Sick of It

The lobby doors opened, and Yeon-jae stepped inside. Walking the polished marble corridor, she glanced down at her wristwatch. About thirty minutes remained until practice ended. She had arrived a little earlier than usual today.

Telling herself she had time to spare, she let her steps slow. Even as she headed toward the elevators, her eyes swept the room. It had become a habit—the moment she set foot in this place, she scanned the surroundings. Just in case that man might be around.

As her thoughts drifted, inevitably, to Je-heon, she caught her lower lip between her teeth. He hadn't shown his face since that first practice. A man that proud would surely have been stung by the rudeness she'd shown him that day. Of course she knew she ought to apologize—it had all sprung from a misunderstanding.

It's not that easy, though.

Facing him in this situation—and getting the word sorry out of her mouth—felt like something that would never happen, even if it killed her. The reminder of her impossible position drew a sigh from her. She almost felt grateful he hadn't been coming to the Seoul Arts Center at all. She, too, had taken to arriving around the time practice ended, just to cut down the chances of running into him. They would keep their distance for a while, she decided. When the time was right, she would talk to him.

Yeon-jae started walking toward the elevator again.

"Ji-woo's mom! What brings you here so early?"

"I wrapped up what I had earlier a little sooner than usual."

As she returned the greeting, Hye-gyeong—Seo-ha's mother—came up to her. She must have stopped by a café; both her hands were full of drinks.

"Perfect timing. Want to watch the kids practice today?"

"......"

"Honestly, Elgar's Salut d'Amour isn't a hard piece, but Ji-woo's really good. They said it's his first time playing it, too."

"Is that so?"

Watching Hye-gyeong pull out her phone and play a video, Yeon-jae offered an awkward, dismissive smile.

"The video looks fine, but..."

"Fine? You only think that because you're not into this kind of thing. This is a really great opportunity."

Yeon-jae tried to wave her off, but Hye-gyeong was having none of it.

"Seo-ha's preparing for a competition, you know. And the orchestra teacher working with the kids right now is really famous."

Hye-gyeong was practically bubbling over, talking with a little snort of excitement. As she searched on her phone and rattled off Ms. Tami's credentials, Yeon-jae's lips parted. She already knew all of this. The industry was a small world, and she had looked it up herself the day she had given permission for Ji-woo to practice. It was a teacher far too distinguished for children learning as a hobby.

"And that's not even all. Five-year-olds participating in an ensemble concert—do you know what an incredible credential that is?"

"......"

"Later, when it comes to early college admissions, this is going to look amazing on their records. Other people would kill for this kind of experience. They couldn't buy it even if they wanted to."

College admissions. It felt like a future so distant it barely registered. Especially since she had no intention of having Ji-woo major in classical music.

"By the way, does Ji-woo take private lessons? Or a music academy? Where does he go?"

Unaware of what was going through Yeon-jae's mind, Hye-gyeong pressed on in the same flushed, excited voice. As the questions came raining down like bombs, Yeon-jae waved her hands with an awkward look.

"No. Ji-woo... he just does the after-school class at kindergarten."

Hye-gyeong's eyes went round. Even as she answered, Yeon-jae clenched both hands tight. She could already picture what would come next from that startled face and those twitching lips.

"Why aren't you teaching him? With talent like that?"

Hye-gyeong's animated voice rang in her ears. Whenever the subject of piano came up, it was this reaction, every single time, without fail. Even Professor Lee, whom she was close with, asked her at every opportunity why she wasn't teaching him.

"Since it's come to this, you should have him trained properly. Or at least send him to an academy."

At the familiar repertoire about to start all over again, Yeon-jae shook her head.

"I already know. You don't have to tell me."

A bitter edge had settled at the corners of her mouth, which had gone slack and weary.

"Just go in and watch once. Look, I'm not saying this for nothing—Ji-woo really needs to play piano."

By then the two of them had gotten off the elevator and were walking toward the hall. They stopped in front of it. With one hand Hye-gyeong pulled the door open; with the other, she pushed Yeon-jae in the back. Propelled forward, Yeon-jae stepped inside.

