58– Da Capo(6)
58– Da Capo(6)
58.
Kim Taeyoung sat in front of the piano, his expression tight.
In that moment, what he feared most wasn’t the audience, and it wasn’t even Yoon Hajun, who had written the song for him. It was the piano right in front of him.
Thanks to regular maintenance, it didn’t look old, but it was still an old instrument. Taeyoung didn’t even know exactly how old. The piano had been in his house since before he could read Korean. It was simply… there, as naturally as if it were part of the house itself.
It might even be older than me.
As a child, instead of his mother’s lullabies, he heard this piano’s melodies. And when he started walking, he started “playing” it.
Well… could that really be called playing?
All he did was press the keys with his tiny fingers and go plink-plonk. But that was the beginning of Kim Taeyoung.
Ever since then, he kept playing that piano. When he attended lessons, when a teacher who recognized his talent taught him, when he won competitions, even after he received sponsorship from one of the world’s leading piano companies… he still played that piano, as naturally as breathing.
But that ended after the accident.
After he quit piano, he never touched it again. He couldn’t even remember how long it had been since he last sat there. That was how desperately he’d avoided it.
Taeyoung let out a rough breath. The excitement he’d felt moments ago vanished like it had never existed. The clothes he was wearing suddenly felt suffocating.
The outfit was the one he had prepared to wear at the competition he couldn’t attend because of the accident. The sleeves and hem were short now because he’d grown, but he wore it anyway.
To end things properly.
He flexed his fingers once, closed his eyes, then opened them and nodded toward the staff.
It was his signal that he was ready.
At the same time, the dark stage lit up. A warm yellow spotlight shone down on Taeyoung, and the audience reacted with startled expressions. No one had expected Kim Taeyoung to bring a piano. Excited whispers rippled through the seats.
Hearing them, Hajun let out a quiet sigh.
Others might not know, but he did. He knew exactly what kind of resolve Taeyoung had brought to that piano.
That was why Hajun felt like he couldn’t breathe. A storm of emotions churned inside him—guilt, pride, gratitude, and more.
He clenched his fist and forced it all down.
Soon, music flowed from the speakers.
And following the melody, Taeyoung began to sing.
“Remember, the very first moment.
The time we spent together.”
His voice came through the mic attached to the piano.
Very quietly.
Almost in a whisper.
Gasps escaped from the audience.
Da Capo was completely different from anything Taeyoung had sung before. Normally, he only did upbeat songs. But Da Capo was far from upbeat.
It was sorrowful—achingly so.
The beautiful piano melody, combined with Taeyoung’s low voice, pulled hard at the listeners’ emotions. The audience stared blankly at him, as if they were being drawn into the song.
“Even if I try, try to look away,
Those times call me back again.”
Taeyoung’s voice trembled.
Not from excitement, but from the way he was forcing down something enormous.
Yet the trembling blended into the song like a deliberate technique. Whether he realized it or not, he poured everything into holding himself together.
Not yet.
Not now.
There was a part later when he had to let it out.
So he held it back with all his strength.
But emotion leaked through anyway, mocking his effort.
Realizing it, Taeyoung’s fingers trembled faintly.
I can’t help it.
The clothes he wore, the piano in front of him, the lyrics dragging up the past—everything made those memories surface.
The last competition he couldn’t attend.
That unforgettable season of that waltz.
The memory of that day.
“I lied, deceiving even myself.
Made excuses, hid you away.”
The emotions stacked, layer upon layer. His tone rose, the trembling grew stronger, and the audience held their breath. They could feel it instinctively—
Something enormous was about to come.
And when Taeyoung’s emotions swelled to their absolute limit, the music suddenly cut off.
The audience’s faces flickered with confusion.
What? A sound issue?
Just then, Taeyoung lifted his right hand.
And with all his strength, he slammed the keys.
BOOM.
The piano screamed out a massive sound.
He did it again. Then again.
As if he were vomiting out everything he’d built up.
BOOM. BOOM.
And then—
He began to play.
Using only his right hand, Taeyoung started playing the piano. At the same time, a beautiful piano melody flowed from the speakers—
the grand piano recording he had done himself.
“Ah.”
A soft sound of awe came from somewhere in the audience.
