone, only patience.

Your fingers absentmindedly reached for the bow in your hair, a small anchor in the whirlwind of doubt still lingering from this morning. It was barely hanging on—much like you.

The outfit from your disastrous performance was still clinging to your body, stiff and suffocating. The black skirt that once felt elegant now felt like a weight dragging you down. The crisp white shirt, the neatly buttoned cardigan—once symbols of discipline and refinement—now felt like a cruel reminder of everything that had slipped through your fingers. Here, in this university, in this modest, sunlit room, your attire felt out of place. Too formal. Too extravagant. Too much of what you used to be.

“I want to take piano lessons,” you finally said, the words escaping in a quiet breath. They felt heavier than they should, settling between the two of you like something unspoken, something deeper.

He nodded like he knew. Like he could see the weight pressing down on your shoulders, the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly at your sides. Like he understood—without you having to say it—just how hard you had fought, how many years you had spent chasing a dream that always slipped away the moment it grazed your fingertips. Again and again.

Then, he finally stood up.

Without the piano behind him, he looked different. Less like the formidable musician Ms. Kim had spoken about in hushed, almost regretful tones—“a talent wasted,” she had once said—and more like an ordinary teacher. Just a man, standing in front of you, waiting. There was something almost comforting about that.

In a deep, soft tone, he asks if you’ve played the piano before—as if urging you to reveal the truth. He seems to expect an honest confession: that you’ve been playing for as long as you can remember, that you once honed your skills at a prestigious conservatory before being cast aside as if you weren’t enough. Admitting that truth—after nearly twenty years of pouring your life into the piano—would feel unbearably humiliating.

So, you chose to lie. You downplayed the instrument’s role in your life, as though the piano had never truly occupied your thoughts or your heart with unwavering consistency.

“I played a long time ago,” you say flatly, the lie slipping from your lips without even a flicker of hesitation, masking the depths of your true, unspoken history.

He watched you carefully, his dark eyes unwavering, like he could pick apart the truth from the spaces between your words. Maybe he could. Maybe he already knew you were lying.

But if he did, he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he hummed, a deep sound in the back of his throat, considering your words as if they were a puzzle he was willing to piece together himself. “A long time ago,” he repeated softly, his voice neither questioning nor doubtful. Just accepting.

The musician himself wasn’t unfamiliar with this world—you didn’t need to tell him to make him see it. He knew the weight of those formal, dark outfits, the kind meant to impress and intimidate all at once. He recognized the elegance in the way you carried yourself, in the way your fingers twitched ever so slightly, like they were drawn to the piano behind him against your own will. That kind of muscle memory wasn’t born from casual practice.

He knew. A long time ago wasn’t the truth. Not entirely.

Before your eyes could linger any longer on the piano behind him, betraying your words and the unbearable urge to sit down and play, you forced your gaze to focus on him. He was already watching you intently, his deep eyes seeming to read the turmoil within you.

“I heard you were one of the best teachers in town,” you admitted, your voice careful and measured.

Ms. Kim herself had once spoken of him with rare admiration, praising his skill and dedication. Now, here you were, hoping he could teach you something she believed you would never grasp.

His expression shifted subtly, betraying a flicker of emotion beyond the calm demeanor he had maintained. His brows furrowed slightly, as if questioning his own abilities. Min Yoongi was well aware of his talent; he had been born with a gift for music, effortlessly weaving notes together to create melodies that resonated deeply. Yet, the recognition of his skill had waned over time, especially after he chose a path that led him away from the grand stages he once aspired to conquer.

Leaving the conservatory to embrace a humble teaching role was a decision that garnered respect but also subjected him to the judgments of others. The world often measured success by fame and grandeur, and by those standards, his choice might have seemed like a step back. However, in his heart, he knew it was the right path—a path that allowed him to share his passion and knowledge with others, even if it meant sacrificing personal acclaim.

His face softened into a proud grin, clearly appreciative of your words, and he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. Glancing at his watch, he informed you that other students would be arriving soon and suggested you take a seat. Choosing a spot not too far from the piano yet angled so you wouldn’t have to face it directly, you hoped another student might sit closer, obscuring the instrument that stirred such turmoil within you.

As you gracefully lowered yourself into the seat, the years of disciplined practice evident in your poised movements, Mr. Min’s gaze lingered on you, his curiosity piqued. There was an intriguing blend of confidence and underlying nervousness in your demeanor—a subtle contradiction that didn’t escape his notice.

Your eyes, almost instinctively, reached toward the piano behind him, betraying your composed exterior and revealing a deep-seated connection to the instrument. Yet, your eyes told a different story. They shimmered not with the eagerness to learn, but with a silent plea to let your guard down, to allow yourself the vulnerability of emotion.

As other students began to fill the room, their voices creating a gentle hum, Mr. Min turned his attention back to the piano. His fingers brushed over the keys lightly, the familiar touch grounding him as he prepared for the session ahead.

As Mr. Min’s fingers danced effortlessly over the piano keys, it became immediately evident why Ms. Kim held him in such high regard. His playing was a masterful blend of softness and power, gentleness and sharpness—a delicate balance that showcased both his technical prowess and deep emotional connection to the music.

His unwavering focus on the keys, eyes wide open as if peering beyond them, contrasted sharply with your own approach. You often closed your eyes while playing, seeking refuge from external distractions and allowing the music to guide you inward.

Mr. Min’s fingers continued to dance across the keys with the same fluidity and grace, each note falling into place like a carefully crafted sentence. But as the music swirled around the room, his attention remained anchored on you. While the others were rapt, completely consumed by the performance, you stood out.

He could see the way your eyes drifted from the piano to the space around you, the way your gaze seemed to wander into something deeper, as if you were lost in a world of your own thoughts. It wasn’t disinterest, though—it was something else, something he couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was the vulnerability in your expression, the subtle tension in your body, like you were holding something back.

He found himself intrigued. What was it that made you seem so distant, even when the music flowed around you? He had an inkling that the music wasn’t just an escape for you, but rather a confrontation—a challenge you weren’t ready to face. And that made him wonder: who were you when you weren’t in front of the piano? What did the music mean to you when it wasn’t the thing that defined you?

As the last note lingered in the air, Mr. Min’s fingers finally came to a slow, deliberate stop.

When he finished playing, the room filled with applause, but he quickly waved it off with a soft laugh, his cheeks flushing slightly as though he was unaccustomed to such attention. It was clear he didn’t want to linger in the spotlight for too long. To shift the focus, he began explaining concepts that you were sure you had mastered long ago—fundamental techniques that felt almost too simple to be revisited.

The room was filled with beginners, judging by the hesitant and awkward way they approached the exercises. Their uncertainty was evident, and in that moment, you felt painfully out of place. Just that morning, you had been on a prestigious stage, performing before a captivated audience. Now, you sat in a classroom full of students who were just beginning their journey.

Your talent, though impressive—at least, it had been—for this room, but it still wasn’t enough for there. It was a strange and humbling contrast, the gap between where you were and where you wanted to be, painfully obvious in that moment.

The urge to run, to leave it all behind, gnawed at you. But you couldn’t walk away from the piano—not now, not after everything. It had been your constant companion, the one thing you had known your entire life. And yet, the pull to reach for the piano in front of you, so close to Mr. Min, was undeniable. Your fingers ached to play, to express something, anything, to release the pressure building inside you. But you couldn’t move. You were paralyzed, torn between the desire to escape and the need to prove something—to yourself, perhaps—to stay and face the silence that demanded so much.

His question snapped you back to the present. He asked if anyone recognized the piece, and without hesitation, your hand shot up. If Ms. Kim had ever doubted your abilities, she couldn’t ignore the depth of your knowledge when it came to music and its composers. You may have faltered during your performance, but here, in the realm of theory and history, you still had a solid grasp. It was one constant in a world full of uncertainties.

“Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence, by Ryuichi Sakamoto,” you said, your voice unwavering. The title flowed easily from your lips, as though it had always been there, embedded in your memory. For a brief moment, you felt a surge of confidence—a reminder that despite everything, you still knew what you were talking about.

Music was where you still had control. While your hands might have faltered on the keys earlier, the knowledge you held about music, the composers, the intricacies of each piece—it was still yours. It was still part of you.

His eyes widened when he heard the answer—said so confidently. But as he looked toward where the voice had come from, he knew. You weren’t just throwing out a random title; you were speaking with a sense of relief, something that you genuinely understood. It was clear this was something you could hold onto.

“Correct,” he nodded, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You clearly know Ryuichi Sakamoto’s work well.”

You simply nodded, your expression carefully neutral. You didn’t trust your own words at the moment, afraid that if you spoke, something raw would slip out—something you weren’t ready to share. You didn’t want to admit that Ryuichi Sakamoto had been the first composer to make you cry when you were only eight years old. That memory was too intimate, too vulnerable to expose, especially in front of a room full of strangers and under the scrutinizing gaze of someone like Mr. Min.

He didn’t press you further, recognizing the way you had withdrawn into yourself after that brief moment. His gaze lingered for a moment, analyzing your quiet shift, but he understood that some questions, no matter how much he wanted to ask, might never have an answer.

The rest of the class continued as it had before, students asking questions, working through exercises, and Mr. Min offering thoughtful advice and gentle guidance. But you remained in your seat, an observer more than a participant. The urge to step forward, to show them the finer details, to share your knowledge and help them improve, pulsed within you. Yet, you stayed still. It wasn’t your place—not here, not now. You were here because you hadn’t lived up to the expectations of the broader music world, and that bitter reality weighed heavily on your chest.

As you packed up your things and began walking toward the door, your movements were automatic, like you were on autopilot. You didn’t look back at Mr. Min, avoiding the weight of the moment that lingered in the room. The soft click of the door behind you was like the sound of another chapter closing, though you didn’t feel like you had finished reading it yet.

You wandered aimlessly, your feet carrying you down the hallway until you found yourself in the university theater. It was almost unrecognizable compared to the grandeur of the place you had performed in earlier that day. The theater here was modest, a far cry from the polished, high-end venue you once felt so comfortable in. The piano on stage was small, worn, and simple—nothing like the sleek, dark grand pianos that had been the backdrop of your dreams. It felt like a strange irony that the only piano you were now allowed to play was the one that symbolized everything you’d lost.

It was almost too easy to think that this was what you deserved—this humble, forgotten place, with its empty seats and quiet walls. It felt like a reminder of how far you had fallen from the dream you once chased so tirelessly, and how far you still had to go to climb back to something resembling the life you had once hoped for.

Your fingers, however, had a mind of their own. As you sat down on the worn bench in front of the humble piano, your hands found the familiar keys of Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence without you even realizing it. It was as if the piece had woven itself into your soul, impossible to shake off no matter how hard you tried. Each note was a soft lament, a reflection of the struggle that was still so fresh in your heart. You didn’t know why you played it, but in that moment, it felt like the only thing that could anchor you amidst everything that was swirling around you.

The world around you faded as the music took over, each note soothing the chaos inside your mind. The piano became your refuge, your sanctuary from everything that had been weighing you down. You let the melody flow, losing track of time, your fingers dancing across the keys as if they were telling a story you had yet to understand.

