Studio C was smaller than Studio B, just as everyone said.
The ceiling was low, the soundproofing on the walls was old, the white lights were cold, and there was only a sofa barely big enough for one person. The mixing desk was pushed against the wall, with cables running along the floor like cracks no one had bothered to cover.
Ji-hoon arrived ten minutes early.
Yoo-jin was already there.
He was taping up a section of cable with its outer coating peeled away.
“How’s the new room?” Ji-hoon asked.
“Small.”
“You’re not happy.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But your face did.”
Yoo-jin looked at him.
“You can read my face?”
“No. I’m just guessing.”
“Don’t guess.”
“Why?”
“You’ll probably be wrong.”
Ji-hoon stepped into the recording studio and looked at the new microphone positioned in the middle of the room. It wasn’t like the microphone in Studio B. There was a long scratch near the base of its body.
“This one’s broken too?”
“Not yet.”
“Then why does it have a scratch?”
“It’s been dropped.”
“And you still use it?”
“It still records.”
Ji-hoon laughed.
“You really don’t know how to throw anything away.”
“Neither do you.”
The smile slowly disappeared from Ji-hoon’s face.
Yoo-jin didn’t explain what he meant. Maybe he was talking about the microphone. Maybe he wasn’t.
The recording session began with a difficult song.
The melody shifted constantly between low and high ranges, demanding that the singer maintain tight breath control. Ji-hoon had practiced the song since last night, but by the final lyric line, his voice was still hoarse.
“Let’s do it again,” he said.
“You need a break.”
“I can do it again.”
“Your voice is tearing.”
“I know.”
“Then take a break.”
“No.”
Yoo-jin took off his headphones.
“Ji-hoon.”
The way he said Ji-hoon’s name made him stop.
“Do you want to record it again because the song isn’t good enough, or because you can’t stand having one imperfect take?”
Ji-hoon looked at him through the glass.
“What’s the difference?”
“There’s a difference.”
“You talk like you understand me.”
“I don’t.”
“Then don’t ask.”
Yoo-jin looked at the waveform on the screen.
“I’m asking the singer.”
“The singer is me.”
“I know.”
“Then you should know I’m going to record it again.”
“I know you won’t stop until you’ve hurt yourself.”
The recording studio fell completely silent.
Ji-hoon took off his headphones and opened the door.
“You’re going too far.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t know how much I’ve practiced.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know how long it took me to get here.”
“I know you’ve been onstage since you were nineteen.”
“You don’t know about the years before that.”
Yoo-jin didn’t answer.
Ji-hoon turned away, but Yoo-jin’s silence didn’t calm his anger. It only gave the things he had kept buried longer a way to start rising to the surface.
“You don’t know that no one came to watch me the first time I went onstage.”
Yoo-jin remained still.
“You don’t know that my mother used to sit in the back row at every rehearsal. She always carried a blue handkerchief. After she died, my guardian told me not to cry in front of other people because a swollen face would affect the photo shoot.”
Ji-hoon gave a dry, humorless laugh.
“You don’t know how I learned not to cry after that.”
Yoo-jin lowered his eyes.
“I don’t.”
“That’s right.”
“But I can listen.”
Ji-hoon looked at him.
“I don’t want anyone to listen.”
“Then I won’t force you.”
“But you’ve already heard.”
“Yeah.”
“And you still want to work with me?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Yoo-jin looked at him through the glass.
“Because what you’ve been through doesn’t make your voice any worse.”
The words didn’t heal the wound. But for the first time, they made Ji-hoon realize that a wound didn’t have to be hidden for someone to keep living with it.
He wiped his face.
“I want to record it again.”
“Okay.”
“But you have to tell me if I’m pushing my voice too far.”
“I will.”
“Even if I get mad?”
“Even if you get mad.”
“Even if I don’t come back?”
“I’ll still tell you.”
Ji-hoon looked at him for a long time.
Then he went back into the recording studio.
The next take was better. Not perfect, but the breath at the end was no longer stretched to the point of pain. Yoo-jin kept that recording.
“No more takes,” he said.
Ji-hoon took off his headphones.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I listen to it again?”
“Sure.”
The recording played through the small room. There was a hairline crack in Ji-hoon’s voice at the end of the lyric line, but it didn’t weaken the song. If anything, it made the sound feel more like a person trying to stay on their feet.
Yoo-jin pressed stop.
