A Shaky Stage and Silent Thanks
By this point, anyone who knew me would have recognized the look on my face. I took a bite of the chicken skewers I’d bought from the food truck next to me and turned my attention back to the stage. ‘He looks terrified.’
The male student was staring out at the audience with an expression completely different from the one I’d seen at the academy. How to describe it? Like someone who’d thought this would be easy, only to feel their legs start shaking the moment they stepped onto the stage. It might have been an overestimation on my part, but the way his face had gone pale suggested I wasn’t far off.
‘It’s normal to feel that way the first time you perform.’ Standing in front of people, singing with a band behind you instead of alone—it was only natural for your body to tremble. There weren’t that many spectators, but still. He managed to grab the mic and open his mouth.
“Hello. We’re the central club, Resonance. Please enjoy our performance.”
His voice wavered slightly with nerves, confirming my guess. After finishing the greeting, he and the band members bowed their heads. A light round of applause came from the audience, and the drummer crossed his sticks to signal the start. The bass intro followed, then drums and guitar joined in, and the real performance began.
‘This is the best part.’ I knew exactly how it felt to be up there performing. The nerves, the excitement, and especially that indescribable sense of relief when everything ended without any disasters. ‘If you hit a wrong note on the way down, you’d want to die.’ Still, it had been fun. The kind of experience worth trying at least once or twice in life. Not that I was talking about hitting wrong notes, of course.
Anyway, the guy on stage didn’t look like he was enjoying himself at all. Whether from nerves or lack of skill, he missed the beat right from the start and came in off-tempo on the first line. He looked flustered, his expression broadcasting his panic.
‘First time on stage, huh.’ Even if it was his first time, they would have done rehearsals. Maybe he just wasn’t very good to begin with? Either way, the band kept playing despite his mistake. Of course they couldn’t stop—this was a performance, not a practice session. In situations like this, you had to push through shamelessly, but he clearly lacked that kind of experience. On top of that, his pitch and timing were unstable, and his breathing seemed a little off.
‘Did he not learn properly at the academy?’ It was baffling. If he’d been chosen as the band’s vocalist because he could sing well, shouldn’t he have practiced harder? I wondered if Mr. Hyeonseong hadn’t taught him properly, but thinking back on everything I’d learned, that didn’t seem likely. The curriculum was probably similar, so it wasn’t the teacher’s fault.
‘Hmm…’ That left only one conclusion: he’d been slacking on practice. Getting nervous or shaky on stage was different from practice, but if you’d rehearsed properly, your skills would still show through even under pressure. Lacking fundamentals ultimately meant you hadn’t practiced enough.
“The chicken skewers from the food truck next door are supposed to be really good. Want to go grab some?”
“Sure. Their performance still has a while left, right?”
“Probably.”
Apparently finding the stage underwhelming, the students sitting behind us suddenly stood up and filed out. It was an inevitable result. Even if someone sang well, casual audiences at club performances rarely stayed unless they knew the performers. If the singing was bad too, there was no reason to stick around. The vocalist on stage could clearly see people leaving, and he missed the beat again. It was his own fault for not practicing, but it still looked pitiful. Honestly, the ones I felt sorriest for were the band members playing flawlessly behind him.
‘From the looks of it… they probably didn’t rehearse much with the vocalist.’ A band could play together without a vocalist. As long as it wasn’t the main session—like the bass—they could manage just fine. Maybe they’d practiced without him often. Still, all my thoughts were just speculation since I didn’t actually know anything.
‘Almost everyone’s gone.’ I glanced around the audience and saw far fewer people than before. Most had probably headed over to the food trucks lined up beside the plaza. I had nowhere else to go anyway, and I’d already bought food from the trucks, so I stayed put, eating my chicken skewers while watching the performance. Once I finished the long skewer, I moved on to the stir-fried noodles. Someone might think I was eating too much before a proper meal, but these weren’t large portions—just snacks, really.
‘Yeonbi, you keep eating stuff like this and you’ll gain weight.’ Jisu’s words suddenly came to mind. Still… it was a festival. You had to enjoy the food. ‘Jisu would probably make an exception for this.’ Thinking that to myself, I slurped down the remaining noodles. By the time I finished, the song had ended. The band moved straight into the next track. It was a familiar song, so I looked up at the stage—and locked eyes with the vocalist.
The moment our gazes met, his expression hardened with determination. He gave a small nod, gripped the mic tightly, and began to sing. ‘What’s this about?’ I had no idea. But unlike before, his voice didn’t shake. He sang slowly and carefully, and it sounded better than the first song. His lack of fundamentals was still obvious, but at least it was listenable now.
‘If he practiced a little more, he’d be decent.’ Compared to the first song, there was a clear improvement. It seemed like the problem had been a combination of insufficient practice and nerves. I finished off the chicken skewers and noodles while listening to their improved performance. Their set ended.
“Thank you!”
The vocalist, his tension finally gone, gave a bright, relieved greeting and bowed deeply. Then he looked straight at me and bowed again.
“You said you didn’t know him?”
“…I really don’t.”
I shook my head in protest at Nayeon’s words. I genuinely had no clue what was going on.
‘I’m screwed.’