You didn’t notice the quiet presence in the doorway, the way Mr. Min had slipped in, drawn to the sound of a familiar melody echoing through the empty theater. His gaze was fixed on you, taking in the way your body seemed to meld with the music, how your hands moved with such natural grace. He stood there, unnoticed, allowing you to remain lost in the moment.But even as you played, there was a quiet awareness that kept you from fully surrendering.

Somewhere deep inside, you knew that if you opened your eyes and saw him watching, everything would come crashing down. The raw vulnerability you allowed yourself to show in your music would suddenly feel exposed, like standing in front of a mirror with nothing left to hide. And that thought, the idea of facing him with all your broken pieces laid bare, was almost too much to bear. So you kept playing, hoping the music could shield you from the reality waiting outside of it.

The final note hung in the air, weighted with an intensity you hadn’t meant to create, and you lingered on it longer than expected. As the sound faded, doubts crept in, unraveling the calm the music had offered you. Restlessness overtook you, and you struck the keys again and again, each press more urgent than the last, until all that filled the room was a harsh, discordant noise that reverberated through the stillness. It was as if the turmoil inside your mind had escaped through your hands, refusing to be quieted.

Frustration bubbled up, and without thinking, your eyes snapped open, locking onto the keys in front of you. In a burst of anger, you slammed both hands down on the piano, the sound violent and chaotic, letting all the pent-up emotions spill out in a frantic explosion. You held the notes for a few seconds, breathing heavily, before slowly releasing them, sinking back into a heavy, oppressive silence.

For a brief moment, the urge to destroy it all was still there, but it dissipated as quickly as it had come, leaving you feeling exposed. You couldn’t bring yourself to play again, not after that. Not after what had just spilled out of you. The music, which had once been a refuge, now felt like an unbearable reminder of everything you couldn’t fix, everything you couldn’t control.

In the distance, you could feel Mr. Min’s presence, a weight in the room that made the silence feel even more oppressive. You didn’t have to look to know he was still there, watching, waiting for you to either rise or break. But you didn’t want to face him. Not now. Not after what had just happened.

Instead, you let your hands rest on the keys, unmoving, your fingers pressing lightly against the worn ivory. The softest sound, the faintest breath of music, came from the piano—a gentle reminder of the way things once were, when the instrument had been your ally, not your battleground. And you stayed there, caught in the silence, wondering if you’d ever find your way back to the peace the music used to give you.

Mr. Min stood in the doorway, frozen, caught between admiration and worry. The way you played had been nothing short of breathtaking—so smooth. But then, without warning, it all shattered into chaos. The dissonant chords, sharp and relentless, filled the space like a violent storm. It was as if you were battling your own emotions, a war within you where the music was both the weapon and the victim.

When you slammed your hands down on the keys, the sound stung him. It was jarring, furious—like a scream left unheard. He could feel the weight of everything you were trying to express but couldn’t find the words for. The tension in the room thickened, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure whether to step forward or to give you the space you clearly needed.

His voice cut through the silence, pulling you back from the whirlwind of your emotions. The sound of it, gentle yet commanding, made the warmth of the music and the anger melt away, leaving behind the sharp sting of humiliation. You hadn’t meant for it to spiral like that, but now, as his presence loomed in the room, it felt as though you had been caught in a fragile moment, raw and unguarded, with no way to hide from what you had just unleashed.

As he made his way to the stage, the shift in your demeanor was immediate. The fire of anger that had flared up moments before seemed to dissipate, replaced by a deep sense of shame that washed over you. The music, your outburst, everything felt too raw now, too exposed.

He approached the piano but kept a respectful distance, his movements careful and measured, almost as though he understood how fragile this moment was. His gaze softened as it settled on you, aware of the dark thoughts you were lost in.

“That was quite a performance,” he said, his voice gentle, “for someone who quit piano a long time ago.” He added the words with a light chuckle, but there was no judgment in his tone—only a quiet understanding. It wasn’t a reprimand for your lie; rather, it felt like an acknowledgment of the depth you carried, something he could see beneath your carefully constructed façade.

You let out a scoff, frustration bubbling up inside you again, but still, you didn’t leave. Your body felt stuck, anchored in place by something you couldn’t quite name. Your fingers, seemingly on their own, drifted to the piano, pressing the keys softly, like they were searching for something to hold onto. Each note was a tentative attempt to take back control, but the weight of the moment—of your own thoughts—kept pulling you deeper into a tangled mess.

Finally, you spoke, the words tumbling out as if they had been waiting to be freed.

“I lied,” you murmured, the admission quiet but heavy, like a burden you could no longer carry. He could’ve answered, could’ve told you that he knew the moment you walked into the room, that your eyes gave away more than your words ever could. But he didn’t. Instead, he let the silence stretch between you, acknowledging the weight of what you had just admitted without needing to say it aloud.

You hesitated, then, the truth finally spilling out as you whispered it into the silence.

“I never stopped playing piano. It’s been twenty years since I first touched the keys.”

Mr. Min’s face stayed calm, but there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes at the unexpected confession. He hadn’t anticipated you’d reveal so much, but perhaps this was the moment you were finally ready to open up—and he was ready to listen.

“So, why the lie?” he asked softly, his tone gentle. He could sense there was more beneath the surface, a reason behind your guardedness, the conflict in your words. He needed to understand.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, a weight you had been carrying for so long finally finding its release.

“My teacher told me I was bad and that I should quit,” you said, the confession hanging in the air like a stone. You didn’t mention how, since joining the conservatory, every step felt like a competition, where your passion for the music was overshadowed by the constant comparisons to others. How the mentor you had once looked up to always made you feel like you weren’t good enough. If she couldn’t believe in you, how could you believe in yourself?

The beautiful walls, the polished floors, the golden moldings—all of it, so ornate and perfect, but they had slowly stolen your passion. Without realizing it, the grandeur of it all had crushed your love for the music, squeezing it between the layers of perfection and expectation.

The shame that had been buried deep within you for so long began to surface, raw and uncomfortable. The sting of those words, the rejection, still hurt—saying them out loud now felt like finally acknowledging an unspoken truth that had been kept in the dark for too long.

“I was ashamed of that, after playing piano my whole life,” you admitted, your voice quivering slightly. “So I didn’t want to admit I wasn’t a beginner. Because I feel like I am.”

The vulnerability in your voice caught you off guard. For a moment, you felt exposed—like the walls you had spent years building were falling down. The truth was out, and there was no running from it anymore.

Mr. Min’s gaze remained steady, his eyes not leaving yours as you spoke. He could hear the weight of your words, the burden of what you’d carried for so long. He knew well how one harsh judgment could bury the brightest spark, suffocating it with doubt and fear.

He understood how easily passion could be crushed under the weight of someone else’s expectations, someone else’s words.

“One person’s opinion doesn’t define you,” he said softly, his voice reassuring but firm. He took a slow step forward, his presence steady and grounded.

“You’re not bad. I heard you play. You have talent—real talent. It’s a gift you should never hide.”

“She called me a rock, said I play with my head, not my heart,” you murmured, the bite of her words still stinging. The memory of Ms. Kim’s harsh judgment lingered, a shadow over your thoughts.

“But I know what I feel inside,” you continued, your voice steady but soft. “I just can’t figure out how to show it.” The confession felt raw, something you’d been holding back for far too long.

Mr. Min listened intently, his expression softening as you spoke. He could feel the depth of your frustration, the way you had been carrying those words with you, the weight of someone else’s judgment that had slowly built a wall around your music.

He took a deep breath, considering his next words carefully.

“It’s not about playing with your heart or head. It’s about finding a balance,” he said, his voice gentle but steady. “You can feel the music, but you also need to let go of the fear of how it’s supposed to sound. You don’t have to force it or make it perfect. Just let it flow, and let yourself be part of it. Your music, your emotions—just let them be one.”

He paused, his gaze meeting yours, as if trying to convey everything he had learned over the years with just that look.

“Let go,” he whispered softly, his gaze steady on you. “Stop trying to control everything. Let yourself feel. Let the music take over. Trust your instincts.”

You had heard this before—Ms. Kim’s words, though delivered more sharply. The message was the same, but you couldn’t bring yourself to follow it. No matter how hard you tried, the link between your emotions and the music felt impossible to reach. The pressure, the expectations—they were like a heavy weight, pushing you further from the connection you desperately sought.

“It’s scary,” you confessed quietly, the rawness of your vulnerability settling in the silence.

Mr. Min’s expression softened as he watched you, his eyes reflecting a quiet understanding. He could feel the weight of your fear and anxiety, the kind of barrier that he, too, had struggled with in the past. He could almost see himself in your struggle, driven by the same anger, unable to let anything else in.

“I know it is,” he said softly, his tone warm and steady. “It’s terrifying to let your emotions show, to trust the music to carry what you’re feeling. But the piano doesn’t judge you. It’s here to help you.”

He took a step closer, his presence gentle yet steady. “Sometimes, the most beautiful music comes from the most vulnerable places.”

Mr. Min’s passion for music was undeniable. It wasn’t just in the way he played, but in the way he spoke about it—how his eyes seemed to light up whenever he discussed a piece or a feeling. It came so naturally to him, the connection between heart and instrument, and it was hard not to admire that effortless bond. Watching him, you couldn’t help but wonder if you would ever feel that same depth of understanding, that same fluid connection.

“What if I’m just not cut out for this?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, quiet and almost fearful. The doubt that had been building inside you for some time now felt too heavy to carry any longer. “I keep fighting for something that maybe I’m just not meant for.”

“Asking yourself if you’re made for it shows you are,” he said softly but with conviction, a subtle determination in his voice. “There’s no such thing as not being made for music. And even if there were, I don’t see it in you. You have something special. You just need to find a way to reach it.”

“I’m scared that one day I just won’t love music like I did,” you whispered, your voice soft but heavy with the weight of the admission. Music had always been your anchor, the one thing that made everything feel right. But now, the fear crept in—what if that love faded? What if one day, it all just slipped away, leaving you with only the echo of a distant memory? The thought of losing that connection, that passion, gripped you in a way nothing else could.

“I’m already falling out of love with it,” you murmured, the words tasting like a betrayal. It was a truth you’d buried deep inside, one you hadn’t wanted to face. But now it was out there, undeniable and raw.

Your eyes finally met his, wide and vulnerable, the weight of your emotions threatening to spill over. The tears that had been on the verge of falling held back for now, but the hope that lingered in them was undeniable. Without thinking, you spoke from your heart, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Make me love it again, please. I need your help.” The plea was quiet but desperate, fragile yet genuine, as if you were reaching out for something—anything—that could bring back the music you once knew so well.

Mr. Min’s heart tightened at the raw honesty in your voice, and he could feel the weight of your plea. He knew the pain you were carrying, the fear of losing something that had always been a part of you. His gaze was unwavering, full of quiet intensity, but his expression softened as he spoke.

“I will,” he said, his voice steady yet filled with an unspoken promise. “I’ll help you rediscover that love for music. I’ll guide you through it. But you have to trust me.”

His words hung in the air, both an invitation and a challenge, as if offering you the chance to find your way back to something that had always been yours, waiting to be found again.

Your gaze remained fixed on his face, searching for something—an answer, a sign, anything. There was a certainty about him, a quiet confidence that you had never known. And yet, you couldn’t fully understand why you were turning to him for help. You didn’t know him. Before this moment, he had been nothing more than a name, a fleeting mention from other pianists. You had never cared to listen to his work, too consumed by Ms. Kim’s world.

