Encore in Silence || Taehyun ff

3: A Name, A Note

The first thing he wrote was my name.
No lyrics. No poetry.
Just four letters, careful and curved like he was afraid of breaking them.

Jaein.

He slid the notebook across the table and didn't look at me.
But he didn't leave either.

Everyone stayed quiet, like we'd stumbled into something sacred.

After the others left, I stayed behind.

The page with my name on it still sat between us.
Taehyun watched the floor like it might answer a question he couldn't ask.

"I... never stopped writing," I said.
The silence stretched.
"I didn't know if I should. But I did."

No response.
Just the sound of the A/C, humming like background static.

I tried again. "The song I played earlier—some of it was about you."

Still nothing.

But then—he picked up the pen again.

His handwriting wasn't like it used to be.
It was slower now. Less confident.

He wrote two words.

I know.

My throat closed up. It shouldn't have meant so much.
But it did.

It meant he was listening.

Later that night, I found myself staring at the ceiling, Taehyun's notebook on my lap.
He hadn't taken it with him.
I wasn't sure if that was a sign of trust or just forgetfulness.

But I didn't open it.

I couldn't.

Because I knew if I did, and it held nothing but blank pages—I'd break.

The next day, he wasn't at the studio.
Neither was his pen.
The chair sat empty again.

"He's trying," Soobin said softly when I asked. "But it takes a lot out of him."

"Do you think it hurts?" I asked.

Beomgyu looked up from his laptop. "He won't tell us."

"Because he can't," Yeonjun muttered, too sharp, too fast. Then, quieter: "Sorry. Just... wish we knew what was going on in his head."

"We do," Kai said, surprising us all. "At least a little."

We all turned to him.

"He stayed," he said simply. "He came in. He listened. He wrote. That's not nothing."

It wasn't.

But it still didn't feel like enough.

Three days passed.

I didn't see him.

I kept writing anyway.

Leaving drafts in the folder labeled "Open Edits," hoping he'd check it.
Hoping he'd leave something behind.

He didn't.

Until one night—after everyone else had left—I opened my laptop and saw a new file sitting quietly in the shared drive.

"You Promised (ver.2)"

My heart almost stopped.

I clicked it.

Same melody. Same hum.
But layered over it—a piano line. Fragile, almost translucent.
Like someone learning how to speak again, but with chords instead of words.

At the end—just two notes. Hanging in the air like a question.

He'd answered me.
Not with voice.
But with music.

I didn't cry this time.

I wrote.

The next morning, I got to the studio before anyone else.
Printed the sheet music.
Left it on his chair.

And for the first time in two months—
I let myself believe he might come back.

Maybe not all at once.
Maybe not the way he was.

But piece by piece.
Note by note.

He was still in there.

And maybe—

Just maybe—

He was reaching back.