Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

19

The room smells faintly of wood polish and warm amp heat, a comforting tang of cables and old sweat clinging to the walls. The adrenaline from the recording still buzzes in Beomgyu's fingertips, fading slow like the last chord of a song.

Taehyun is packing up the condenser mic, moving with quiet efficiency, when Beomgyu blurts it out—soft but brittle.

"Hyun."

Taehyun glances up. "Hm?"

Beomgyu's throat works. He grips the edge of the stool so hard the metal bites into his palms. "Do you think I can survive this?"

Taehyun freezes for half a breath, reading the weight behind the words. Then he sets the mic down, slow and deliberate, before sinking into the chair opposite Beomgyu.

"Talk," he says simply.

Beomgyu exhales, the sound shaky. His gaze flickers to the floor, tracing cracks in the laminate like a map out of hell.

"It's...a lot." The words tumble raw, unfiltered. "All this attention. This exposure. I feel like—like I've been dragged under a spotlight I never asked for. And I keep thinking...what if I mess this up? What if people see me and—" His breath hitches. "—decide I'm not worth it after all?"

Taehyun doesn't rush to answer. He just watches, sharp eyes steady as a scalpel, letting Beomgyu unravel piece by jagged piece.

"It's like..." Beomgyu swallows hard, words scraping his throat. "If they expect me to fail, then what's the point of trying? And if I don't fail—what if that's worse? What if I can't keep up with what they want from me?"

Silence hums heavy for a beat. Then Taehyun leans forward, voice low but firm.

"Unpack that."

Beomgyu blinks. "What?"

"Unpack it," Taehyun repeats, tone sharp enough to cut through the fog. "You're sitting here like a crumpled wrapper, spiraling about noise that's never going to stop. So figure out the real root, Gyu. What are you actually scared of? Failing them—or failing yourself?"

The question slices clean and deep. Beomgyu flinches like it's a physical hit.

Taehyun softens slightly, elbows braced on his knees. "The noise will always be loud. It's the internet. People project for sport. But here's the thing—" His eyes pin Beomgyu like steel. "There's no rule that says you can't be louder."

Beomgyu's brows knit. "What does that even—"

"It means if they expect you to crash, fine. Let them." Taehyun's mouth twists into something sharp and almost feral. "Because there's just as many who expect you to soar. Fans who see you for what you are. And if you can't do it for them—" He taps a finger against Beomgyu's chest. "—do it for you."

Beomgyu stares, something hot and restless clawing up his ribs. "But most of the fans I have now..." His voice cracks into a bitter laugh. "They only care about my face. Not my music."

Taehyun leans back, smirk curling slow. "So what? You think looks and talent are mutually exclusive? Let them come for the pretty face. Make them stay for the sound."

The words hit like a struck chord—vibrating low and steady, reverberating through Beomgyu's bones. He wants to scoff, to roll his eyes, to deflect like always. But deep down, something loosens. A single thread of possibility winding tight around his pulse.

Be louder.

Maybe he can.

Maybe he will.

Beomgyu glances at the mic still warm from his breath, then at Taehyun—sharp-eyed, arms folded, the anchor that keeps him tethered when every current threatens to drag him under.