Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

02

Beomgyu doesn't look back. Whoever Yeonjun is, he hopes the guy trips on a shoelace.

His phone buzzes mid-walk. He answers without checking. "What, mom?"

"Wrong parent," Taehyun's voice fires through, laced with judgment. "Where are you? Please tell me you ate something that isn't caffeine and despair."

Beomgyu eyes a vending machine ahead. "Define ate."

"Don't make me come drag you," Taehyun warns. "Breakfast exists for a reason, dumbass. Fuel. Energy. Basic survival."

"I'm surviving."

"You're running on stubbornness and guitar strings. That's not sustainable."

"Sounds sustainable to me." He ends the call before Taehyun can start a lecture, fishing coins from his pocket as the vending machine hums to life.

A bottle clunks into the tray, followed by a sad packet of crackers. Beomgyu takes both, slings his guitar higher, and keeps moving until the noise fades behind him.

The spot he finds is tucked between two lecture halls, empty except for a faded bench and a trash can clinging to life. Perfect.

He drops his case gently, peels the wrapper on his snack with his teeth, and pulls out his guitar like a ritual. The wood gleams in the soft afternoon light, strings catching the sun like silver threads.

His fingers settle on the frets, muscle memory humming under his skin. The melody he scribbled earlier unfurls in his head—raw, unpolished, but his. He plays it slow, letting it breathe, humming under his breath as the song takes shape.

For a while, the world narrows to six strings and a half-empty vending bottle.

When the last note fades, Beomgyu leans back, thumbs out his phone, and opens Instagram. His grid stares back: warm tones, fragments of chords, captions like whispers. @beomnote—10,214 followers.

Not huge. Not small. Just enough for peace.

He scrolls through old videos, considering which one to upload next—or maybe record a new one. Something stripped down, nothing fancy. Just guitar and a little honesty.

His thumb hovers over the camera icon, and for the first time that day, Beomgyu almost smiles.

Beomgyu leans back on the weathered bench, bottle of water tilted against his lips, humming softly as the last chord fades into the stillness. His fingers ache pleasantly, that sweet sting of overuse. Worth it. Always worth it.

The air is cooler here, away from the chaos of the quad. No screaming dance crew, no booming bass—just him, his guitar, and the occasional bird giving judgmental side-eye from a tree branch.

Perfect.

He's halfway through scrolling his feed, contemplating if posting a moody black-and-white shot of his guitar is too predictable, when—

SMACK.

Pain explodes across the back of his head.

"OW—what the—"

"Breakfast, idiot."

A triangular packet lands in his lap, followed by the distinct crunch of Taehyun dropping down beside him like gravity owes him money. The boy is armed with two more kimbap rolls and an expression that screams disappointed parent energy.

Beomgyu peels the wrapper, glaring half-heartedly. "You assault people with food now?"

"Apparently, that's the only way to keep you alive," Taehyun says, cracking open a bottle of his own. "When's the last time you ate something green? Actually, don't answer that—I don't want to cry today."