𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙩: 𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚.
In an upscale private academy known for its strict adherence to tradition and conservative dress codes, Wooyoung stands out-not just for his bright personality but for his bold fashion choices...
The cool touch of the piano keys under my fingertips felt both familiar and distant as memories of days spent under my mother's watchful eyes flooded back. Each note was a whisper from the past, evoking the meticulous hours of practice, the strict but loving guidance, and the eventual blossoming of music that had once filled our home. Now, in the quiet of the night, in the vast stillness of San's house, each note I played stitched together those old memories with the solitude of the present.
As my hands moved instinctively over the keys, a soft, soothing melody began to take shape, the sound filling the dark, empty space around me. The music was gentle, a stark contrast to the raucous joy of the pub earlier in the night. Here, in this moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, listening.
The melody flowed, a slow, haunting piece that resonated with the echoes of the house. With my eyes closed, I let the music lead, each note a step further into tranquility. The worries of the day, the playful banter with San, and the slight lingering buzz from the night's drinks faded into the background, replaced by a deep, resonant peace.
I was so engrossed in the music that I didn't hear the soft footsteps approaching. It wasn't until the slight creak of the floorboard nearby that I paused, my fingers stilling on the keys, and opened my eyes.
San stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with an unreadable expression. The soft light from the moon spilling through a nearby window illuminated his features, casting shadows that made him look both part of the night and apart from it.
"I didn't mean to wake you," I said softly, the quiet atmosphere making me whisper almost instinctively.
San shook his head slightly, a small smile playing on his lips. "You didn't. I was already awake," he replied, his voice as soft as mine. He walked over and sat down beside me on the piano bench, his presence comforting. "That was beautiful. I didn't know you played."
As I closed the piano lid gently, a subtle finality echoed in the soft thud, marking the end of the melody and the conversation thread about my musical past. I looked away, feeling a mixture of nostalgia and a slight twinge of loss. The piano, a link to days filled with music and maternal guidance, now felt like a relic of a life I had set aside.
"I don't play, I used to learn but I don't play anymore," I explained, my voice soft, tinged with a hint of sadness I hadn't anticipated feeling. It was as if touching the piano had reopened a door to a room within myself that had been long closed.
San observed me quietly, his presence comforting yet unobtrusive. He seemed to understand the weight of the moment, the mixed emotions stirred by the brief reconnection with the piano. After a brief pause, he spoke, his voice carrying a gentle understanding that felt both surprising and welcome.