“This part…”
“I know.”
“I’m not going to fix it.”
“Because it isn’t clean?”
“Because it’s you.”
Ji-hoon turned to him.
Yoo-jin looked straight at him.
“You don’t have to turn every scar into something that needs to be erased.”
Ji-hoon didn’t answer.
He looked down at his left wrist. Beneath his sleeve, a faint scar ran across his skin, less than three centimeters long. It had been there for years and barely hurt anymore, but whenever someone accidentally touched it, his body still remembered before his mind did.
Yoo-jin noticed where he was looking.
“That scar…”
“It’s nothing.”
“I haven’t asked yet.”
Ji-hoon pulled his sleeve down.
“But you were going to.”
“Yeah.”
“Then don’t.”
Yoo-jin nodded.
He didn’t ask.
That respect made Ji-hoon more uncomfortable than a question would have. If Yoo-jin asked, he could get angry. If he pitied him, Ji-hoon could walk away. But Yoo-jin only stepped back, letting the space between them exist without turning it into a wall.
During the break, Ji-hoon went into the hallway to get some water.
Min-woo was standing at the end of the row of lights.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I’m working.”
“I know.”
“What is it?”
Min-woo looked at the sleeve Ji-hoon had just pulled down.
“The scar’s still there?”
Ji-hoon immediately put his hand behind his back.
“You remember?”
“I remember everything about you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“That day, you said you’d never let anyone hurt you again.”
“I was seventeen.”
“But I still remember.”
Min-woo’s voice softened, almost like the friend he had been back then. The one who had sat beside Ji-hoon in the hospital hallway, handed him a bottle of water, and told him everything would be okay.
Ji-hoon had believed him once.
“Did you come here to talk about the scar?”
“I came to remind you that not everyone knows how to handle fragile things.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“You always say that right before you hurt yourself.”
“Are you talking about me or yourself?”
Min-woo faltered.
Ji-hoon had never spoken to him in that tone before.
“Ji-hoon, I just want you to be careful around Yoo-jin.”
“He hasn’t done anything to me.”
“Not yet.”
“Did you investigate him?”
Min-woo didn’t answer.
The silence was answer enough.
Ji-hoon stared at him, a chill running down his spine.
“You investigated him?”
“I needed to know what kind of person he is.”
“That’s the agency’s job.”
“It’s my job too.”
“No.” Ji-hoon’s voice hardened. “It’s not your job anymore.”
Min-woo took a step forward.
“You think I want to control you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I just want to protect you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You will when it’s too late.”
“Then let me take responsibility for my own decisions.”
Min-woo looked at him, the gentleness on his face slowly pulling taut.
“You’ve changed.”
“Maybe.”
“Because of him?”
Ji-hoon didn’t answer right away.
Behind the recording studio door, a piano drifted into the hallway. Yoo-jin was trying a new transition. It was only a few simple notes, but Ji-hoon recognized them immediately.
“Because of me,” he said.
Min-woo stood frozen.
Ji-hoon went back into the recording studio.
Yoo-jin didn’t ask what the conversation had been about. He only handed Ji-hoon a cup of ginger tea.
“Does your wrist hurt?”
Ji-hoon looked at the cup.
“No.”
“I saw you rubbing it.”
“Just a habit.”
“Then drink this.”
“You’re not going to ask why?”
“You don’t want to talk about it.”
“How do you know?”
“You pulled your sleeve down three times.”
Ji-hoon took the cup. Warmth spread into his palm.
“Do you ever get tired of listening to other people?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then why do you keep listening?”
“Because sometimes people can only speak when they know someone is listening.”
Ji-hoon looked at him.
“What if they’re lying?”
“Then I listen until they can tell the truth.”
“Are you patient with everyone?”
“No.”
“What about me?”
Yoo-jin paused.
“I’m trying.”
It wasn’t a promise, but it was so honest that Ji-hoon couldn’t bring himself to mock it.
That night, before leaving, Ji-hoon stood in front of the mirror in the recording studio. He pulled up his sleeve and looked at the faded scar.
Yoo-jin hadn’t seen it.
Or maybe he had, but hadn’t asked.
Ji-hoon lightly touched the scar, then pulled his sleeve back down.
Tomorrow, he would still come.
Not because the scar had disappeared.
But because, for the first time, there was someone who didn’t ask him to erase it before allowing him to stay by his side.