𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐋𝐘𝐍 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 | Jay Park

🎸| The First Hearing

PROLOGUE
The First Hearing

📖 Yang Haewon.
December fourteenth, twenty-twenty one was when I heard them for the first time. It wasn't just solely the sound of the electric guitar sparking my eardrums that pulled me towards the art of music, but the sound that the keyboard made as it guided the drums through the beat of the song — and the angelic sound of the vocalist's voice singing the sweet lyrics written and made by the four band members.

By this time, I hadn't seen their faces nor heard their names. I wasn't even sure that there were four members. I just knew that the guitarist couldn't sing the melody the same way the vocalist did.

The guitar was played with confidence, a hint of joy and freedom erupting throughout each string. The personality it projected being not even remotely close to the vocalist's persona.

They were angel like. Their voice soothing and reassuring — even if the words they sang didn't match. This person was comforting, sweet, and trustworthy.

The keyboardist and drummer were too hard to tell at this time, due to the fact I'd only heard two minutes of the song.

But I knew that from the way my body froze in place, and the way my eyes glistened with hope, and hands clutched my books closer to my chest, that I had fallen in love with the tune of the schools upcoming band and that I desperately wanted to be apart of it.

"Haewon," My younger brother, Yang Jungwon, called out from where he stood at the doors of the library. I knew that I couldn't speak freely on this new obsession of mine with Jungwon — he just wouldn't get it. He wouldn't understand.

Jungwon was always more hard working than I was. He wanted to be the best at everything, nothing could get in his way or stop him from doing so. He needed the praise and reassurance from our parents — he craved it more and more everyday. It was his heroine.

From the moment I took my first steps and spoke my first words, a pen was placed into my hand and extra homework was assigned to me.

By the time I was six, I knew every time-table off by heart.

By the age of ten, I could spell every word in the dictionary.

And by the age of fourteen, I had earned my first ever praise from my parents.

"Nice."

The simple and singular word might seem meaningless and almost laughable, but in my household it was like winning the lottery. I had earned the compliment for being the class president for the first time ever — only for the role to then be given to my home room teachers son the day he joined our school...