It started with a knock.
Three soft taps on a steel rehearsal door,
the kind you only find in basements where the air smells like old speakers and old hopes.
I was there because someone had told someone
that I had a voice worth hearing —
but only if I was willing to forget everything I'd done before.
So I stood there.
Bag over my shoulder,
unfinished lyrics in my pocket,
wearing no makeup, no name.
Just me.
---
He opened the door —
Joon.
Tall.
Sharp eyes.
Not cruel, but not soft either.
He looked at me like a chord he wasn't sure how to resolve.
> "You're late," he said.
> "You're early," I replied.
He didn't smile.
Good.
Neither did I.
---
Inside the studio, there was no polished glass, no agents, no assistants.
Just old chairs, cables like vines, and a laptop that looked like it had been punched more than once.
Miyeon was already there —
headphones on, boots up on the table, scribbling lyrics on a ramen receipt.
She didn't even look up.
> "You're the ghost girl, right?"
I blinked.
> "Excuse me?"
> "The one who vanished after the heartbreak album.
Half the underground still talks about that song.
The last note? It broke people."
I wanted to say something clever.
But instead, I sat down and whispered:
> "It broke me, too."
---
We didn't talk much after that.
Joon played some chords — weird, dissonant, beautiful.
Miyeon hummed nonsense melodies that somehow sounded more honest than any lyric I'd written.
I listened.
And listened.
Then I opened my notebook.
---
I read the line I had written on the train that morning:
> "I wanted to be a cathedral.
But I kept burning like a cigarette."
They stopped.
Joon looked at me. Really looked.
Then said:
> "Say it again.
Slower."
I did.
He hit 'record.'
Just like that, we began.
---
That night, I didn't go home.
We worked until 3 a.m.
No one argued.
No one explained.
We just let the music guide us —
messy, impulsive, real.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was the first thing I'd made that didn't apologize for how much it hurt.
---
In the days that followed, we met again.
Every time, we got louder.
Riskier.
We built tracks from city sounds: train brakes, market sellers, my breath.
I sang about things I hadn't said out loud —
about my father's absence,
about my fear of turning into a product again,
about the kiss that didn't save me.
Miyeon cried once.
She tried to hide it.
I didn't mention it.
That's how we knew we trusted each other.
---
Then came the idea:
a secret show.
No flyers. No promo. Just word-of-mouth.
A warehouse with no stage.
Just us, in a circle of people,
singing into the dark.
Joon said it best:
> "We're not here to impress.
We're here to remember."
---
The night arrived.
They came.
Not hundreds.
But enough.
Fans.
Wanderers.
People who didn't want hits — they wanted truth.
We sang.
And for the first time in my life, I didn't feel like I was performing.
I felt like I was returning.
Returning to a version of myself I had lost in glitter and pressure and pain.
And when I sang that final line:
> "I am not your tragedy —
I am my own symphony,"
They didn't cheer.
They stood.
Some cried.
Some just closed their eyes.
And I stood there —
not a star, not a victim,
but something else entirely:
A woman who had nothing to prove.
Only something to share.