To you, she had always been the best—the only mentor, the only guide you needed. The path she had shown you had seemed like the only way forward.

At least, that’s what you had believed all this time.

“I want to prove her wrong,” you said, the words coming out with more conviction than you expected. You didn’t need to explain who she was—you were certain he would understand.

“I need to show her that I was meant for this,” you added, gripping the edge of the piano bench as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. “Music is the only thing I’ve ever truly known.”

The words felt like both an admission and a plea. It wasn’t just about proving her wrong—it was about proving something to yourself. That all those years hadn’t been in vain. That you were as deserving of music as anyone else.

He could already feel it—this pull toward you, the inexplicable urge to help you reclaim what had been taken. To prove your former teacher wrong. To bring back the love for music that had once shone so brightly in your eyes. It wasn’t just about technique or talent; it was about something deeper, something that had been buried under years of doubt and criticism.

His hand found the edge of the piano, just inches from yours, a quiet gesture of support.

“Then we’ll show her,” he said, his voice steady, carrying a quiet conviction. “We’ll show her that you were always meant for this. That music belongs to you just as much as you belong to it.”

You smiled at him, quiet yet resolute, a newfound determination settling within you. You didn’t know why it had to be Min Yoongi—why, out of all people, he was the one you wanted to guide you back to music. Maybe it was the way he played, the way every note seemed to carry emotion so effortlessly. Maybe it was how, even in the short time you had known him, his words had stirred something in you. Or maybe it was simply because, despite everything, you trusted him.

Because underneath all the doubt and fear, there was one truth you couldn’t deny—you shared the same unshakable love for music. And maybe, just maybe, he could help you find your way back to it.

Mr. Min loved teaching. He loved the way his students’ eyes lit up when they pressed a key and it rang out just right, the quiet but persistent determination they carried when they finally mastered a piece. That was why he loved music—not just for the sound, not just for the technique, but because it was meant to be shared. A language that could reach people in ways words never could.

But in his five years of teaching and twenty-four years of playing, he had never encountered someone quite like you. Never had he met a musician who had spent their whole life devoted to music, only to wake up one day and feel as though it was slipping away. Someone who wasn’t a beginner, but who had lost something far more important than skill—their passion.

It unsettled him, the thought of it. He had never imagined a life where music didn’t feel like home. How could something so deeply ingrained in a person suddenly feel so distant? How could music—the one thing that had always been his anchor—become a stranger to someone who had once breathed it as deeply as he did?

But he was ready to take on the challenge. Because if it were him—if he ever lost music—he wasn’t sure he would survive it.

And perhaps that was what truly made a musician great—not just skill, not just talent, but the ability to pass on that love, to spark something in another person. To make them feel music the way he did.

For the first time, Mr. Min wasn’t just teaching someone how to play.

He was teaching someone how to love music again.

For the first time in a long while, he felt challenged. Not by the music itself, but by you—the girl sitting before him, struggling to find herself again.

He took a quiet breath, steadying himself before speaking. His voice was soft, patient, but unwavering.

“So… we start from here. From the very beginning. From what you do feel when you play.”

You let out a quiet chuckle, the sound lighter than anything you had felt all day—maybe even since the moment piano became more than just a hobby. Since the first time you stepped onto the stage of that grand theater, carrying the weight of expectations, the relentless need to prove yourself.

But now, for the first time in a long while, you felt something close to relief. Like maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to the reason you had fallen in love with music in the first place.

Your eyes flickered to your watch—almost 6 PM. As much as you wanted to stay, to let your fingers linger on the keys a little longer, you knew you couldn’t. And you couldn’t ask Mr. Min to stay either. He probably had somewhere else to be, a life outside of this dimly lit theater, someone waiting for him.

��Right now?”

You laughed softly, glancing at him through your lashes before shaking your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to,” you said, your tone laced with teasing. “But I think I need to prepare myself.”

The words settled between you—an easy excuse, a carefully crafted delay. Because the truth was, you were scared. Scared of having another teacher, of learning under someone who wasn’t Ms. Kim. She had been your only mentor since you were seven, the only guide you had ever known. The thought of starting over, of trusting someone new with something so deeply personal, sent a shiver of doubt through you.

Mr. Min’s smirk didn’t waver, his gaze steady as he studied you. He saw through your words easily, past the teasing tone to the hesitation beneath. The fear. The doubt.

“Of course,” he murmured, accepting your excuse without pressing further. He knew patience was key—rushing you wouldn’t work. But still, a part of him, fueled by curiosity and something else he couldn’t quite name, wanted to stay. To see more of this version of you—the one stripped of pretenses, standing on the edge of something new.

He tilted his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “Maybe tomorrow?”

You rose from the bench, putting distance between yourself and the instrument that held too much power over you—power to unearth emotions you weren’t sure you were ready to face. Turning to Mr. Min, you forced a smile, the same well-practiced mask you had worn countless times before. A shield against the uncertainty twisting in your chest.

“Tomorrow sounds good,” you said, your voice light, almost casual—an attempt to ignore the way doubt already clawed at the edges of your resolve. The fear of failure, of not being enough, lingered just beneath the surface, but you pushed it down. For now.

Because you had taken the first step. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for today.

That night, when you got home, you rushed to your bedroom without a second glance at the small white electric piano in the corner. It had been your companion for years, yet tonight, it felt foreign—like a relic from a version of yourself you were no longer certain existed.

Instead, your fingers moved instinctively to your laptop, typing in his name. Min Yoongi. You had never searched for him before, never felt the need to. But now, you wanted to understand. A musician like him—someone who played with such effortless emotion—had to have left something behind. Something that could tell you more about the man who had just become your teacher.

The moment the first notes filled your room, you felt it. Relief. Like something inside you finally exhaled. His music wasn’t just precise or skillful—it was alive. Raw. Honest. And for the first time in longer than you could remember, you felt at ease.

The video was simple, unpolished. Just him and a piano. No grand stage, no theatrics, just music. Just feeling. The camera only captured his hands, gliding effortlessly over the keys, and a faint glimpse of his chin. But it was enough. You didn’t need to see his face to know what he was expressing.

And that’s what unsettled you the most.

Because if you sat in front of a piano, alone, no audience, no expectations—would you be able to feel the way he did? Could you let go of the calculations, the precision, and just exist within the music?

You doubted it. And that doubt pressed against your chest, heavy and unrelenting.

Because the difference between you was clear.

It was in the eyes.

His were open, focused, following his fingers as they danced over the keys, occasionally lifting to acknowledge the audience—as if he wanted to share every note, every emotion. As if music, to him, was something meant to be given.

Yours? Yours were always closed. As if you were hiding. As if you needed to shut out the world, to build a barrier between yourself and the music—afraid that if you opened your eyes, it would all slip away.

He played with presence. You played like you were trying to disappear.

The day after, you didn’t go to his class.

Instead, you found yourself in the university theater, alone. Not beside the piano, not near it at all. You sat in an uncomfortable chair in the audience, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you stared at the empty stage.

From this distance, it looked different. Without the lights, the hushed expectations of a performance, it was just… a platform. A piece of wood resting in an empty room. It didn’t look grand. It didn’t look like much at all.

What made it something, what made it important, was the way it could transform—how a musician could breathe life into it, how silence could be turned into something worth listening to.

You didn’t know if he would come.

Maybe he thought you were backing out, that you had decided to run after all. And maybe, deep down, a part of you was trying to hide. The anxiousness gnawed at you, tugging at your chest, making it impossible to sit still. Your fingers twitched against your lap, your thoughts scattered, racing in all directions.

But just as the doubt started to settle in, the curtains on the stage shifted. And there he was.

Mr. Min stepped onto the stage, his eyes sweeping the empty space before landing on you. He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t seem angry that you had skipped his class. He just looked at you.

And somehow, that was even more terrifying.

“The piano was waiting for you,” you said, your voice trying to sound casual, lighthearted—as though this wasn’t something big, as though he was the one who was expected to be there, not you.

But the words didn’t come out the way you intended. The anxiousness still clung to you, a weight in your stomach, twisting the sound of your voice into something more fragile than you wanted it to be.

Mr. Min took in your words, his expression unreadable as he moved across the stage, sitting at the bench, his body turning to face you. His gaze locked on yours, unwavering, as if he were studying you in a way that made you feel both seen and exposed at the same time.

He sat there for a few moments in silence, the stillness stretching out longer than you expected before he finally spoke.

“I suppose the audience was waiting for me too,” he said, his voice carrying a subtle dryness, a hint of humor tucked beneath his words.

And in that moment, you hated how right he was. The only audience here was you, sitting alone in the empty seats, feeling exposed and uncertain. The silence between you both seemed to echo louder than anything else in the room.

But his face softened little, the humor disappearing as his gaze remained steady.

“Why the front row?” he asked, his voice serious, probing, as if the answer held more weight than you were ready to admit.

You stayed still in your chair, leaning back as if you were completely at ease—though you knew that was far from the truth. Your gaze remained fixed on the stage, tracing the edges of the wooden platform, the empty space where performers usually stood.

“I always wanted to know what it felt like to look at the stage from here,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “Wanted to see if it felt just as impressive as looking at the audience from up there.”

You lifted a hand, pointing to where he stood, your fingers tracing an invisible line across the air. It was strange—how different it all looked from this perspective. The stage that once felt huge beneath your feet now seemed almost… small. Almost ordinary.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe it wasn’t about the stage itself. Maybe it was about who stood on it.

Without warning, you abruptly stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the unpolished floor, sending a sharp noise through the silence of the theater.

“Turns out it didn’t look like much,” you laughed, the sound shaky, but it felt almost freeing. You hesitated, almost as if you were deciding whether to speak the thought bubbling up inside you. “But now that you’re there…”

Your gaze lingered on him, sitting so effortlessly at the bench. It was strange—the way he blended into the space. The dark navy sweater clinging to his body, his messy hair falling just enough to give him a look of unpolished calm. He wasn’t extravagant. There was nothing overly special about him, not in the way the world expected performers to be. But somehow, with the dim lights softly haloing his figure, he became one with the piano, the scene somehow more impressive now that he was a part of it. The simplicity of it, the ease with which he fit in, left you speechless.

The soft dim light of the theater reflected off his glasses, catching every detail of his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his soft cheeks, the way his thin, plump lips were slightly pursed in concentration. His brows were furrowed, his eyes focused on the keys, lost in thought.

You exhaled, unable to finish your sentence as you found yourself watching him closely, unable to look away from the way he seemed to embody the music in ways you hadn’t yet been able to. It made you wonder if, maybe, you were starting to understand a little more about what it meant to truly belong on that stage.

Because despite the most beautiful dress you could wear, the bow in your hair—your signature style—the necklaces glinting against your neck in the stage lights, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d never come close to him. No matter how much you dressed up, no matter how much you tried to present yourself with grace and poise, you realized that it wasn’t about the outer appearance. It wasn’t about how perfect you looked or how much you tried to shine in the light.

It was about something deeper. Something he carried without effort. How he embodied music in a way that you could only dream of. His presence at the piano was effortless, natural—like the music was inside him, flowing through his every move. And in that moment, you understood that it wasn’t about what you wore or how you looked. It was about being one with the music, about letting it consume you in the most real, unpretentious way. And somehow, despite everything you’d tried to do, you felt far from that connection.

