He wasn't even playing. Just a notebook, a guitar on his side, and sunlight in his hair, and suddenly, Beomgyu's face is all over campus feeds. The internet crowns him the Guitar Prince. Too bad Yeonjun, the star of that dance video, hasn't forgiven...
"Good," Beomgyu mutters into the sheets. "The less people who know I exist, the better."
The next thirty minutes are a blur of Beomgyu existing under protest. He showers with the enthusiasm of a dead snail, stares at his reflection for a solid two minutes wondering if looking like roadkill is "his brand," and decides to tie his hair in a low bun because gravity's winning today.
By the time he drags himself out of the dorm in ripped jeans, hoodie, and the world's most apathetic sneakers, he's officially late enough that god himself couldn't save his attendance grade.
Music Theory is already in progress when Beomgyu cracks the lecture hall door like a burglar. He slides inside with the grace of a dying Roomba, clutching his guitar case like a shield.
Professor Jung doesn't notice. Or maybe she does and chooses mercy. Either way, Beomgyu sinks into the nearest seat, pulling his hood up like an invisibility cloak.
He's not listening. Obviously. Instead, he pulls out his phone under the desk, opens his banking app, and immediately regrets it. His balance glares at him like: ₩23,000.
"That's... ramen money," he mutters.
Studio rental? Impossible. The campus studio has a queue long enough to qualify as a pilgrimage, and Beomgyu's patience for waiting in line ranks somewhere below "root canal."
He sighs, locks his phone, and doodles a treble clef in the margin of his notebook, already plotting how to sell a kidney discreetly.
The second class ends, Beomgyu bolts like a man escaping a hostage situation. He wanders across the quad, past clusters of laughing students, past the coffee cart that smells like overpriced salvation, until he finds a quiet bench shaded by a tree.
Finally. Fresh air. Peace.
He sets his guitar case beside him, pulls out his battered music notebook, and flips to a blank page. The paper stares back, challenging him to be brilliant. He scribbles anyway—chords, lyrics, half-formed ideas that sound like they belong in sad indie movies.
The breeze ruffles his hoodie. A few strands escape the low bun at the nape of his neck, tickling his jaw. He doesn't bother fixing them.
Minutes pass like lazy raindrops.
Then— BOOM. Bass erupts, deep enough to vibrate his sneakers against the pavement.
Beomgyu startles, pen nearly stabbing through the paper. He looks up.
Across the lawn, a group is setting up—tripods snapping open, a speaker blasting something fast and loud. Sneakers squeak as bodies fall into lines, sharp and practiced.
Dance crew. Of course.
Beomgyu watches for a second, lips twitching like he might laugh, then looks back down at his notebook. The music drowns out his thoughts.
With a sigh, he digs his earpods from his hoodie pocket, shoves them in, and taps play. His playlist starts—soft, slow, something acoustic. The contrast almost makes him smile.
Head bowed, pen moving, he hums under his breath, his voice quiet and raw.
Somewhere behind him, laughter bursts, sneakers thud against pavement, and music pulses through the air. But in his bubble, it's just ink, melody, and the rustle of pages as his notebook fills with half-formed songs.
The sun shifts higher. His guitar rests against the bench leg, catching a stray glint of light. Beomgyu keeps writing, unaware of everything else.
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