The melody from the speakers and Taeyoung’s live playing blended together, creating the illusion of a duet.
Taeyoung poured every emotion he’d built up into the performance.
Rage. Despair. Compromise. Frustration. Depression. Regret. Acceptance. Sorrow. Attachment.
The future he lost because of the accident.
The piano he forced himself to ignore.
The days he pretended to be fine and laughed like nothing was wrong.
All the negative emotions he had suppressed burst out.
Jealousy toward the new champion who had taken his place.
The inferiority he felt watching the classical performance at the festival.
Resentment toward the father who was driving the car.
The despair carved into the scar on his left wrist.
And the smile he used to desperately cover it all.
Chosen by the piano, only to be abandoned by it.
That was why he resented it, hated it, denied it, and turned away from it—
“The times I tried so hard to ignore,
I’ll brush the dust off them now.”
He sang, packing every emotion into every note, and the tempo quickened in response.
After the accident, Taeyoung lived with a smile. He laughed even when nothing was funny. He talked on purpose. Even when he had nothing to say, he said whatever came to mind.
Otherwise, anxiety and dread would devour him.
He took antidepressants and tried desperately to act fine—to look normal.
If he had never met Yoon Hajun—
If he had never shared his past—
If Hajun had not written this song for him—
Taeyoung would have lived his whole life lying to himself.
“I’ll return to the beginning,
and face that moment again.”
Da Capo.
Return to the start and play again.
But even if Taeyoung returned to the beginning, he could never play like he used to. His piano was already over.
But a new performance was possible.
Not with the piano—
but with his voice.
Taeyoung stopped his hand.
He stopped playing the piano.
He let go of the past he had clung to so pathetically.
Then he stood from the bench and pulled the mic free from its stand.
“Don’t apologize.
I’m okay.”
His pitch rose. He switched into his usual rock-style singing. At the same time, the piano sound faded, replaced by guitar, drums, and bass.
“I’ll carry the me that you ignored!”
He sang as if tearing everything out of himself, as if speaking directly to his own soul.
He had once been asked a question.
What does the piano mean to you?
Back then, he couldn’t answer.
Practicing was boring and exhausting. Repeating the same things made him weary. When he made a mistake, he wanted to cry. He felt pathetic, crushed, miserable.
But when he finished a performance successfully, he felt like he owned the world.
What word could ever hold all of that?
How could he explain those feelings with language?
“So please, remember me.
Live remembering me.”
If he said thinking of the piano didn’t hurt, it would be a lie. Even now, just looking at one made his chest ache.
But he couldn’t keep turning away.
He couldn’t stay trapped forever in that season of waltz.
It was time to move forward.
Standing beside the piano, Taeyoung stepped forward, past the motionless instrument, toward the center of the stage.
Then—
he turned his back on the piano.
“Even if we return to the beginning,
we can never be together again.”
He sang, and the music grew faster and faster. Taeyoung unleashed soaring high notes to match—ad-libs that weren’t in the original.
Those high notes shook the audience’s hearts.
Watching him, Hajun bit his lip hard. Taeyoung’s emotions crashed into him like a wave, and if he didn’t hold it back, he felt like he would cry without realizing it.
He endured.
At some point, his clenched fist had loosened without him noticing.
In his past life, Hajun had never been close to Kim Taeyoung. The Taeyoung he remembered was always dazzling, flamboyant—a star destined to shine.
But the Taeyoung on stage now was nothing like that.
He wasn’t glamorous or radiant.
He looked like an ordinary person, desperately struggling to escape his past.
“I’ll return to the beginning and move forward.”
Taeyoung’s vocal ended.
But the music hadn’t finished yet.
The instruments faded one by one.
First the drums.
Then the guitar.
Then the bass.
Finally, only the piano remained.
Its melody fluttered away like petals in the wind.
Softly.
Softer.
Until it scattered completely.
The song ended.
The audience stayed silent. They didn’t know what to say about this completely different side of Taeyoung, who was known for energetic performances.
Then, on stage, Taeyoung opened his mouth.
“My song’s good, right?”
Laughter burst from the audience.
Taeyoung smiled too. It was a twisted smile, but somehow it looked much better than the ones he used to fake.
“I think so too.”
He muttered and stepped down from the stage.
