Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

12

⚠️TW: This part contains depictions of anxiety, panic attacks, and dissociation. Reader discretion is advised.

Breathe in.
Hold.
Out.

Again.

The mirror throws a pale reflection back at him—hair damp against his temple, chest lifting slow like the air might split if he moves too fast. His hands still tremble faint, but the earthquake inside has dulled to aftershocks.

Progress, he thinks, with a crooked smirk that feels more like a grimace. Barely.

The guitar waits in his lap, cool wood under restless fingers. The notebook sprawls open on the music stand, lines bleeding with half-born lyrics and scribbles that look like claw marks.

Then, through the fog, a spark.
A line curling out of nowhere, sweet and vicious.

Beomgyu grabs his pen before the thought can dissolve.

Beneath the dark night
Let's not stay here, but move on
In the days of bruises
Every step we take
You and I
Will find our way through—

His breath hitches.
Yeah. Yeah, that feels right.

The chorus hums in his skull, fragile but alive. He shapes it with his mouth, lips moving around syllables like secrets, then drops his head to the fretboard and builds the bones of melody under it.

And when the words stumble toward a post-chorus, his pen doesn't stop.

This is my answer
This cold winter too
Shall pass.

Simple. Brutal. True.

He experiments with the beat, fingers clawing soft patterns against the strings. The post-chorus births a pulse of its own—
Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah
This is my answer...
His voice threads thin but steady through the empty room, curling around the echoes like smoke.

For a moment, the panic falls away. There's only this—wood and wire and the taste of something almost like hope on his tongue.

Then pain bites through the haze.

Beomgyu sucks in a sharp breath, the sound ripping loud against the hush as his gaze drops to his hand.

A smear of red blooms along the pad of his finger, bright against pale wood.
Great. Fantastic. Anxiety's parting gift.

He huffs a laugh that isn't a laugh, pressing his thumb against the sting like that'll undo the damage. His chest tightens—not just from pain, but the memory ghosting under it. A hallway. A mirror. His body crumpling like bad paper.

Not again.

He swallows hard, shakes it off, and forces his voice back into the room.

Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah
This is my answer...

The sound wavers, then steadies, heavy with something raw enough to burn.

Blood looks uglier on pale strings.

Beomgyu curses under his breath, digging a crumpled tissue from his pocket as the sting flares sharp across his fingertip. The cut isn't deep, but it's enough—enough to remind him he never does anything halfway. Not even bleeding.

He presses harder, hissing through his teeth, then crouches to shove the tissue into his bag with the rest of his chaos—lyric sheets curled like wilted flowers, scribbles tangled in black ink veins. His guitar rests in its stand, strings vibrating faint from the last chord like they don't know it's over.