And that thought left a bitter taste in your mouth as you stared at him, wondering if you could ever be more than just the costume you wore—more than the image you tried to create.

He remained quiet at first, simply watching you with a steady gaze. When your laugh—soft and uncertain—broke the silence, he couldn’t help but chuckle quietly in response.

“Come here,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

From where you stood, you saw him in a way you hadn’t before. Behind the piano, he exuded an undeniable presence. The soft glow of the theater light reflected off his glasses, highlighting every angle of his face—the sharpness of his jaw, the curve of his cheeks, the way his lips, slightly parted, were focused in concentration. His brows were furrowed, eyes glued to the keys, lost in the music.

In that moment, under the spotlight, he seemed powerful—like the piano and the music weren’t just things he played, but things he became.

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. A thought crossed your mind—that maybe, just maybe, you could feel that way too. That, in time, you might belong in this space, just as he did.

“I think I want to watch first,” you confessed, your voice quieter now, almost as if the weight of your admission was finally sinking in.

You weren’t entirely sure why you said it, but it felt right. Maybe you needed to understand it from his perspective—to see how he approached the piano, the ease with which he made it look effortless. Perhaps that was the key to rediscovering what you’d lost along the way.

You weren’t quite ready to jump in, but the urge to learn, to observe, was growing stronger.

Without a word, he shifted slightly on the bench, his movements effortless, as if the piano were an extension of himself, as natural as breathing.

He placed his hands on the keys, and the sound that filled the room was soft—gentle, almost like a lullaby. Each note felt delicate, tender, as though it were caressing the air, each one lingering in the quiet of the theater like a whisper meant only for you.

The notes he played wrapped around you, unfamiliar yet oddly familiar. It was like the music itself recognized something within you—something buried beneath layers of doubt and distance. You couldn’t explain why, but it felt like a voice that had been missing for so long had finally spoken to you.

It wasn’t anything like the pieces you had listened to online the night before. No polished, calculated notes. No grand technique. This was raw, real, and deeply personal. Every note carried emotion, like he was reaching inside of you with the very sound of the piano. It felt intimate in a way you hadn’t expected, like he was sharing a piece of his soul through the music.

You couldn’t move. The world seemed to pause around you as his fingers worked over the keys, the sound filling the room with a kind of quiet reverence. There was a weight to it, a stillness that demanded your full attention.

And when the music stopped, you felt it—this strange emptiness, like a breath had been held for too long and finally released. You didn’t want to be the first to break the silence, so you sat there, frozen, eyes fixed on him as if afraid to move in case the moment dissolved.

The question lingered in your mind, almost unspoken but impossible to ignore: Why had you held onto Ms. Kim for so long? Why had you believed she was the only one who could teach you?

In front of you now stood someone who understood music in a way that transcended technique or rules. Someone who wasn’t just playing a song, but telling a story. And for the first time in a long while, you realized that maybe it wasn’t about who you had been following—it was about who you were willing to learn from now.

And just like that, it felt like a door had opened in front of you—one you hadn’t even realized was there.

You cleared your throat, hesitant, feeling almost as if the silence left in the wake of his playing was something fragile, something you didn’t want to disturb. It hung in the air, delicate, as though his music was still woven into the very fabric of the space between you.

His music. His creation.

In that moment, the stage and the piano felt entirely his, and somehow, you felt as if you didn’t belong to this place—not yet, anyway.

“What’s it called?” you asked, your voice softer than usual, careful as if you might break something just by speaking too loudly.

You took a tentative step forward, walking onto the stage. It felt heavier beneath you now, like something you had to earn the right to stand on. It seemed absurd, the way the stage made you feel like an outsider.

“I binge-watched all your videos on your channel yesterday,” you confessed, the words carrying an awkward blend of admiration and mild embarrassment. “And I’m pretty sure I haven’t heard this one before.”

Mr. Min’s gaze never left you as you stepped closer, his attention fully on you. There was something about seeing you on the stage, in this place that had always felt like his, that somehow felt right—like you belonged there, too, even if just for a moment.

“It’s about the fear of losing a passion,” he said, his voice steady, but there was something more beneath the surface, something personal he was sharing with you, something he wanted you to understand.

“Black Swan.”

The title hit you like a punch to the chest, your breath catching in your throat.

“You’re not the only one who feels that fear,” he continued, his eyes still locked on you, searching for something in your reaction. His words were firm, but there was an underlying understanding in his tone, a silent reassurance. “That fear is part of what makes you a musician. Don’t ever doubt that.”

His words wrapped themselves around your heart, heavy yet grounding, like a truth you had been too afraid to acknowledge.

“If you’re not scared of losing your passion,” he added, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “then what are you really passionate about?”

It was a simple question, but it landed with the force of a revelation, making everything inside you shift, the weight of it settling into your soul.

His music hung in the air, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. It was the kind of sound you had been waiting for, the kind that spoke when words failed. It was everything you had longed for, a language you hadn’t realized you needed until that moment.

“Have you had this terrible fear?”

The question left your lips quietly, almost as if you were afraid to hear the answer, as though voicing it might make it all too real. For the first time in a long while, you let go of the armor you’d built up—no jokes, no distractions—just the raw vulnerability of a question that had been pressing on your chest for so long.

You needed to know. You needed to hear that someone like him, someone who seemed so certain in their art, had felt that same suffocating fear.

And maybe, just maybe, if he had felt it too, it meant you weren’t as broken as you thought. Maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone.

Mr. Min noticed the tremor in your voice, the vulnerability creeping through. Yet, he also saw the way you kept your composure, your eyes unwavering, like you were doing your best to hold everything together.

His face remained unreadable, but there was a quiet warmth in his gaze, a silent understanding.

“Of course I have,” he said softly, his voice almost tender. “Fear is something that shapes us as musicians. It’s what tells us we might be losing something precious, something we can’t afford to let go.”

He didn’t want to admit that he had spent the entire night composing this piece. Not because it had been difficult—it had come to him effortlessly, because it was honest, because it was something he had felt and still felt.

But more than that, he had written it for you.

It wasn’t just music—it was a message, a reminder, a lifeline. He wanted you to hear it and understand—you’re not alone. What you’re feeling, what every musician feels at some point, is real and unavoidable.

Min Yoongi wasn’t someone who could always find the right words. He knew that. He could teach you how to play, but you already knew how. That wasn’t the problem. And words, he understood, wouldn’t reignite what you were losing inside.

Only music could do that.

And therein lay the cruel irony—the very thing that could save you was the same thing that terrified you.

This was what he had tried to communicate in Black Swan. And as he watched you take it in, the weight of his music settling in you, he knew you understood. You had really heard it.

“I want you to try it,” he said, his voice gentle but firm.

Almost mechanically, you tucked your trembling hands away, instinctively reaching up to adjust the bow in your hair. It was a small motion, something to ground you, to stop the tremor that exposed the fear bubbling beneath the surface.

You had played pieces before that resonated deeply with you, music that touched you, shaped you in ways you couldn’t always explain. But never had a musician—someone so alive, so real—given you their work like this. Not just to listen to, not just to admire, but for you to make your own.

And that terrified you.

Terrified you that you would ruin it. That your hands wouldn’t be able to carry it the way it deserved. That the sound you made wouldn’t match the beauty he had created. That when he heard you, he’d feel the same disappointment Ms. Kim did. That he might take it away.

Min Yoongi was your only hope.

And if you failed now, you weren’t sure if you could keep going. Maybe after this, the piano would just be a memory, a part of your past, something you once loved but could never find your way back to.

His voice was steady, a quiet command that cut through the storm of doubt inside you. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, his gaze unwavering, almost like he was willing you to believe him. “Just play. Just play the notes. That’s all you need to do. Don’t think about anything else.”

You nodded slowly, though the knot in your chest remained tight, and slowly, cautiously, you reached for the piano keys. But this time, you weren’t doing it alone.

You moved toward the bench where he sat, and when he shifted to make space for you, his quiet confidence eased something within you.

This space is yours, too.

You lowered yourself onto the bench beside him, your heartbeat racing as he placed the sheet music in front of you.

His handwriting was neat, careful, but still undeniably personal. There were notes crossed out, revisions, and scribbled thoughts filling the margins. It was raw, imperfect—a window into his mind, into the moment this piece was brought to life.

And, for the first time in what felt like ages, you remembered something important.

You had spent so many years playing from flawless, printed scores—neat, sterile, impersonal. You’d become so focused on precision, on getting everything right, that you had forgotten something essential.

Music is never about perfection.

It was about this. The smudged ink, the crossed-out mistakes, the honest struggle to channel feeling into something as rigid as musical notation.

And suddenly, you understood.

Imperfection wasn’t a flaw. It was a reflection of being human.

And perhaps, that was the very thing you’d been searching for all along.

Min Yoongi watched the way your eyes lingered on the sheet music, how they seemed to trace each note with a mixture of awe and reverence.

It made something in his chest tighten. An unfamiliar ache, one he hadn’t felt in years. He remembered that feeling once—how it felt to look at a blank page, to hold the weight of possibility in his hands, the excitement of knowing that it was his music waiting to be born.

It was the kind of anticipation that made everything else fade away. That sense of limitless potential—the world, and all its noise, felt far away, and all that mattered was the music in front of him.

Now, watching you, he realized how rare it was to see that spark in someone else’s eyes. The way you were looking at it—the same way he used to—was like seeing something he thought he’d lost forever, now reflected in you.

You glanced at the sheet music once, then pressed your fingers to the keys, letting the pull of his composition guide you.

Your eyes closed on their own, shutting out the world, shutting out him. You didn’t know the piece by heart, not yet, but the brief glance had been enough. Your hands moved almost instinctively, finding their way through the notes, trusting what felt right.

But as the melody unfolded, you could feel it again—the weight, the hesitation. Your body instinctively curled inward, shoulders slumping as though you were trying to retreat into yourself, to avoid fully inhabiting the moment.

You recognized it instantly.

The way you played like you didn’t deserve to take up space. How doubt seeped into your bones, twisting its way into your music. The way you hid—from the notes, from the audience, from yourself.

He watched you closely, his gaze unwavering as you played, a quiet intensity in his eyes. He could see it, clear as day—the way you were pulling away, the way you let fear shape your every movement. It hurt him to see someone so gifted stifle themselves like this. But underneath the pain, there was something else: frustration and a deep, unspoken fascination.

He felt angry—not at you, but at the world, for teaching you to shrink, for making you believe you didn’t deserve to take up space.

Without a word, he rose from his spot, moving around the piano like a painter stepping back from his work, trying to see the larger picture, searching for the hidden layers.

He didn’t interrupt. He couldn’t.

Instead, he settled into the front row—the same chair you had sat in earlier, the one that had felt so distant. Now, from this vantage point, he saw what you hadn’t let yourself feel. He saw how effortlessly your fingers danced across the keys, how the music poured from you with such fluidity, with such grace. From where he sat, you looked almost confident, as if the stage were truly yours.

But he wasn’t fooled by the outward performance.

He noticed the subtle things—the slight tension in your shoulders, the fraction of a second your fingers faltered before the notes fell perfectly into place, the way your body seemed to shrink inward, hesitant to claim the space around you.

You were playing beautifully, no question.

But you were still holding back.

