Between the lines /SOOGYU/

Static Interference

Soobin had survived the first week.

Barely.

Echelon Academy was everything he expected: intimidating, competitive, and exhausting. Everyone here seemed to carry themselves with practiced confidence, like they already knew who they were — what they wanted — as if they were all on their way to greatness.

And then there was Beomgyu.

Annoying. Loud. Impossible to ignore.

He hadn’t stopped talking since they were partnered. He’d walk into the room like a soundtrack followed him. He’d play chords on the studio piano without warning. He’d hum in the middle of class just to annoy Soobin. And worst of all?

He smiled at Soobin like he meant it.

Now they were alone together in one of the recording rooms, the air padded by foam panels and silence. Thin light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across the dusty piano keys and scuffed hardwood. It smelled like old amps, lemon cleaner, and stale coffee someone had forgotten to drink.

Soobin sat at the desk with his laptop, headphones curled beside him like a sleeping cat. He hadn’t said much since Beomgyu arrived.

Beomgyu didn’t seem to mind.

He sat on the floor, legs crossed, guitar balanced lazily across his thighs. He wasn’t really playing—just grazing the strings with his fingertips like he needed to feel movement. Every now and then, he’d hum something tuneless.

They’d been sitting like that for nearly twenty minutes.

Soobin typed out three chords in his DAW. Deleted them. Typed again.

“This silence is so loud,” Beomgyu finally said, voice breaking the stillness like a dropped glass.

Soobin didn’t look up. “It’s a soundproof room.”

“Exactly.” Beomgyu leaned his head back against the wall, smirking faintly. “Trapped in here with our thoughts. Tragic.”

Soobin sighed, adjusting his headphones. “We’re supposed to be working.”

“I am working. I’m observing my very serious and extremely repressed songwriting partner.”

Soobin turned his head slightly. “Repressed?”

Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. “You blink like it’s a confession.”

Soobin stared at him. “You talk like it’s a distraction.”

Beomgyu laughed softly, the sound rough and surprised. “Touché.” He nodded, looking oddly satisfied. “Didn’t know you had claws.”

“I don’t,” Soobin muttered, going back to the screen. “I just don’t like being analyzed.”

“Then stop making it so interesting.”

The room fell quiet again, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of quiet that held too much.

Beomgyu strummed a lazy chord. Then another.

“You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “I write better when I know who I’m writing with.”

Soobin closed his laptop. “What do you want to know?”

Beomgyu tilted his head. “Favorite chord?”

Soobin frowned. “Seriously?”

“What?” Beomgyu shrugged. “Some people are D minor. Some people are G major. I’m just trying to figure out what you are.”

Soobin leaned back in the chair. “You want small talk.”

Beomgyu hesitated. “No. I want... to understand what kind of silence you carry.”

The words landed heavier than either of them expected. Soobin looked at him fully for the first time. And Beomgyu wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t performing.

He just looked curious. And tired. Like someone who had stopped pretending for once.

Soobin stood, walked over to the piano in the corner, and pressed one key. Then another. Quiet, uncertain sounds.

Beomgyu watched him. “What are you playing?”

“I don’t know yet,” Soobin said. “It’s not finished.”

“That’s the best kind,” Beomgyu said softly. “The ones that don’t know what they are until you feel them.”

Soobin paused, fingers hovering over the keys. “I’m not a song, Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu stood up, gently setting his guitar aside. He walked over, slow steps on soft carpet. He didn’t get too close—just enough to be felt.

“Sure you are,” he said. “You’re just still in the intro.”

Soobin turned slightly, met his eyes.

The silence between them stretched again, deeper now. Something shifted. Not dramatic. Not loud. But real.

Soobin’s gaze dropped to Beomgyu’s hand—where it hovered, fingers slightly twitching like they wanted to reach for something but weren’t sure they should.

And for a second, Soobin thought he might let him.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he returned to the piano and played a soft, melancholic chord progression—tentative, incomplete.

Beomgyu smiled. “Start there. That’s the first line of the song.”

Soobin didn’t smile back. But he played it again.

And for the first time since arriving at this school, it didn’t feel like pretending.