Practice was in full swing. A brilliant violin solo was unfolding across the room. Her gaze shifted from Seo-ha, dazzling on the violin, and she was just looking for the piano when something else caught her eye—something that held her more than any child on that stage.

A familiar figure, seen from behind. A single seat not far from the stage. Leaning deep into the chair, watching the children with an indifferent gaze—Je-heon.

Just then a piano melody that had begun softly grew fuller, resonating with the violin. Even through the children's ensemble, Yeon-jae's eyes stayed fixed on him. Then the body that had been facing forward twisted, and he turned around.

The moment their gazes locked, Yeon-jae spun on her heel.

"Ji-woo's mom, where are you going?"

"Something urgent came up... Call me when it's over. I'll come pick him up in the lobby."

Leaving Hye-gyeong's puzzled stare behind her, Yeon-jae walked straight out of the hall. It was just their eyes meeting. She had no idea why she was reacting like this.

Once outside, she found herself ducking into the room next door without thinking. She flipped on the light and saw it was a practice room. She scanned the space—neither small nor large—then walked across it. I'll just sit for a bit and leave when practice is over, she thought, and dropped onto the piano bench.

"Why did I do that. He must have seen me."

Their eyes had met, so he would have noticed how obviously she was running away. A delayed wave of embarrassment washed over her, and she dragged a hand down her face. After scrubbing her palms over her cheeks, she pulled out her phone. The time on the screen showed about twenty minutes remaining.

She should never have come early. If she had known that man would be here. Yeon-jae chewed over the pointless regret.

The heavy door opened, and a low voice settled against her ear. Her shoulders flinched of their own accord. She didn't need to turn around. The owner of that voice was already vividly clear in her mind. How had he even known she was in here? Yeon-jae pressed her fingers to her forehead, where a throbbing headache was starting.

"What are you doing in here."

Apparently frustrated by her silence, the man's footsteps continued. The closer that measured tread came, the drier her mouth felt. She wished he wouldn't come any closer—but Je-heon closed the distance to the piano anyway and stopped.

"Are you avoiding me?"

"Me?"

She was, in fact, avoiding him—but she couldn't say that, so she pretended not to know.

"Of course not."

A short, scoffing laugh, and his hand settled on the piano. Je-heon's weight shifted forward, bringing him down close toward her.

"Then what are you doing in here?"

By now their gazes were locked, thick and unyielding. The man's eyes—asking a question he already knew the answer to—looked as amused as the corner of his mouth, which had tugged upward.

"You're not going to tell me you were about to play the piano."

You said you were sick of the piano—the omitted words seemed to hang in the air anyway. Je-heon's lips twitched, as if he were about to say something. Watching him, Yeon-jae pressed a key.

Whether it was some strange defiance, or the thought that playing would be better than talking to him, she didn't know. The next thing she realized, she was pressing the keys. Je-heon's brows, which had twitched as if displeased at first, settled back down. His gaze held, as if to say, Go on, then. Let's see.

Yeon-jae looked away from him and turned to the piano. Her fingers lifted from the keys and began to move again, smoothly. She let her hands go where they wanted. A score she had forgotten for years surfaced, piece by piece, in her mind.

She had thought she would never be able to play the way she used to. If she couldn't play brilliantly, she had decided, there was no point. So unless it was a matter of making a living, she hadn't touched the keys.

This man made it easy. Overturning that resolution of hers, shaking her heart—he did both.

By the time the performance had reached its middle section, Yeon-jae's middle finger began to stiffen. The paralysis had come without warning. What started as a slight rigidity in her middle finger spread in turn to her ring finger, then her index, until her hand stopped completely.

Yeon-jae looked down. She tried to force it to move, but the hand that had frozen on the keys filled her vision, unmoving. A trickle of sweat ran down her spine as she bit down on her lip.

I don't want to be like this in front of him.

Move. Please.

She was still straining to put force into her hand when warmth pressed against her back, and an arm reached around from behind. Ten long fingers settled over the keys, light as a breath, and began to press them in her place.

A voice mixed with breath settled against her ear.

A voice that sank as deep as a flat marked on a note.

Each murmured word lingered in the curve of her ear, resonating deep.