When you opened your eyes, the spot beside you was empty. A flash of panic shot through your chest, your gaze frantically scanning the room, searching for him. The vulnerability of the moment felt crushing, making the space beside you feel impossibly wide.

Your heartbeat drummed loudly in your ears, erratic and out of sync, like an instrument you couldn’t quite control. But then his voice broke through the silence, pulling you back to the present.

“I thought you ran away because it sucked,” you joked, trying to inject some humor into your voice, even if it felt hollow.

But beneath the words was something deeper, something more honest—a quiet, persistent fear. That no matter how much you played, no matter how hard you tried, the audience would see through the act. That it wouldn’t be enough. And they’d leave.

“How was it?” you asked, attempting a smirk, though the tremble in your fingers betrayed you. “Do you think it can be saved, or should I just go burn every piano I come across?”

His gaze flicked up to you, sharp and calculating, as you attempted to brush off the tension with humor. He wanted to smile, maybe even laugh with you. But something about the way you tensed, how you refused to meet his eyes, kept him grounded, serious.

“Don’t you dare burn this old piece of wood,” he said, his tone carrying a mix of exasperation and something softer—admiration, perhaps, or a quiet affection that betrayed the edge in his voice.

He stood, stepping back to lean against the piano, a casual yet deliberate posture. Min Yoongi was always calm, measured, taking his time before speaking. His words were never rushed—carefully chosen, never too harsh but never too gentle either. It was like he knew you needed more than just a quick fix. He crossed his arms over his chest, his brow furrowing in thought before he spoke again.

“I need you to explain something to me,” he began, his voice steady but open, as if he was trying to tap into something deeper within you. “How and why did you start learning piano?”

It had been years since you last stopped to consider why you had chosen this instrument. For so long, you’d been too consumed with perfecting your craft, with memorizing every note, that you buried the young girl who had once played piano for the pure joy of it—left her forgotten in the same dusty corner of your childhood room.

If you tried to recall how it all started, there was nothing particularly special about it. You grew up in a house where your parents needed something to keep you occupied while they worked, something that would keep a young girl entertained. So, at a very early age, you began lessons. Your first teacher called you a prodigy, a label that your parents eagerly passed down to you as you grew older.

But if you were to explain why you loved music, it wasn’t because of talent or praise. It was because music was the one constant in your life, the one thing that had always been there. It had followed you through your childhood, through the lonely years when the people you needed most couldn’t be there. When words failed you, and presence wasn’t enough, the familiar keys of the small electric piano in your room gave you solace. It never left.

“It says things I can’t,” you said softly, avoiding the deeper truth you couldn’t bear to speak. The loneliness you’d buried deep inside, the solitude that still lingered. “Like a friend, a mother, or a lover… I feel like I can talk to it, and somehow, it responds.”

His gaze softened as you spoke, sensing the tremble in your voice, and it was almost as if he could see that younger version of you—small, fragile, tucked away in the quiet of your room, seeking refuge in the notes of the piano. It was in that moment that he felt the weight of your loneliness, the quiet ache that still clung to you, revealed in the way you avoided his gaze, the way your hands stayed still in your lap, a silent barrier between you and the world.

But he knew music wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t meant to protect you. It was meant to strip you bare, to expose what was hidden, to make you feel every raw, unguarded truth.

His own journey with music had been similar. He didn’t play because someone told him to, but because something inside him pulled him toward it. Even now, he couldn’t fully explain it—the constant longing for a piano, for the chance to play. It was just something he needed, something that lived inside him.

He had begged for one, almost obsessively, and his parents, recognizing that it wasn’t just a passing fancy, finally relented. They weren’t ones to spoil him, but seeing how deeply he desired it, they scraped together their resources and brought him his first piano—a humble, worn-out instrument, much like the one sitting in the university theater.

He’d played grand pianos in luxurious spaces, in concert halls filled with applause, but it was here, in this makeshift theater, this imperfect place, that he felt the most at home.

It was in this raw, unpolished environment that he could truly connect to his passion, to the fire that burned inside him. There was something about its simplicity, its honesty, that grounded him in ways nothing else could.

Maybe that was what you needed too—to let go of the expectations, to return to that place where it all began. To let go of perfection and simply allow the fire to burn again.

“But somewhere along the way, I lost myself,” you say quietly, your voice steady but carrying a weight that makes your chest ache, your heart exposed to him in a way you hadn’t intended.

“I didn’t even notice it happening. It just turned into something I had to do, not because I wanted to, but because I was expected to. Slowly, I began to resent the piano—the one thing I thought I could always turn to. And over time, it started slipping away from me too.”

Your vision blurred as the vulnerability overwhelmed you, a feeling you used to run from. In moments like these, when you felt raw and open, you would turn to the piano, hoping to find solace, to find comfort in the music. But now… it wasn’t the same.

The keys no longer gave you the peace they once had. The connection was gone, leaving an empty space inside you, as if the music itself had evaporated, slipping away with the passing years.

His expression was unwavering—he wasn’t going to let you hide, not this time.

“It happens,” he said, his voice direct, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the piano with a quiet authority. “When your passion turns into something you have to do, when you start obsessing over results instead of embracing the process, you lose sight of why you began in the first place.”

He paused, taking a steadying breath, his chest rising and falling in sync with your own shaky breaths.

“Music shouldn’t feel like a chore. Art shouldn’t feel like a chore,” he continued, his voice sharpening with conviction, a weight behind every word. “And I hate the people who make you believe it is.”

His eyes locked onto yours, his words like a quiet fury, as though he had been fighting this battle for far longer than he cared to admit.

“They don’t deserve the admiration you give them. They’re not musicians. Not the kind that matter, not the ones worthy of your time, your talent. If we can even call them musicians.” He exhaled sharply, a mixture of frustration and understanding in his tone, as if he’d been down this road himself, had known this feeling all too well.

You finally turn your gaze toward him, your eyes still heavy with unshed tears, though none manage to fall. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, soften just a little, and his furrowed brow deepens in contemplation as he meets your gaze. His expression is more intense than you anticipated.

For a moment, a question nags at you, something that lingers despite the weight of everything you’ve just shared. You wonder if someone like him, so gifted in his music, has ever faced the same struggles you have—if he’s ever walked that thorny path of doubt and frustration that seems to follow every note you play.

“Why are you teaching at this university?” you ask, your voice soft, yet filled with genuine curiosity.

It’s not judgment, not at all. You’ve witnessed his talent, the way his music seems to demand to be heard. His pieces are alive with raw emotion and complexity, and for a moment, you can’t help but wonder if he doesn’t belong somewhere bigger, somewhere more fitting for someone with his gifts.

The world outside seems to call for him, a place where his work could reach more people, could have a wider impact. You wonder why he stays in this small, quiet corner of the world, offering his talent to a few instead of taking the stage that seems to be his destiny.

A complex mix of emotions flickers in his eyes, like a reflection of the chaotic music that churns within him. The words he wants to speak seem trapped, just out of reach, and you can see the conflict in his gaze as if he’s struggling to find the right way to express the swirling thoughts inside his mind.

He pauses, his eyes lowering to the floor, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest, as though he’s trying to contain the flood of feelings inside him. He’s not a man of many words, preferring to let his music do the talking instead.

“Just like you, I was scared of losing my passion,” he finally admits, his voice low and contemplative, his gaze shifting toward the piano as if it holds the answer to his own uncertainty. “Teaching it every day, though… it makes me fall in love with it again and again.” He allows the faintest smile to pull at the corners of his lips, a quiet acknowledgment of the truth in his words, as if sharing what he loves with others is the key to keeping that fire burning within him.

His words linger between you, and suddenly, you feel an understanding between the two of you, a shared recognition of the delicate balance between love and fear, passion and doubt. It isn’t just the music itself he holds dear—it’s the act of sharing it, of passing it on to others, that keeps him grounded, that keeps the passion alive.

In just one day, it felt like you had learned more than in all the years spent at the conservatory, surrounded by people who wore their talent like a mask. Now, as you sat down at your small electric piano in your room, there was a quiet sense of clarity. The dust that had gathered over time was quickly swept away with a motion of your sleeve, as though you were brushing away all the weight of self-doubt that had settled on you.

For the first time in a long while, the piano no longer felt like a tool for perfection, for meeting expectations. It was simply there, inviting you to reconnect. You placed your fingers on the keys, taking a breath as you closed your eyes, letting the music find its way to the surface.

You had always dreamed of creating something of your own, letting the music inside of you flow freely, sharing it with the world. But it always seemed out of reach. Ms. Kim had given you pieces to learn, pieces that demanded flawless execution. There was no room for your voice, no space for your own thoughts. People, she said, weren’t there to hear the musings of a twenty-two-year-old. They wanted the great works, the classics. It was the standard—the expectation.

But now, with your fingers resting on the keys, something inside you had shifted. Perhaps it was the presence of someone like Mr. Min, who understood the value of creating, of bringing something from your soul into the world. You didn’t have to play to impress or meet someone else’s measure. You could play because you needed to, because it was your story, your voice. And in that moment, it felt like a new beginning.

And then it clicked: how could she ever expect you to pour genuine emotion into your playing when the music wasn’t even your own, when it didn’t come from your heart? You needed something raw and personal, something that spoke to the truth buried deep inside you.

That night, you sat at your piano, fingers trembling but steady with intent. The keys felt different beneath your hands—alive, as if they were inviting you to tell your own story. You no longer worried about perfection or the judgments of others. You just played. Each note became a word, each chord a sentence. And for the first time in years, you weren’t playing someone else’s music—you were speaking your own truth.

Before parting ways earlier that day, Mr. Min had given you his phone number, telling you that you could reach out whenever you needed, and that he’d always respond. You had never had someone like him in your life—someone who truly seemed to understand you, who not only listened but wanted to understand your thoughts. He had become a reflection of the very connection you sought through music, close and accessible, like an instrument you could now play with ease.

He was the first to reach out to you through text, sending only an address and a time, telling you he wanted you there tomorrow. Of course, you replied without hesitation, agreeing to be there even though it was a Saturday. Something about his message stirred something inside you—like you couldn’t possibly turn it down, no matter the day.

You weren’t sure why you were standing there in the middle of the street, phone in hand, staring at it before glancing around at the busy crowd. It was the same address he had given you, but something about it felt off, like it didn’t quite belong. People bustled by, caught in their own rush, yet you remained frozen, suspended between the confusion in your mind and the rapid rhythm of your heartbeat.

Just as you were about to pull your phone out again to text him that you couldn’t come, you saw him. He emerged from the crowd, his dark hair a little tousled, glasses still perched on his nose. The sunlight, bright and harsh, illuminated him this time, casting a different kind of warmth on his face. He didn’t look the same as he did under the soft theater lights—he felt almost like a stranger, and for a moment, you simply stood there, watching him, trying to understand why he felt so… unfamiliar.

This wasn’t the musician you’d grown to admire over the past few days. No, he looked more like someone else—like an old friend. A friend who might meet you in the street to share a coffee, reminisce about the past. It was the kind of connection you had never allowed yourself to have, always too focused on practice, perfection, and the pressure of the performance. But seeing him like this, so effortlessly familiar, it felt as though a weight had been lifted, as though there was room now for something more than just the music.

He spotted you amidst the busy street, your figure barely noticeable as you stood still, eyes locked on him, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and anticipation. A smile tugged at his lips, amused and almost fond at the way you seemed lost in your own thoughts, unaware of the world around you.