His heart felt like it might burst. He had stood on stage countless times before, but somehow, right now, he felt more overwhelmed than ever.
Ah.
He thought, and then realized why.
Until now, he had always sung someone else’s songs.
But this time—
he had sung his own song on stage for the first time.
So this is what it feels like.
Maybe now he understood why Goyo and Sohyang looked like that on stage, why they shone so fiercely.
Seriously.
So unfair.
They kept these feelings all to themselves?
As he came offstage, Taeyoung looked up at the ceiling.
His ears rang.
His fingers hurt.
His throat hurt.
His head spun.
And yet—
he was happy.
He wanted to get back on stage as soon as possible. He wanted to sing more songs.
Those thoughts flooded in.
It was the moment Kim Taeyoung truly fell in love with singing.
§ § §
The second day of the Winter Festival ended.
The Practical Music Department teachers and the department head sat together and discussed the performances they had seen.
Naturally, the first person they talked about was Han Goyo.
“As expected of Han Goyo.”
“At this rate, she’s definitely going to become an incredible singer.”
“I have high expectations too.”
The teachers smiled as they spoke about her. Excellent grades, obedient, and outstanding vocals—of course they adored her.
Among students, she was known as the “icon of disconnection,” because no one knew what she was thinking.
But to the teachers, she was their most beloved student.
They talked about her for quite a while, until Department Head Lee Sanggyu spoke carefully.
“What about Kim Taeyoung?”
“…Hmm.”
At the mention of his name, the teachers hesitated.
Kim Taeyoung.
Once a renowned pianist, then someone who quit because he was “bored” and transferred into the Practical Music Department as a vocal major.
Opinions on him were divided.
Some said it was arrogant to quit piano because it was boring and start singing, that he was looking down on others.
Others said he was still young, so what was the problem? He had talent, and that was that.
Of course, that division only existed within the Practical Music Department.
In the Classical Department, his reputation was the worst.
But if they had seen his stage today, even they would have had no choice but to acknowledge him.
“Of course, his piano skill is outstanding, but after today, I think he made the right decision switching majors. He definitely has talent as a vocalist.”
“I agree. His emotional delivery is exceptional.”
“His expressiveness is great too. And his showmanship was fantastic. You can’t really show that kind of showmanship in piano competitions. As a singer, it suits him better.”
Even the teachers who didn’t like him had to admit it. His performance was simply that good.
“And it’s not like becoming a singer means he can’t play piano at all.”
“Right. I didn’t think he’d be able to handle a song like that.”
The compliments kept coming.
Even his teacher, Ha Hyoju, nodded. She had found his performance compelling enough that she wanted to work with him someday.
“Taeyoung’s stage was great, but the song itself was amazing,” Kim Hanbit, the vocal teacher, said.
Everyone nodded.
Taeyoung’s performance was brilliant, but without the song, it wouldn’t have been possible.
“The brief silence before the piano came in, the stage direction—it was excellent. And the song itself was very good.”
“It could’ve felt like a cliché rock ballad, but it was incredibly refined.”
“I don’t think it was an existing song. Was it Taeyoung’s own composition?”
“No. Hajun wrote it for him.”
Ha Hyoju answered, and at that name, the teachers nodded in understanding.
Yoon Hajun.
Among the composition majors at Seolwon Arts High, he had shown the most outstanding ability. Every song he wrote became a hot topic—even among teachers.
And the scariest part was that he was still improving in real time.
Of course, his first song, “Blame,” had already been excellent, but it leaned too far into a minor emotional tone—good to hear once on stage, but tiring if listened to repeatedly.
As time went on, his songs became more comfortable, more structured, in a way anyone could enjoy.
“The song he performed with his sister at the festival—‘Come Home’—was fantastic.”
“Yes. I thought it was excellent both commercially and artistically. Especially how his sister’s voice matched the atmosphere of the song.”
“That sister of his was very good too. Do you think she’ll come to our school?”
“Hajun said he’s aiming for that.”
“Haha, that’s wonderful news.”
At Ha Hyoju’s words, Lee Sanggyu nodded, then asked with subtle anticipation, “Hajun’s performance is tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, he has the ending stage tomorrow.”
“That I’m looking forward to.”
Lee Sanggyu licked his lips, as if savoring the thought.