54 – Main. (2)
54 – Main. (2)
54.
“Eat.”
Seo Chaerim smiled as she said it to Jin Sohyang and Han Goyo.
The three of them had left the practice room and come to a high-end café. They needed to talk, but the practice room’s dreary atmosphere wasn’t the right place for it. At the same time, talking somewhere public was risky—Jin Sohyang was too famous—so Chaerim had taken a taxi and brought them to a café with private rooms.
She took a sip of tea and looked between the two of them.
The distance between them was… subtle. They weren’t sitting at opposite ends, but they weren’t close either—just that awkward gap, like the subtle tug-of-war they had shown while singing.
Chaerim let out a small laugh.
So neither of them was the type to pretend or play nice. That made things easier. Actually… good.
“Not going to eat?” Chaerim asked again.
At her words, Sohyang swallowed.
The table was covered in desserts meant to show off: tiramisu that was lightly bitter and sweet, macarons stuffed with filling, fluffy soufflé pancakes. The sweet aroma alone was tempting.
Sohyang’s hand trembled. She loved sweets. She loved dessert.
But she couldn’t eat them.
She was a current idol. Dieting wasn’t just about looking good—it was part of the job. Calories, aftermath, bloating… just thinking about it was terrifying.
While Sohyang fought herself, Goyo picked up a fork. She cut off a piece of tiramisu and ate it, and her eyes widened slightly.
Soft ladyfingers soaked in bitter coffee, followed by rich, smooth mascarpone. The balance was perfect, flooding her mouth with a happiness she hadn’t expected.
“It’s good, right?” Chaerim asked when she caught that subtle shift in Goyo’s expression.
Goyo gave a small nod. Chaerim smiled, satisfied.
“The patissier here is famous. You’ll regret it if you don’t try.”
Then she looked at Sohyang, as if deliberately tempting her.
Sohyang struggled for a moment, then gave up.
Screw it.
She picked up her fork, scooped a bite of tiramisu, and put it in her mouth.
“It’s good…” she blurted without thinking.
It really was. Too good. The kind of taste that made life feel worth living.
After that, Sohyang and Goyo focused on eating in silence. Even Goyo, who normally had no appetite for indulgence, kept reaching for different desserts this time.
Before long, the plates emptied.
The tiramisu disappeared fastest.
Their forks collided over the last bite.
They looked up, eyes meeting, and at the same time, both cautiously lifted their forks again.
Chaerim, who had been quietly watching, finally spoke.
“Why are you yielding?”
“Huh?” Sohyang blinked, caught off guard. “Yielding? What do you mean?”
Chaerim sipped her tea as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Maybe I heard wrong, but in the song earlier, it didn’t sound like either of you were yielding at all. Especially you, Goyo.”
She looked directly at Goyo.
Goyo set her fork down and stayed silent.
It was a bullseye.
Whether in her solo section or the duet, Goyo hadn’t yielded once. She sang as if the song belonged to her alone, pushing forward without hesitation.
“I may not sing well,” Chaerim added, “but I’m quick at reading the room.”
“…”
“Not going to answer?”
Chaerim asked again, but she didn’t press. She just waited.
The private room fell silent.
Goyo slowly lowered her gaze.
How could she explain this feeling?
Frustration.
That was the closest word.
Every time she sang this song, it felt like something was squeezing her heart, a vague, inexplicable anxiety clawing at her. She didn’t know how to label it, but she knew she hated it. It was worse than the suffocating feeling in that house.
It was the first time she had ever felt that kind of anxiety while singing, and it unsettled her deeply.
The confusion made her shut down.
Goyo already didn’t communicate much, and the moment an unfamiliar emotion took hold, she withdrew completely.
After thinking for a long time, she finally spoke.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“I just… feel frustrated the whole time I’m singing it,” Goyo said, voice low. “It feels like I could sing it perfectly, but I can’t.”
“Hm.” Chaerim nodded. You feel like you could do it perfectly, but you can’t. She already knew why.
“Goyo.”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever done chorus or ensemble work?”