He made his way toward you, each step sure and steady, his gaze never leaving your face. When he reached you, he stopped just a few feet away, his voice smooth and calm as he spoke.

“I thought I might have seen you turning back,” he says with a light chuckle, a playful warmth in his tone as if trying to defuse the nervous energy surrounding you. His smile fades a little when he notices how tense your body is, how your shoulders remain rigid, despite the teasing words.

You take in your surroundings, feeling out of place amidst the rush of the bustling street. It’s not at all what you had envisioned. The noise, the hurried footsteps of pedestrians, the constant honking of cars—it all feels foreign. The energy of the crowd overwhelms you, making your chest tighten. You’re not used to this chaos, this endless stream of people rushing past, each heading somewhere with purpose. A creeping anxiety starts to take hold, the fear that you might lose yourself in it all, or that you’re too small in this vast, unyielding world. For a moment, everything feels like it’s moving too quickly, and you can’t seem to keep up.

Your eyes move around again, still trying to make sense of it all. “What are we doing here, in the middle of the street?” you ask, your voice laced with confusion. There’s a part of you that wonders why you’re not back in the space you know so well, the one where everything feels clear. The piano, the stage—it feels so distant now, replaced by the chaotic hum of the city. You can’t shake the discomfort of being out of your element.

It’s not that you don’t want to be here, it’s just… so different. You never imagined finding yourself standing on a busy street in the middle of the afternoon, surrounded by strangers and drowned in the noise. Without the structure of the piano or the comforting familiarity of the stage, you feel uncertain. You can’t help but wonder why things feel so out of place. You hesitate, trying to make sense of the moment. “Why aren’t we back at the theater? Where’s the piano?”

He smiles gently, stepping a little closer, as if offering a silent reassurance that the chaos doesn’t need to consume you. His voice, when he speaks, is calm and steady, almost as if trying to ground you in this moment.

“Sometimes, you need to step away from what feels safe,” he says, his tone thoughtful, as if he’s reflecting on the same thoughts that must be running through your mind. “Not everything happens on stage, and not everything needs to make sense right away.”

With a light chuckle, noticing your lingering anxiety, he adds, “The university’s closed on Saturdays.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “But don’t worry, we’ll find a piano,” he reassures you, his voice casual yet confident.

He gestures for you to follow him, leading you through the throngs of people on the busy street. As you walk behind him, something shifts inside you. Despite the unfamiliarity of it all, a quiet sense of hope begins to grow. Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.

He strides ahead of you with a natural confidence, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets, his posture relaxed as if the chaos of the street doesn’t bother him in the least. You can’t help but wish you could embody that same calm, flow with the rhythm of the city the way he does. But your fingers betray you, fidgeting nervously against your skin, a silent battle against the anxiety crawling up your spine.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” you ask, the teasing tone in your voice a little forced, more of a distraction than a genuine question. Anything to redirect your attention from the nervous pressure building in your palms.

He glances over his shoulder at you, a sly grin tugging at his lips as he picks up on the subtle undertone of your question. He lets out a soft chuckle, clearly amused by the way you try to mask your nerves with playful banter.

Yoongi shoots you a quick look from the corner of his eye, his smirk widening just a bit. “Would you believe me if I said no?” he responds, his voice teasing but laid-back, as if getting lost in the crowd wouldn’t faze him one bit.

You let out a small huff and roll your eyes, but the light exchange has its effect—your shoulders drop a little, and your grip on your palms loosens.

Even if he didn’t know where he was headed, you think you’d follow him anyway. Right now, he was the only steady thing in a world that felt like it was constantly shifting beneath your feet.

It was strange, how quickly he’d become something familiar. Not demanding or rushing, but just there—quietly, consistently beside you, letting you take your time to navigate through it all. Maybe that’s why you trusted him. Not just because he understood music, but because he seemed to understand you too—the parts of yourself you were still figuring out.

“Today, we’re going busking,” he announces with an easy grin, one you hadn’t seen before—unguarded, his gums on full display, like he was truly at ease.

You blink at him, trying to wrap your mind around what he just said. Busking. Playing on the streets, with no stage, no rehearsed performance, and no safety net. Your stomach knots at the thought.

“You’re joking,” you say, though the doubt in your voice betrays you. His grin only grows wider, and you can’t help but feel a chill settle in your chest.

You’ve always played for an audience, but it was always the kind that sought you out. They came because they wanted music, because they expected something polished and refined. You never had to pull them in, never had to stop them in their tracks to get them to listen. You knew how to perform for people who wanted to hear you, who were there for you.

But this? This was different. And the thought of it unsettles you deeply.

“What if no one stops?” you mutter under your breath, half to him, half to yourself.

The fear creeps in—the one that has always haunted you. The idea of playing in front of an empty crowd, not because there weren’t people, but because they didn’t care enough to listen. You’d be exposed, no stage lights to hide behind, no grand piano as a barrier between you and the world. Just you, alone with your music, and anyone who happened to pass by. It felt terrifying in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

He looks at your face, noting the tension in your features, the hesitation that grips you as the weight of uncertainty presses down. He can see it—the familiar worry, the fear of being judged, the self-doubt creeping in. But instead of pushing, he lets the silence between you stretch for a moment, allowing you the space to settle.

Yoongi, still walking confidently, shrugs nonchalantly. “Then we play for ourselves,” he says simply, his voice light, as though the idea of playing for no one but yourself was the most natural thing in the world. “And maybe for the one person who does stop.”

He doesn’t seem rattled, and the calmness in his tone is contagious. You feel a small shift in your chest as you try to breathe through the nerves.

“An audience isn’t just a sea of faces,” he continues thoughtfully, his gaze not leaving the path ahead as he speaks. “It’s about drawing them in, creating something that makes them want to listen, even if just for a moment. You’ve got to create that pull.”

He pauses, and you follow his line of sight, watching him as he stops in front of an old, weathered piano placed in the middle of the bustling street. The piano seems out of place among the crowd—an invitation to the brave souls who dare to share their music in the open air.

“There’s nothing more humbling than playing right here, exposed to the world,” he says, a touch of challenge in his voice, but also a hint of something deeper. Encouragement, perhaps, or something more personal that you can’t quite grasp just yet.

You stare at the piano, the worn keys under your fingers telling stories of countless previous players, each one leaving a mark in their own way. It wasn’t a polished grand on a pristine stage, nor was it your familiar electric keyboard at home. This piano was exposed, vulnerable, much like you would be if you sat down and played.

His words echo in your mind: having an audience isn’t just about the faces in front of you; it’s about pulling them in.

The idea of that, though, shakes you. In concert halls, people come expecting music. They sit in silence, already open to the experience, ready to be swept into the performance. But here? In the chaos of the street, no one expects you. No one has to stop and listen. You have to make them want to.

You let out a quiet, almost embarrassed sigh as you sit down on the bench. The worn wood beneath you, the slight unevenness of the surface, feels out of place—but not as much as the vulnerability you can feel creeping in.

“Why does it feel like I’ve never touched a piano before?” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you gaze at the keys. The weight of the moment presses down on you—heavy and unfamiliar.

Mr. Min leans casually against the piano, arms crossed, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push, simply watching you as if he’s waiting for you to find your own rhythm.

You narrow your eyes at him, your playful tone slipping back in as a defense mechanism, a shield against the wave of insecurity rising within you. “And why are you smiling like a cruel man?”

Soft chuckle dances in the air, his grin widening as his eyes flicker with amusement and something more playful.

He shakes his head lightly, clearly entertained by your unease. “I’m not cruel,” he says, though the twinkle in his gaze suggests he’s enjoying the moment just a bit too much. “I just think it’s funny how nervous you look.”

You scoff, trying to shake off the tension in your shoulders, but he catches the flicker of doubt in your eyes. He always does. And yet, he doesn’t press, doesn’t call you out for it. Instead, he steps a little closer, his tone shifting to something softer, more reassuring.

“You’ll be fine,” he assures, his voice calm and steady. “Just play, and remember—you’re not aiming for perfection here,” he continues, understanding the hesitation written all over your face. “You’re playing to be heard.”

Your eyes meet his, searching for something to hold onto—reassurance, maybe, or some kind of understanding. But all he offers is a simple nod, one that says everything you need to hear. No rush. No pressure. Just… when you’re ready.

You begin with something familiar—safe. A piece from long ago, one that’s embedded in your hands through years of repetition, a melody that flows without thought, devoid of the rawness you wish it had. It’s easy, comfortable, and predictable. Nothing challenging, nothing risky. Just a smooth, reliable tune.

Yoongi doesn’t interrupt. He stays quiet, arms crossed, his face neutral. But the silence presses down on you, heavy and still. It’s not critical, not exactly, but it doesn’t feel like praise either.

As the last note lingers, swallowed up by the bustling sounds of the city, he finally speaks, his words simple: “It was nice.” And somehow, that doesn’t feel like enough.

You glance around, catching the fleeting glances of pedestrians who stop briefly, offering polite smiles, then continue on their way. Their interest is momentary, replaced quickly by the noise of the street. You can almost feel the indifference settling around you, as if your music is just another fleeting distraction in the chaos of their day.

For a moment, you wonder if you’re nothing more than a passing blip in their world, unimportant, unnoticed. The thought tightens your chest, and you feel the familiar pressure of needing to prove something, to matter.

Without thinking, the words slip out. “I can’t do that,” you murmur, your hands falling to your lap, as if the weight of everything you were trying to avoid had suddenly landed squarely there.

Min Yoongi’s words slice through the stillness of the moment, his voice calm and steady, grounding you in the chaos of the street.

“That’s exactly why we’re here,” he says softly but with conviction. “You need to make them stop. Not because they think they should, but because they can’t help it.”

He uncrosses his arms slowly, leaning in just a little, his focus shifting from you to the piano. The sounds of the city fade slightly, the words he speaks weaving through the noise with an ease that makes them impossible to ignore.

“Those people… they have their own lives, their own stories, their own struggles.” His voice is measured, thoughtful, but resolute. “They’re not looking for perfection. They’re just living their day—heading to work, running errands, lost in their own worlds. But when they hear music in the street, something makes them stop. It’s not about hearing a flawless performance or a piece from a symphony. It’s about something deeper—a feeling they’re craving, a moment of connection, something that breaks through their routine. They won’t turn away from it. Not when it’s right there, unexpected, raw.”

His gaze locks onto yours, dark and steady. There’s a change in the way he looks at you, something more than just words. You feel the weight of his belief in you, even if you’re not sure you can carry it.

“They’re not looking for the classics,” he continues, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “Not the things you’ve been playing. They don’t know the theory, the technicalities, the history like we do. And they don’t care about it either. For them, it’s not about perfect scales or the next flawless arpeggio. It’s about what moves them in the moment. What they care about is the music itself. It’s about what it makes them feel. The realness of it. The way it catches them off guard, makes them feel alive for a moment.”

He steps closer, his presence steady, grounding you even more. “You don’t need to be perfect. You need to be you. And if you can do that, if you can play with your heart instead of your hands… then you’ll see. They’ll stop. They’ll listen. They’ll be drawn to you.”

You bite your lip, fighting to keep the tears at bay, the weight of his words and the shift in your perspective overwhelming you. Slowly, your trembling hands move toward the piano, curling into tight fists as if bracing against the rush of emotions inside you. But despite the chaos within, you try to steady yourself.