That was Kim Hansol’s first thought the moment he stepped onto the stage. He’d always believed that as the band’s vocalist, all he needed to do was sing well, so he’d skipped most rehearsals. He hadn’t even properly practiced the basics he’d learned at the vocal academy. Where did this baseless confidence come from? It came from the compliments he’d always received from those around him. People said he had a nice voice, that he sang well, that whenever they went to karaoke for round two, everyone would praise him and try to drag him along. Because of that, he’d genuinely believed he was an excellent singer.
So he’d stepped onto the stage with confidence. But the stage was nothing like karaoke. From the very first rehearsal, he hadn’t been able to sync properly with the band. In hindsight, it made sense—he’d kept making excuses to skip practice, thinking one or two run-throughs would be enough. On stage, everything was different. The sound bounced around strangely, nerves made it hard to hear properly, and he couldn’t even tell if he was singing correctly. So he—
‘I really messed up…’
—started to panic badly. As expected, he missed the beat right from the start. His voice wouldn’t come out the way he wanted, just like during rehearsal. His first feeling was embarrassment. Then came guilt. ‘Everyone must have practiced so hard…’ The guitarist’s face looked grim as he kept strumming. The bassist and keyboardist also looked more tense than usual.
‘What do I do now…’
People kept leaving, and the audience seats were nearly empty. Just as he was starting to lose all motivation, he spotted her. ‘Huh…?’ The woman he’d seen at the vocal academy. Even as everyone else walked out, she and her friend stayed seated, listening to his performance all the way through.
‘…Of all people.’
It was mortifying. Showing this pathetic side to someone he’d privately badmouthed. At the same time, he felt grateful. That she’d stayed and watched even when everyone else had left. Embarrassment turned into gratitude, and gratitude turned into passion. The woman sitting there had unknowingly given Kim Hansol a small chance.
‘Focus more… like during our first rehearsal.’
After the disastrous first song ended, he took a deep breath and exhaled. Even if he got scolded, he’d give it his all. This was a situation he’d created, so he’d fix it himself. After making several resolutions in his head, he gripped the mic firmly and sang the first line with everything he had.
After watching a few other club performances, time flew by. At Nayeon’s suggestion, we left the performance area and headed to the hotel culinary department’s exhibition hall.
“Wow…”
It felt more like a restaurant than an exhibition hall. Was this what an outdoor restaurant felt like?
“They’re doing it outdoors again this year. Good thing it didn’t rain.”
“Did you participate last year?”
Nayeon shook her head lightly at my question.
“Back then I wasn’t a senior yet, so I just helped the upperclassmen.”
I nodded as I listened. So everyone here must be seniors, then. Or maybe only the ones actually cooking were seniors? Either way, as we slowly approached the restaurant area, a male student in a neat suit walked over to us. After checking Nayeon’s text, he guided us to a table with a tablecloth.
‘Is the table just a plastic desk?’ The texture felt different from the tables I usually sat at, and I had the sudden urge to lift the tablecloth and check, but I barely managed to suppress it. That would be rude.
“What do you want to eat?”
“The menu looks pretty professional.”
Was it handmade? It looked quite upscale.
“They probably outsourced this.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
I smiled faintly and opened the menu. It was neatly organized like a hotel menu, with main courses, sides, desserts, and so on. I let out a small gasp of admiration and picked out what I wanted. My choices included dishes I’d tried a few times at hotels and some that the students had created themselves. Nayeon ordered similarly to me but went for lighter options overall. If I was going for meat-heavy dishes, she was leaning toward healthier choices.
“I always notice this—you really love meat, Yeonbi.”
“Because it’s delicious.”
At my straightforward answer, she laughed loudly and nodded. We chatted about university life, club activities, and my own college experiences until the appetizers finally arrived. They came out faster than expected.
“Oh…”
Even though they’d arrived quickly, the quality looked comparable to hotel food. The plating was well done, and the person serving us didn’t act like a typical college student. They seemed more like actual hotel staff. Especially the way they explained each dish and how to eat it—it really gave off a professional vibe.
“Nayeon, are all the people here actually college students?”
“Yeah, they’re all hotel culinary department students.”
No matter how I looked at it, it was impressive. And admirable. Even though I’d become wealthy, I was still floundering, while people who had clear goals and dreams and were moving toward them seemed far more impressive. And Nayeon, who had given up working with me to pursue that dream…
‘It’s a bit of a shame.’
I smiled faintly and slowly began tasting the dishes as they arrived one by one.
“Oh… this is really good.”
“Better than my cooking?”
“Hmm… I still like the food you make the most, Nayeon.”
At my words, she laughed happily. After finishing our pleasant meal, we stood up and headed to the register. Comparing the taste of the hotel food to this place… the hotel was definitely better. It was only natural—comparing dishes made by experienced chefs versus students didn’t make sense. Still, the food here had a unique charm you could only find in this setting. Creative attempts, ingredients you’d never imagine at a hotel. Maybe that was why I’d enjoyed it even more than hotel food.
“Excuse me, we’d like to pay.”
The student at the register nodded and asked for our table number. Meanwhile, Nayeon said she’d pay and handed her card to the student while holding my shoulder. But the response we got was completely unexpected.
“Ah, the bill was already taken care of by the person over there.”
“…What?”
The student pointed toward the vocalist from earlier—the one who had bowed to me on stage. The moment he saw us, he gave a small bow and quickly ran off somewhere.
“You’re still going to say you don’t know him?”
“…This is driving me crazy.”
Really, I had no idea what was going on.