Spring Day // Kim Taehyung ( V )

Chapter 11

Another day begins, and with it comes the familiar routine of school. Yesterday's experiences linger in my mind—the laughter, the late-night editing session of my vlog—so much so that I lost track of time and forgot about today's classes. Tiredness clings to me, a reminder of how easily I get caught up in my pursuits. I groggily sit up, performing the small chores before heading downstairs to find my shoes. To my surprise, the boys aren't around. I imagine they're still exhausted from yesterday, or perhaps just too lazy to wake early. Even Namjoon remains in bed, still asleep.

"Ready to go?" my mother asks, a gentle smile playing on her lips. I nod silently, and we step outside together.

The school day begins with the customary bow to our teacher as we exit the classroom. Today's mood is subdued; I notice Sarah isn't here, which strikes me as odd. She's usually diligent about attending class, no matter what. Still, I suppose she has her reasons. Carrying my Korean textbook, I make my way toward my locker, contemplating the day ahead.

A familiar voice interrupts my thoughts. "Missed me?" Jackson's smile appears, confident and warm, as he approaches.

I can't help but smile back, despite myself. "Not so much," I reply, rolling my eyes.

He chuckles softly. "Just not so much, huh?"

I shrug. "Whatever."

We walk together to our next class—art. Jackson has been my partner since day one, though I'd preferred to sit where I could focus. He insists on sitting beside me, convinced his friends won't mind. His stubbornness is part of what makes him, well, Jackson.

Today's lesson takes an unexpected turn. Mr. Jung speaks about a different kind of art—music. "Art isn't just about paint and canvas," he explains. "It's about expressing creativity and emotion. So I want to see what you can do."

A flicker of surprise crosses my face. Music? I've always found it difficult to articulate my feelings with words. Instead, I pour my emotions into painting, creating visual representations of what I can't say. When overwhelmed or sad, I retreat into solitude, avoiding conversation—except with my close friends, especially the girls.

Jackson notices my tension. His hand gently rests on my shoulder. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asks, concern evident in his voice.

I shake my head, avoiding eye contact. He lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze, causing a faint blush to creep over my cheeks.

"No, really. What's bothering you?" he presses.

I struggle to find the right words, my instinct to stay silent when I feel vulnerable taking over. Biting my lip—a nervous habit—I try to hide my discomfort.

"Are you nervous about this whole music thing?" Jackson guesses, a teasing tone in his voice.

I nod, ashamed. "I'm not good at expressing my feelings with words. That's why I tend to keep quiet when I'm upset. It's easier to paint than to speak."

He laughs softly. "So, you're scared of making music?"

I glare at him. "Yah, I have my reasons. I've never been good at expressing myself with words, so I prefer silence when I feel down."

He grins. "Well, good luck with that, then."

The teacher offers some flexibility: students can choose to perform solo, duet, or trio. Two days are given to prepare, with a performance scheduled for Thursday. I voice my concern. "Thursday? That's pretty soon. Writing a song isn't easy."

Jackson chuckles. "Since we have time today, why not start now?"

I hesitate but can see the enthusiasm in his eyes. Some students quickly pair up, forming duets or trios, while others decide to go solo. I sit, uncertain, unsure if I can handle writing music at all.

"So, what's your plan? Solo or duet?" Jackson asks, leaning closer.

I exhale slowly. "Honestly, I don't know."

He smirks. "Wanna do a duet?"

I glance at him, deadpan. "Are you serious?"

He grins mischievously. "I figure you could use some help. Plus, I think we'd make a good team."

I consider it—partly because I trust Jackson, partly because I'm curious. "Fine. But I probably won't be much help."

He winks. "I'll take my chances."

A part of me wishes I could just tell him to stop, that his endless confidence and charm make my heart race. It's frustrating—how easily I find myself unable to refuse him. Jackson's stubbornness is well-known, and as much as I try to resist, his persistence is starting to grow on me.

And somehow, I realize I'm already falling into his world—despite my reservations.

As Jackson pulled out his phone, scrolling through a playlist of beats and melodies, I felt a strange mix of anxiety and curiosity swirling inside me. The classroom around us buzzed with the sounds of students chatting, guitars being tuned, and the distant hum of teachers preparing for the next lesson. But in that moment, it was just Jackson and me, caught in a quiet bubble of anticipation.

He tapped on a mellow rhythm and handed me his phone. "Listen to this. Think of it as a starting point."

I hesitated for a second before nodding, pressing the device to my ear. The beat was simple but compelling, a slow, soulful groove that seemed to echo some of the feelings I couldn't quite put into words. As I listened, I realized that maybe—just maybe—music was my language after all.

Jackson watched me with a smirk. "See? Not so scary. We just need to find our vibe."

I looked up at him, still unsure. "I don't even know where to start. Words are hard enough for me—music feels... intimidating."

He leaned back, eyes crinkling with amusement. "That's the point. Music isn't about perfection or knowing everything. It's about expressing what you feel, even if it's messy. That's what makes it real."

His words lingered in my mind. I'd always thought that creating music required a certain skill, a level of confidence I didn't have. But maybe Jackson was right. Maybe I didn't need to be perfect; I just needed to let go of the fear.

I took a deep breath and looked at my notebook, where I'd jotted down some lyrics and melodies during quiet moments. The words felt too fragile, too raw to show anyone. But with Jackson sitting beside me, I felt a little braver.

"Okay," I finally whispered. "Let's try. But don't expect much."

He smiled, nodding encouragingly. "That's all I ask."

We spent the next hour improvising, exchanging melodies, and scribbling down lyrics. Sometimes Jackson would hum a tune, and I'd try to match it with my own ideas. Other times, I'd read out a line I'd written, and he'd add a suggestion or a beat to complement it. It was awkward at first, but gradually, the nerves eased.

As I sang a tentative chorus, I felt a strange sense of liberation. For the first time in a while, I was channeling my feelings into something real—something I could own. Maybe I wasn't so bad at this after all.

By the end of the session, we had a rough draft—a simple melody with lyrics that, while imperfect, carried the essence of what I wanted to say.

Jackson grinned, genuinely impressed. "See? That wasn't so bad. We've got a good start."

I looked at him, a faint smile forming. "Thanks... for pushing me."

He shrugged modestly. "That's what friends are for, right?"

A pause settled between us, comfortable and unspoken. In that quiet moment, I realized that maybe I wasn't alone in this. Jackson wasn't just stubborn and teasing—he saw something in me that I hadn't fully acknowledged myself. And perhaps, this project could be more than just a school assignment; it could be the beginning of something more meaningful.

As we packed up our things, I felt a strange sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I could find my voice—both in music and beyond. And with Jackson by my side, I was starting to believe I might just be capable of more than I thought.