For a moment, your hands hover above the keys, hesitant, as though afraid of what might unfold if you press down. But then, with a shaky breath, you release the tension, letting your palms gently settle against the cool ivory.

The first note is tentative, unsure, almost alien in its unfamiliarity. But as your fingers settle into their rhythm, it begins to transform, becoming something more intimate—something uniquely yours. The melody you had written just the night before, born from the deepest part of you, begins to flow effortlessly, as if it had always been waiting for this moment.

Each note falls into place, like pieces of a puzzle you’ve been unknowingly putting together. The sound is raw, unpolished, but it feels more authentic than anything you’ve ever played. The doubt and hesitation start to fade, replaced by a quiet understanding—a deeper connection to the music and to yourself that you hadn’t even known you were seeking.

With your eyes still closed, the tears you’ve been holding back spill over, warm and unbidden, but you don’t want to stop. You want to let it all out, let the music guide you through the mess of it all. You almost reach up to wipe them away, to regain control, but before you can, his hand is there, gently brushing the tears from your cheek with a tenderness that surprises you.

His touch is soft, almost reverent, as if he’s offering you the space to feel everything without needing to stop or apologize for it. It’s a quiet reassurance, a way of telling you that this moment is yours to keep, that you don’t have to hide or break it.

You hesitate for a second, then, with a deep breath, let your hands return to the keys, the music flowing once more as you pour yourself into every note, letting it carry you through the unspoken depths of everything you’ve been holding in.

He watches as the crowd gradually begins to form, their movements slowing, as if the music has gently pulled them from their routines. But he doesn’t focus on them.

His eyes are fixed on you.

Your gaze sweeps over the people gathered around you, but it’s different now. There’s a softness, a clarity to your eyes—like you’re finally seeing the world outside of the tension that once held you back. With each note you play, you become more immersed in the music, the rhythm lifting you as though you’ve stepped into something bigger than yourself.

Then your eyes meet Yoongi’s. Just for a second, but it feels longer. Neither of you moves, frozen in that brief, unspoken exchange. He feels something stir deep in his chest—an unexpected warmth, a mix of heaviness and lightness. The way you smile at him, with tears still glistening on your skin, catches him off guard. It’s a smile he’s never seen before—genuine, full of warmth, and quietly profound in a way he didn’t know you could express.

In that moment, as your smile reaches him, Yoongi knows it’s not just the music that has changed you—it’s the way you’ve let it all go, the way you’ve let yourself be seen. And in a way, that simple smile feels like a victory, something earned, something beautiful, more than either of you could’ve imagined.

The final note fades into the air, its echo lingering like a soft breath. Before you can even fully absorb it, the applause begins, surrounding you like a comforting embrace. For a moment, you stand still, frozen, letting the sound wash over you.

You bow your head reflexively, the gesture one you’ve made countless times before, but this time it feels different. The applause isn’t just for your technique or the notes you played—it’s for you, for the story you’ve shared, for the raw emotion you’ve poured into the music. It’s a recognition of who you are, not just as a musician, but as a person.

He's clapping too, a grin spread across his face from the first note you played. His approval is clear, but there’s something deeper in the way he watches you, something that suggests he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have. It’s a quiet understanding, a shared connection that you can’t ignore.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you reach out and pull him into a hug. It’s not the kind of embrace that comes from wild joy or a long-awaited reunion. It’s quiet, fragile yet intense—like you’re afraid if you don’t hold him just a little longer, he might slip away. It’s not desperation, but a silent acknowledgment of something rare, something precious that’s unfolded between you.

His arms wrap around you slowly, carefully, but there’s no hesitation in the way he holds you. It’s soft, an embrace full of unspoken emotions neither of you are ready to articulate. It’s a moment suspended in time, where everything feels both fleeting and eternal.

His heart raced as you pulled him into a hug, surprise surging through him. Min Yoongi wasn’t one for outward displays of emotion, especially not in public. He preferred the quiet, hidden moments—those stolen glances in secluded places where things felt simpler.

But here, in this moment, something inside him shifted.

It felt strangely familiar, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d held you like this—like the way you clung to him was something his body recognized, a feeling he hadn’t known he missed. The softness of the moment, the way your chest pressed against his, felt almost like a memory, one that had somehow slipped through time and landed here, in this fleeting, tender instant.

Before he could linger on the odd sensation, Yoongi gently pulled away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. His movements were hesitant, as if the vulnerability of the moment had caught him off guard.

He cleared his throat, his gaze shifting away from yours, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t the usual confident grin he wore—it was softer, uncertain in a way that seemed new.

“People stopped,” he says, as though to reaffirm something you already knew. His voice is quieter now, like he’s still finding his balance in the unexpected closeness between you.

“They did,” you reply, your voice sounding foreign, lighter, almost freer than you’re used to. It’s a strange feeling—happiness, maybe even relief—but you can’t quite explain it. It’s as if, for a moment, the world opened up and you were finally allowed to be a part of it.

“I feel like I almost died, but… damn, I did it,” you laugh, the sound almost unsure but full of genuine disbelief. The laughter is light, filled with a kind of innocence and joy that feels completely new, yet strangely comforting.

The tension in your body begins to melt away—your shoulders less tight, your chest not as heavy. Whether it’s the adrenaline or something else, you don’t know, but for the first time in a long time, you feel like you can actually breathe. The weight you’ve carried for so long is easing, and you realize you’re no longer hiding behind the music—you’re letting it lead you. That feeling, in itself, feels like a victory.

“I’m craving something sweet,” you announce, your voice light and spontaneous as you reach for his hand. Without waiting for a response, you pull him along, your steps filled with newfound freedom.

You guide him to a small café tucked away in a corner, the scent of freshly baked pastries greeting you as you draw near. There’s a sense of warmth and comfort here, the simple joy of a quiet moment far removed from the chaos of the performance. Everything else is behind you now, and all that matters is sharing this with someone who’s seen you at your most vulnerable.

With your hand still in his, you glance at him, a smile playing at your lips. “How about this?” you ask, your voice playful, betraying the calm that has settled inside you.

He allows himself to be swept along, a small chuckle of surprise slipping from him as you take the reins of the moment.

His hand remains in yours without him even realizing it, the warmth of your touch sending a subtle jolt through him, something he can’t quite grasp. The moment you tug him forward, he feels it, though it’s not something he can easily put into words. His cheeks betray him, turning a soft shade of red.

He nods in agreement to everything you suggest—what to eat, where to go—even if he’s not sure if he likes it. It’s not hesitation, but the rhythm of this moment feels too important to disrupt.

His mind is a whirlwind, thoughts flying in all directions, trying to catch up with what’s happening in this strange, surreal moment. His heart isn’t faring much better—pounding furiously against his chest, as though it’s struggling to keep up. Yet, amidst the chaos in his mind and chest, there’s a soft warmth he can’t deny.

He wants to be close to you. He wants to understand why everything feels so new, so different now, but for the moment, he’s content to follow you, letting your presence lead him through this unfamiliar terrain. And maybe, he doesn’t need all the answers right now. Not when everything feels like it’s starting to come together, in its own quiet way.

You led him to a quiet booth in the corner, your hands full with the assortment of treats you’d decided to indulge in. You slid into the booth, setting everything down, and the silence that followed stretched between you both.

Finally, you broke the stillness, your voice quiet but genuine. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t just for the food, or for him being there with you—it was for something deeper. For the way he’d helped you see yourself differently, and for the unspoken understanding that now hung between you two like an invisible thread.

You took a steadying breath, as though the words had been waiting for this moment to come out. “I think I finally get it now. I forgot what it felt like to play for myself… to play because I needed to, not because I was trying to impress anyone.”

The realization settled inside you, not as a burden, but as a kind of release. It was a lightness in your chest that hadn’t been there in so long, a part of you that had been lost beneath the weight of expectations. And now, it was resurfacing, like a memory that had been waiting to be reclaimed.

You met his eyes then, your own softer, a little more vulnerable, but full of hope. “I don’t think I’ll forget again.”

You handed him a piece of something sweet, smiling as he took it, his cheeks puffing out like a child experiencing a treat for the first time. You watched him eat, waiting for something, anything, that might break the quiet between you two in a way that felt meaningful. The warmth from earlier still lingered, unspoken but understood.

It didn’t take long before he finally broke the silence, his voice calm but filled with curiosity. “The piece you played… was it yours?”

The question hung in the air, even though he already knew the answer—he could feel how deeply it belonged to you. Yet, the need to ask it still burned in his chest. His gaze didn’t leave yours, trying to decipher your expression, searching for some acknowledgment of the truth in the music you’d shared. There was something raw in the way your fingers had moved, how the notes seemed to resonate through you, not just in your hands but in your very soul.

He wanted to understand. He wanted to know what had made you open up so fully, what had made you play as though everything else had disappeared, leaving only you and your music.

You nodded eagerly, the joy inside you bubbling up uncontrollably. A laugh slipped from your lips—light and unguarded—and in that instant, Yoongi felt something stir within him. He had always been drawn to the piano, to how it spoke, sang, and carried emotions that words often failed to capture. But as he heard your laughter, it felt like something even more precious, than any note played. It felt like a sound that was uniquely yours, a sound that, in that moment, might just become his favorite.

“Yeah,” you said between bites, your voice warm and full of that familiar comfort. “I made it last night. But… it’s like I’ve always had it in me, I just wasn’t ready to let it out. I wasn’t ready to create something of my own.”

You paused, locking eyes with him for a moment, the weight of gratitude filling your chest. Words had never felt sufficient, especially when trying to convey something as deep as this—how much his presence, his guidance, had meant to you. But you couldn’t help yourself. You had to say it again.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice softer now, filled with sincerity. “I don’t think words can truly express how much this means to me… but thank you. For everything.”

There was no grand gesture, no grand speech—just the simple truth that your heart was full, and you wanted him to know how deeply his support had impacted you. How his belief in you, when you hadn’t believed in yourself, had been the catalyst, the spark that reignited your passion.

You spoke slowly, carefully, your voice carrying the weight of the truth you had held inside for so long. “When I walked into your classroom, I felt like I was burning from the inside. Like the fire within me was only there to consume me, to burn me down until there was nothing left.”

Your gaze drifted to your hands, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the table, grounding yourself as you spoke. The words felt strange, yet freeing, as if finally giving voice to them allowed some of the heat inside you to fade away.

“But you,” you continued, your eyes meeting his, “you showed me that fire wasn’t meant to destroy me. You helped me see that fire could be used to light something else—something I thought I’d lost. My passion.”

The weight of your words settled in the space between you, and for the first time, it felt like you weren’t just speaking to him but finally comprehending the journey you’d been on. The fire inside you no longer felt like an enemy but a wellspring of strength, something to mold, to nurture, to keep alive. And he—more than anyone—had been the one to help you see that.

He waved it off with a modest gesture, his hand hovering near yours as if offering comfort without words. “I really didn’t do much,” he said quietly, his tone soft yet certain. He wanted to reach out, to still the restless movement of your hands, but he hesitated, pulling back just enough to respect the space between you.

“You just needed a little push,” he added, his gaze steady and searching, an understanding settling in his eyes. “But I could see it from the moment I met you—that your passion was still there, even if you hadn’t realized it yet.”

