Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

12

Obsession? Maybe.
Competition? Definitely.
But more than that—curiosity sharp enough to draw blood.

He slides his phone out, thumbs hovering over the screen, then taps record.
A quick shot of his sneakers on the polished floor, the throb of bass behind it.

Caption:

"Get ready. Stage isn't big enough for two storms. 🎭"

Post.
Send the wolves running.

And just before the door shuts behind him, he glances once over his shoulder.
Toward the band room.
Toward the boy still sitting there, bleeding through his fingertips like it's the only way to speak.

Yeonjun's grin sharpens.
Game on, Princess.

Beomgyu doesn't remember the walk back clearly. He barely recalls pulling his hood up or leaving the band room. Everything feels blurred around the edges, smeared by exhaustion and the lingering ache in his fingertips.

When the dorm door closes behind him with a soft, hollow click, he's startled to realize he's even arrived. The sound feels distant, muffled like underwater noise. He stands motionless by the door, breathing shallow, his chest rising and falling too fast. Too uneven.

His throat feels tight, as if something's lodged there, choking off air. He tries to slow his breathing, counting the inhales and exhales—just like Taehyun taught him. But every breath feels insufficient, slipping from his lungs prematurely. A burning sensation claws deeper into his chest, spreading into his fingertips.

You're okay. You're okay.

But his body won't believe the lie.

He drags his feet toward the bed, letting his bag slide to the floor with a careless thud. The notebook spills out, lyrics scattering across the carpet like wilted petals. He doesn't pick them up. They can't help him right now—nothing can.

He collapses onto the mattress, pulling his knees close and hugging himself tight, fingers twisting into the fabric of his hoodie. The room is empty and quiet. Too quiet. The silence wraps around him like a suffocating blanket, amplifying every erratic heartbeat and unsteady breath.

Taehyun isn't here. He's probably still in class, blissfully unaware that Beomgyu's world is spinning out of control again. Good. Beomgyu doesn't want him to see this—this pathetic unraveling, the breakdown he's tried so hard to avoid.

He closes his eyes, pressing his palms into his temples, as though he can physically squeeze the panic from his skull.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

He counts again, focusing hard on each number, but the numbers slip from his mind. Instead, an unwelcome memory pushes itself forward, sharp and vivid and bright with humiliation.

Suddenly, he's fourteen again, standing awkwardly in the center of the school gymnasium. The lights overhead glare down, cruel and bright. Music blasts through cheap speakers, distorted and chaotic. He can hear the laughter now—sharp and clear—breaking through the pounding bass. It cuts into him, mercilessly slicing through the flimsy shield of his confidence.

Look at him. Does he think he can dance?

This is so embarrassing.

God, someone make him stop.

His limbs move clumsily through a choreography he'd practiced alone for weeks, but now every movement feels grotesque, out of sync. He trips, nearly falls, laughter rising louder around him. Faces blur, distorted by tears he can't let himself shed. He remembers the paralyzing shame—the desperate wish for the ground to swallow him whole.

Beomgyu's breath hitches sharply, the echo of humiliation stabbing through his chest again like a physical wound. His nails dig painfully into his palms, trying to anchor him to reality, but he's losing grip.

Fragments of the lyrics he wrote today drift through the edges of his consciousness, like gentle whispers against the storm raging in his mind.

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...

The words, raw and honest, felt like an answer before. Now, they're desperate—almost a plea. He mutters them softly, voice breaking, "This cold winter too shall pass."

It doesn't feel like enough.

His chest feels impossibly tight now. Every breath burns, coming quicker, more ragged. His fingers, still tender and sore from the guitar, throb sharply. Everything feels amplified, overwhelming.

He tries to focus, tries to force his mind back to reality, but the memory is too strong, too vivid.

And now another figure emerges—just a shadow at first, moving toward him slowly, cautiously. Beomgyu squints, vision hazy, unable to identify who it is. Panic spikes through him again, because someone's seeing him like this—weak, vulnerable, pathetic.

He blinks, fighting desperately to push away the image, to see clearly, to breathe. But the shadow stays, lingering just beyond recognition. He tries to move back, away, escape—but his limbs feel numb, disconnected.

Then the shadow suddenly rushes forward. He hears something muffled—a voice? Someone shouting?—but his ears feel clogged, distorting the sound into an echo. He's trapped between memory and reality, unable to escape either.

The silhouette's mouth opens, and suddenly sound returns with brutal clarity.

"Beomgyu!"

He jolts sharply, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. He sees the silhouette now, clearly—Taehyun, standing in the doorway, eyes wide with panic, fear stark on his face. He's shouting something else, but the words dissolve into meaningless static.

Beomgyu reaches out weakly, his vision swimming dangerously. He tries to speak, but his voice won't come. He feels himself slipping, falling backward into darkness, and for a split second he thinks bitterly that he's failed again—failed at hiding, failed at being okay.

Then everything blurs into a soft, oppressive blackness, and consciousness slips away completely.

The last thing he registers, with painful irony, is that the song—the words he'd written as a lifeline—didn't save him from drowning. They just echoed quietly in his mind as everything faded:

This is my answer...
This cold winter too...
Shall pass.

But maybe not today.