Goyo shook her head.
Chorus… now that she thought about it, she hadn’t.
“Then have you ever sung with someone else?”
“That too, no.”
Goyo always sang alone. Even when she sang “Rough,” which had originally been a group song, she performed it alone.
“That’s the problem,” Chaerim said simply. “Singing alone and singing with others are completely different. You can each sing your parts and stitch them together, but that’s just being on the same stage, not sharing a stage.”
Goyo watched her, expression guarded.
Chaerim leaned back slightly, then said, “Let’s make one thing clear. This song is your song.”
“…Sorry?” Goyo blinked.
Her song?
But she wasn’t singing alone. She was singing with Sohyang and Chaerim.
How could it be hers?
It’s the three of us.
The thought made that earlier frustration flare again.
Chaerim turned to Sohyang. “Sohyang, you get what I mean, right?”
“Yeah. More or less,” Sohyang said, nodding.
Unlike Goyo, she understood instinctively. She was in an idol group. Even in group songs, there was always a core member who led the track—the “owner” of the song.
And the moment she heard this one, she knew it belonged to Goyo.
Sohyang’s part started calm and slow. Chaerim’s section sped up slightly. But Goyo’s final part was drastically faster and higher. If you only listened to part one and part three, you’d think they were different songs. Then Goyo drove the song aggressively forward. Then came the duet, and then another solo for her.
Most songs had a highlight—the part the composer wanted to show, the part the audience waited for.
In this song, that highlight was Goyo’s section.
Sohyang’s part and Chaerim’s part were build-up. Build-up for Goyo.
And Sohyang wasn’t unhappy about it. She knew how important proper build-up was.
“No matter what anyone says,” Chaerim continued, “this song is yours. Sohyang and I are here to set the stage for you.”
Sohyang frowned briefly, then nodded.
Goyo stayed silent.
This song is my song. The other two are my foundation.
The idea didn’t sit comfortably with her, yet at the same time, it made something inside her tighten.
“So…” Goyo hesitated, then asked, “are you saying he made this song for me?”
“He?” Chaerim tilted her head.
“Oh—Hajun,” Goyo corrected quickly.
“Yes.”
At that, Sohyang flinched.
Watching the reaction, Chaerim smiled inwardly.
Well, well.
“That’s right. Hajun wrote this song for you,” Chaerim said. “That’s why your opinion matters the most. If there’s something you want—if you want to perform it perfectly—you have to tell me and Sohyang what you need. If you don’t say it, we’ll never know.”
The tug-of-war between Sohyang and Goyo hadn’t started from Sohyang. It had been Goyo. She had put up walls. If they wanted to break that, communication wasn’t optional.
Goyo looked at Chaerim.
If you don’t say it, no one knows.
She’d heard something like that before.
“So if there’s anything you want to say, say it,” Chaerim coaxed, voice gentler now. “For Hajun, who made this song for you.”
Goyo hesitated.
This song… was made for her?
The anxiety and frustration that had gripped her began to fade, like a mirage dissolving.
Goyo nodded slowly.
If he made it for her, then she had to sing it perfectly. They had promised a future together.
She turned to Sohyang.
Their eyes met—truly met—for the first time.
Goyo opened her mouth.
“Don’t force yourself into the high-note section.”
“…What?” Sohyang blinked.
Even Chaerim looked surprised. She had expected Goyo to speak up, but not like this, not right away.
“Only do chorus at the beginning. Don’t mix your voice in,” Goyo continued, expression serious. “When voices mix, I can’t focus. Especially in the ‘freely’ part.”
“But Hajun told me to—”
“And don’t scat,” Goyo cut in. “Just hum instead.”
She kept giving directions, one after another, as if reading off a list.
Each time, Sohyang responded, flustered. “Yes…? No, but… wait…?”
Finally, Sohyang’s face twisted with exasperation and she snapped.
“That scat part? Hajun told me to do it! And yes, the song belongs to you, but do you know how important that scat is there? You want me to hum instead? With my voice? Humming will get completely buried—I won’t even be heard!”