His words, though simple, carried a warmth that made your heart ache with something unspoken—a quiet reassurance that he had seen something in you that you hadn’t seen in yourself. The spark was still there, hidden beneath everything else, waiting for the right moment to burn again. And somehow, despite his humbleness, he had played a part in fanning that flame.

You smiled at him, the warmth of his words still lingering in the air, but your thoughts began to drift once more. A quiet unease crept in as your mind wandered, unsure of what to do next. The truth you had been avoiding was undeniable now—the conservatory, Ms. Kim, that whole world of structured perfection—it no longer had a place in your heart. The image of the grand stage, the glaring lights, the polished piano, it all felt distant now, like a dream you once chased but that had faded into something you could no longer recognize.

You realized, with a clarity you hadn’t had before, that you didn’t want that anymore. The world of perfection, of expectations, of constant performance—it felt empty now. You longed for something more, something grounded, something raw. You needed to find the music that was truly yours—not a meticulously crafted piece to please others, but a song that came from your heart, unpolished, unrefined, but real. Something human. Something that made you feel alive, not for the applause, but because it was yours. Something real.

“I don’t think I can go back to the conservatory,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. It was as though you were finally admitting the truth to yourself, the weight of it settling heavily in the air. “I don’t think I want it anymore.” You met Yoongi’s eyes, uncertain of the next step, but knowing that this new path was leading you somewhere different, somewhere true. And it felt like the right choice.

Min Yoongi listened intently, his gaze softening as you spoke. He couldn’t bring himself to judge you—he had been in your place not too long ago, when he was a little younger than you. He too had dreams of performing on grand stages, of conquering the classical music world. But somewhere along the way, he’d realized his heart wasn’t in it anymore. Letting go of those dreams wasn’t because they lacked value, but because they no longer resonated with his soul. And he had no regrets about it.

In fact, those decisions had brought him to this point—at twenty-nine, standing before you with a sense of fulfillment few ever experience. He had become what he had always imagined inside—a mentor, a guide for those who shared the same love for music, the same fire in their hearts. He hadn’t just found traditional success; he had discovered something far more meaningful. He’d found a way to share his passion and truly help someone. And that, to him, was everything.

He didn’t feel bitterness toward the times he had fought alone. He embraced them. Those moments, those struggles, had shaped him into the person he was now—the one who understood the weight of loneliness in the pursuit of a dream, and the one who could help others rise from that place.

His smile was sincere, free from regret or resentment. “I get it,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of his own journey. “It’s not about going big or following a path that everyone expects of you. It’s about finding where your heart truly belongs.” He paused, locking eyes with you. “And I’m glad you’re figuring that out now.”

His words weren’t just comforting—they were a reminder that growth didn’t always follow the script others had written for you. You could still carve your own path. And for him, watching you do that was just as fulfilling as anything he had ever done for himself.

As you reflected on it, you realized that the piano had been your world, your constant, for as long as you could remember. It shaped everything about you, and you had never really known life outside of it. You had missed out on those typical moments of youth—carefree nights, spontaneous adventures, or the simple joys of growing up. Instead, you’d poured all of yourself into the piano, always focusing on it so intensely that you somehow overlooked everything else.

It wasn’t that you desperately craved those experiences, but in quiet moments like this, you couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to do something completely ordinary. To go to a party and not worry about how your performance would be judged, to be reckless without considering practice or perfection, or even to have friends who weren’t also musicians, always viewing life through a lens of competition. The friendships you had at the conservatory were always tinged with that unspoken tension—constantly measuring who was better, who had more talent.

You longed for something as simple and human as being in love. Not just with music, but with someone—someone who could see you for who you were beyond the notes and the keys. It felt almost ridiculous, but the thought had settled deep within you, something you couldn’t ignore anymore. It was something you had forgotten to explore in the midst of all the music.

It felt strange, wanting something so ordinary, but as you thought about it, you realized you were allowed to want it. To want to live and feel like everyone else. You were still young, still learning, and maybe that was okay. Maybe it was time to let yourself experience the other side of being human.

“I think I’m ready to look for something else,” you say, a smile tugging at your lips. The words feel strange, yet liberating as they leave your mouth. You hesitate, unsure of how they’ll sound, but there’s a sense of peace in finally saying it out loud. “Piano is my whole life, my first love, and I know that for sure. But I think I’m ready to let it be a part of me, not the only thing that defines me anymore.”

The words linger in the air, and for the first time in a long time, they don’t feel like a betrayal. You feel lighter, as though a weight you hadn’t realized you were carrying has been gently lifted. It’s not that you’re giving up the piano—it will always be a part of you. But now, you’re choosing to live for more than just the keys and the music. You’re choosing to let yourself grow in ways you hadn’t allowed before, to live outside of that narrow measure of success and start experiencing the full depth of life.

Min Yoongi nodded, his smile gentle but filled with pride as he listened to you. There was something about the way you were allowing yourself to be more than just the music that came from your fingers. He admired that—how you were beginning to realize you didn’t have to be confined to the expectations of others.

“You’re incredibly talented,” he said, his voice low but sincere, wanting to make sure you truly heard him. “Don’t ever doubt that.” His words lingered in the space between you both, firm and full of meaning. He knew how easy it could be to fall into the trap of self-doubt, how easy it was to let the pressure of your own or others’ expectations weigh you down. He didn’t want you to fall back into that place, again.

The conversation flowed softly, warm and comforting, but there was something underneath it all—a subtle undercurrent that neither of you could ignore. The air between you felt lighter, freer, yet there was a quiet realization that this moment, this connection, was reaching its natural end. It wasn’t that either of you wanted it to be over, but more that its purpose had been fulfilled. The path you had shared for this brief moment was starting to branch off in different directions.

You had found the courage to break away from the conservatory’s confines, to reclaim your music as something personal and free from others’ expectations. Yoongi had helped you reignite that inner spark, the fire you had almost forgotten was there. But even as that quiet understanding settled between you, there was a quiet, bittersweet edge to it. The unspoken knowledge that this connection—this shared journey—might not last forever. That the space between you would inevitably widen, as all things do.

Neither of you said it aloud, but there was an unspoken acknowledgment that it was time to let go. Not because you didn’t care, but because you had found what you needed in one another, and now it was time to walk your separate paths, carrying those lessons and memories with you.

You weren’t ready to let him go—not yet. Min Yoongi wasn’t just a teacher or a talented musician who had guided you when everything felt lost. He had become something more—a friend, someone who truly saw you. For the first time, you had someone who understood you in a way no one else had. He didn’t just offer advice; he made you feel like your passion truly mattered again. He had become a constant, a presence you could lean on when everything else felt uncertain.

It wasn’t just about music anymore. He had become someone who, without even trying, made you feel heard and valued. Someone who didn’t judge your doubts, your fears, or your insecurities. He understood them because he had walked through them himself, and that made all the difference.

You felt a weight settle in your chest, realizing that you couldn’t simply walk away from this. You couldn’t just let him fade into the background, a fleeting presence in your life. No, you weren’t ready for that. The thought of losing him felt like one more regret you might never be able to shake—leaving behind something important that you hadn’t fully appreciated until now.

You had to say something. Anything. You couldn’t let this moment slip by, not after everything he’d done for you. Not after how much he had helped you rediscover who you were, who you could be, when you weren’t shackled by expectations.

After a long pause, with the silence stretching between you, you finally spoke up, your voice steady yet carrying a hint of vulnerability. “I want to really know you,” you said, your words soft but genuine. “Not just as the musician, not as the teacher—just you. The person behind all of that. I want to understand you, like you’ve understood me.”

There was a quiet intensity in your voice, more than just curiosity. It was a longing to break past the roles and titles, to see the person beneath the surface, to connect with the side of him no one else saw. You weren’t asking for answers or advice. You were asking for him. The real him.

He gives a small, knowing grin, his lips curving into a smile that feels like a secret shared between the two of you. “You already know me,” he says, his voice warm, almost intimate. “More than anyone, I think.”

There’s a sincerity in his words, and the weight of them settles between you. In the quiet exchange, you can feel it—his belief in your understanding of him. It’s in the way he speaks, the way his gaze softens when it meets yours. He doesn’t think anyone has truly comprehended his bond with music the way you do. You share something rare—a connection that goes beyond the notes, beyond the applause, something deeper and more personal.

In just a few days, it feels as though you’ve mirrored his very essence. His history with music, the struggles, the joys—they resonate with you as if you’re living parallel lives. The way it consumed you both, the way it shaped you, and how, at times, it almost broke you.

For a moment, he’s not just the mentor, the teacher. He’s someone who sees himself reflected in your eyes, and the realization catches him off guard, though it’s also comforting. He hadn’t expected to find such a connection so quickly, but here, in the brief time you’ve spent together, he feels like he’s met someone who truly understands him.

You shake your head gently, trying to brush off the weight of your words as if that might make them easier to say. Your fingers idly pick at the crumbs from the cupcake, a way to keep your hands busy and distract yourself from the growing vulnerability inside. But you know, deep down, you can’t avoid it any longer. The truth has been building, and now it’s finally demanding to be spoken.

“No,” you begin, your voice soft but steady, though the honesty still surprises you. “I want to start from the beginning. I want to know you for who you are, without seeing the musician first. Just you.” You lift your gaze to meet his then, the intensity of the moment settling between you as your eyes lock. Your heart skips a beat, but you hold his stare, unwilling to look away. “And I want you to know me for who I am, too. Not just as the pianist.”

The words hang in the air between you both—fragile, yet undeniable. The tension shifts, as if you’ve both stepped into new territory, where it’s not just about the music anymore. It’s about knowing each other without the roles you’ve both worn, without the expectations tied to them. You’re asking to be seen beyond your talents, beyond the stage.

It’s a quiet request, but it feels like everything. You’re not just asking to be noticed for more than the music; you’re asking for real connection. For the first time, you realize you’re ready to have someone truly see you—not as the pianist, not as the performer, but as you, just you.

Yoongi’s silence stretches on, but it’s not awkward. It’s a silence that holds the weight of shared understanding, a quiet that speaks volumes. He’s taken aback by your words—not in a negative way, but in a way that makes him reflect on something he hadn’t really considered before you came into his life.

For so long, he’s been defined by his music, by the role of the pianist, the teacher, the performer—by the roles others saw him in. But never by who he truly is. And as your request lingers in his mind, something stirs within him. Maybe, for once, it would be nice to be seen as more than the musician, more than the teacher, and to be understood for who he really is.

He thinks of all the people who’ve admired his talent, his skill, his performances, but never asked to know him as the person behind it all. The man who has always been more than the persona he’s built. He realizes, too, that he’s never truly been able to simply exist with someone—not because of what he does, but just because of who he is.

He takes a breath, steadying himself before a soft, genuine smile forms on his lips. It’s a smile that feels like a small offering, one that says more than words ever could. Then, in a simple, quiet gesture, he raises his hand towards your face—an unspoken invitation to truly begin anew.

“Let’s start as strangers,” he says, his voice calm, but there’s something different in it, something new and uncharted. “Hi. My name is Min Yoongi.”

And in that moment, it’s as if everything shifts. It’s no longer about titles or expectations, no longer about the roles you’ve both played. It’s just two people, meeting for the first time—not as the musician or the teacher, but simply as who they are.

And somehow, it feels like the beginning of something real, something that could change everything.

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