Between two worlds | Chanlix

New life

The city was quiet in that hour when the world sits between night and dawn, and as Chan walked down the empty street, the weight of everything clung to him like a second skin. The scene from the hotel kept replaying in his head — Felix's kiss, the drunken eyes, the trembling words.

But it didn't matter.

Felix was drunk. And maybe... he wouldn't even remember. That was the bitter part.

By the time Chan reached his flat, the silence hit like a wall. He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door and shrugged off his jacket, the leather still holding the scent of outside, of smoke and cold air. He didn't bother turning on the lights. Darkness somehow suited the mood better.

The glow of the iPad lit his face as he sat by the window, legs pulled up beneath him. His fingers hovered over the digital keys for a moment before he began typing. Words started to pour out—slow at first, then faster, like a dam breaking.

"This house is not a home / When echoes of your name keep me awake / I build my dreams on crumbled stone / And every song I write just starts to ache."

It wasn't just a song. It was his life laid bare, raw and untethered. A broken life. A love never meant to survive. As the melody formed in his head, he opened his music software and began to compose. Soft piano chords, a hollow echo, a pulse like a fading heartbeat. He worked for hours until the exhaustion hit him like a wave.

He curled up in bed before sunrise, headphones still in, the last line of the chorus playing quietly as he drifted off.

The next day felt normal. Strangely, painfully normal.

Sunlight broke through the blinds and Chan woke to the same ceiling he'd stared at for months. No missed calls. No messages. No sign of Felix.

He showered, dressed in his usual casual clothes, and walked into the new studio they'd built with a small, proud smile. Han and Changbin were already inside, goofing off as always, shouting about coffee and arguing over mic placements.

"Hyung!" Han grinned, "You look like you finally slept for once."

Chan chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Let's just get to work."

They got into the rhythm quickly. The energy in the room was warm, creative, playful. Tracks were being recorded, harmonies tested, lyrics revised. It felt good—no drama, no ghosts from the past. Just music.

And for the first time in a long time, Chan genuinely smiled.

Later in the afternoon, while they were taking a break, Chan got a message from their investor, Mr. Kim.

"Lunch today? There's something I'd like to discuss. My treat."

It was simple, polite. Chan agreed.

They met at a modern, quiet restaurant. Mr. Kim greeted him warmly, dressed smart, with kind eyes and the calm presence of someone who listened more than he spoke. Their conversation started with business—plans for the label, marketing strategies, artist management—but it slowly slid into something more casual.

They laughed. Talked about music they liked, food, even childhood stories.

Chan realized something mid-lunch. He wasn't constantly bracing himself. He wasn't holding his breath waiting for something to hurt.

When Mr. Kim looked at him, it wasn't with longing or guilt—it was interest, honest and light.

For the first time in a long time, Chan felt something new. Not the overwhelming fire that scorched him with Felix... but a quiet warmth. Something safe. Something promising.

And for now, that was enough.

Of course. Here's the continuation with Chan in the studio and the subtle shift between him and Mr. Kim:

The studio lights were dimmed, casting a warm amber glow across the polished soundboard and glass panels. The usual playful energy that filled the room when Han and Changbin were around had softened today—both of them had gone out to meet another producer, leaving Chan alone in the booth, his voice the only presence between the padded walls.

The instrumental track played softly in the background—melancholic, slow, rich with piano and ambient textures. Chan stood in front of the mic, headphones on, eyes closed.

"This silence is louder than goodbye
I said I'm fine, but I still lie
Your shadow's dancing in my mind
I'm moving on, but not this time..."

His voice cracked a little near the end. Not because of vocal strain—but because the lyrics still held something too fragile to touch directly.

Behind the glass, Mr. Kim was seated on the couch, listening. He hadn't planned to interrupt the session but asked earlier if he could drop by. Chan didn't expect him to stay through the song, but there he was, still—watching, listening closely, not with the gaze of an investor, but with something quieter. Gentler.

The final notes faded.

Chan stepped out of the booth, pulling the headphones off. He didn't speak at first. Neither did Mr. Kim.

It was Mr. Kim who eventually broke the silence, voice low and sincere. "That song... It's beautiful, Chan. Raw. It doesn't just sound good—it hurts in the right places."

Chan gave a small, tired smile. "Thanks."

Mr. Kim waited a beat. "Is it about someone?"

There was a pause.

Chan didn't look at him right away. He sat on the armrest of the nearest chair, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "I don't usually write things I haven't lived through," he said simply.

Mr. Kim nodded. "Then whoever it's about... they must've mattered."

Chan's throat tightened. He looked up, eyes meeting Mr. Kim's. "They did."

Silence fell again, but it wasn't awkward. It was heavy—filled with unsaid things—but not uncomfortable. Mr. Kim didn't press, didn't prod deeper. He just offered the quiet, steady kind of presence Chan hadn't known he needed.

"Do you want it on the album?" Chan asked, his voice quieter now.

"I think," Mr. Kim said, "it would be a mistake not to. People need to hear songs like that."

There was a faint shift in the air—nothing overt, but there, nonetheless. A moment where something unspoken passed between them. Maybe understanding. Maybe a silent kind of respect. Maybe something just starting to bloom in the aftermath of something that nearly broke Chan apart.

Chan looked away with a small breath. "Let's mix it in then."

Mr. Kim smiled. "Looking forward to hearing the final version."

And as he leaned back, watching Chan return to the controls, there was a flicker in his eyes—curiosity, warmth... and maybe the beginning of something more.