“Yeah,” Goyo said.
“…Did you just say ‘yeah’?”
“Yeah.”
“HEY!!”
Sohyang slammed the table.
Goyo, unexpectedly, was savage—and stubborn.
Chaerim watched them and smiled, genuinely pleased.
Finally. She’s acting like a person.
Up until now, Goyo had felt less like a person and more like a doll that happened to sing.
“You’re one to talk when you can’t even dance!” Sohyang shot back.
“Me?”
“I heard everything from Hajun! Fine. When we start stage direction and gesture practice, we’ll see. I’ll laugh with Hajun when you mess up!”
“I dance well,” Goyo said shamelessly.
Sohyang stared at her like she was insane, and the two of them started going back and forth without stopping.
Without realizing it, they had moved closer than they’d been at the start.
Chaerim finished the last of her tea and set the cup down with a soft clink.
She watched Goyo.
She had heard that entertainment companies had sent Goyo offers, and that she had rejected them all. From what she’d heard, Goyo didn’t plan to sign anywhere yet.
Tempting.
Could Chaerim recruit her?
She wanted to. Badly.
…Or maybe she should recruit Hajun instead. That might actually be easier.
With that thought, Chaerim watched the bickering pair, a faint smirk lingering on her lips.
§ § §
“Achoo.”
“What, are you catching a cold?”
At Kim Taeyoung’s question, I shook my head.
I was in the recording studio with him.
Originally, I’d planned to watch Sohyang, Goyo, and Chaerim practice today, but Chaerim suddenly said she wanted to “talk” and dragged the two of them out. With nothing left for me to do, I came here instead.
“No. I just feel like someone’s talking about me. My ears are itchy.”
“Who would be talking about you?”
“True,” I muttered, nodding as I sniffled, then looked at Taeyoung.
His right-hand piano recording was finally done, and just like he’d said, today’s performance was on an entirely different level from yesterday’s.
“Today’s me is a level above yesterday’s me,” huh?
“When are you doing the recording?” Taeyoung asked.
“You mean vocals?”
“Yeah.”
“Right after your piano recording is done.”
“What about stage direction and all that?”
“It’s your stage. You handle it.” I paused. “Though… there is one thing I want.”
“What?”
“Put a piano on stage.”
Da Capo was the stage where Taeyoung parted ways with the piano, just like in the past. Having a piano there would make it feel complete. The lyrics even included the word “piano.”
Taeyoung thought for a moment, then nodded.
“Not bad.”
“Right?”
“Yeah.”
He went quiet again, thinking. Then he asked, “Hey. Are you planning to release this song as an official track?”
“Yeah. I’m thinking about it.”
Honestly, I wanted to release everything I’d made so far. Starting next year, I’d probably do it seriously.
“Then… what about an agency?”
“I don’t know if I need one,” I admitted. “I’m not sure.”
To be honest, I really didn’t know.
Signing with a typical entertainment company came with pros and cons. I was a composer. If I signed, that could mean I only composed for them. If I didn’t want that, I’d have to stay freelance, but freelancing had plenty of drawbacks too. I’d have to handle releases, registrations—everything—by myself, and promotion would be nearly impossible.
In this era, having a good song didn’t guarantee success.
Sure, if I worked with artists already signed to a good company, they’d promote the song, but aside from Jin Sohyang, most of the people I’d worked with hadn’t even debuted yet.
“Isn’t there a good company somewhere?” I muttered. “One where I don’t have to write only for them, and they guarantee producer autonomy?”
I’d heard hip-hop labels sometimes did that, but given my style, it wouldn’t be easy.
Then I looked at Taeyoung. “Why are you asking?”
He made a serious face.
“I’m thinking… maybe I should join an entertainment company.”
“What?” I blinked, stunned.
I knew he’d gotten a ton of offers after the festival. He had rejected them all because he wanted to enjoy school life more.
And now, all of a sudden, he was considering joining one?
“Did something change your mind?”
Taeyoung looked at me, then smirked.
“Yeah. Because of someone.”