Lexie wasn't sure how long she'd been quiet.
Even now, Lexie sat slouched in her chair, her hoodie discarded, face finally free of the suffocating mask. The heat of it still clung to her skin, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness sitting on her chest.
Junny hadn't said anything either—not in the way that pressed or prodded. He just sat there, patient, like he knew this wasn't something that should be rushed. She appreciated that more than she could say.
His brows were furrowed in the kind of quiet patience that said he wouldn't press — but he also wasn't letting her off the hook.
"You gonna tell me why I was dragged into a 'mere vocal range session' like it was a hostage negotiation?" he pushed the question again.
Lexie huffed through a dry laugh.
"That obvious, huh?"
Junny gave her a look.
She leaned back, tilting her head until it hit the top of her chair. The ceiling above her blurred, the fluorescent light buzzing quietly in the silence.
"I met him when I was ten."
Junny blinked. "Mark?"
Lexie gave a small nod. "Back in Vancouver. Both our families had just moved into the same neighborhood around the same time. I think his family came from Toronto before that... mine was from the Philippines."
Junny straightened slightly, now listening more intently.
"We were neighbors. Same block. Same bus stop. He was the first person who didn't look at me weird when I spoke English with a Filipino accent. I had just gotten adopted a few months before. Everything was strange, foreign... except him."
There was a soft ache in her voice, the kind that didn't quite need to be loud to be heard.
"We were just kids then... but we clicked fast," she let out a soft, breathy laugh, eyes distant like she was watching something on the studio wall that wasn't really there.
"I don't know what it was—maybe the fact that we were both new, or maybe that we were both a little... displaced. But I found him easy to be around. We liked the same things—music and literature.Talked about poetry. Stupid jokes. Dumb little promises."
Junny's expression softened. He stayed quiet, giving her the space she clearly hadn't allowed herself until now.
She felt her chest tighten. The memory was gentle but bittersweet.
"I didn't feel lost in Canada because of him. It wasn't perfect, but he made it easier. He was... kind. Steady. Familiar in a world that didn't quite feel like mine yet."
Junny stayed quiet, nodding just enough to let her know he was following.
"But then one summer, when we were around thirteen or so, he left. I thought it was just a trip to Korea. I remember thinking, oh maybe he just forgot to tell me. I waited. That entire summer. Waited for him to come back and ring the doorbell like he always did. But he never did."
Her lips curled, but there was no smile behind it.
"And the next year, when we turned fifteen... I found out he wasn't coming back."
Junny let out a quiet breath, the pieces slowly coming together in his head.
"No goodbye. No explanation. Not even a stupid post-it," she said, attempting a wry smile that never quite formed. "Just... gone."
A beat passed. Then two.
"By sixteen, I was done. I left Vancouver. Moved back to the Philippines. Studied architecture—because it felt like something solid, something that didn't leave."
Junny let out a quiet exhale. "Damn."
"Yeah," she smiled tightly. Her voice dipped. "I never really planned on coming to Korea. But seven months ago...his parents asked me for a favor. Renovating their old family house in Gapyeong."
Junny's eyes widened slightly.
"I said yes. Not because of him, but... I guess I just needed to see for myself if I could handle it. Being in the same city again. Being close to that part of my past."
Junny didn't interrupt. He knew better.
"For months I was here. Working on that renovation project his parents requested. It was supposed to be simple—design, construction, updates. Keep it professional. Keep it clean.
But Seoul isn't exactly massive when you're orbiting the same circles.
Our paths crossed more than once. Sometimes too close, sometimes from across the room. It was like there was this magnetic pull between us—but in reverse. We didn't gravitate. We repelled.
The first time... was on my very first day. Jet lag had me up before sunrise, and I wandered around their place half-awake. Someone had crashed on the couch—head back, glasses askew. I thought it was his brother. Didn't think twice. I took the glasses off gently, dropped a blanket over him, and sat on the other end of the sofa with my notebook. I guess I must've dozed off again because I woke up alone. Same blanket over me now. Same glasses gone. Only later did I realize... it had been him.
And we never spoke about it. Never even acknowledged it.
Then came the time I flew back last week—right before the song camp. Exhausted. His brother picked me up from the airport, but I knocked out in the car, halfway to my unit. Instead of waking me, he brought me to their place, figuring it was safer. I woke up hours later—face flushed, heart racing—on their couch. And I found him beside, uncomfortably asleep on the floor, blanket barely covering him, head resting awkwardly on the bed.
I panicked. Bolted. Didn't wait for him to wake up.
Even in proximity, we were miles apart. And somehow... we stayed that way.
Every time we crossed paths after that—at the bakery, the elevator, a silent moment by the Han River—it was like time stalled for a breath, only to rush past again before either of us could reach out.
I don't know if it was fear. Or pride. Or guilt.
But we were two people stuck on opposite sides of the same memory.
And neither of us had the words to bridge it."
She fell quiet after that—like the air had been let out of her all at once. Everything she'd been carrying for years now sat between them, laid bare in the soft shadows of the studio.
The hum of the monitors filled the silence, grounding them back into the now.
Junny leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, voice calm and low. "So when you said you needed backup today..."
"It wasn't about nerves," she admitted. "It was about not falling apart."
She leaned back in her chair, letting her head hit the top rail, voice soft.
"That boy next door really messed me up."
"You ever tell him?"
She shook her head.
Junny nodded like he already knew the answer. "You think you ever will?"
Lexie hesitated. Then—"I don't know."
Her fingers toyed with the edge of her sleeve, gaze distant. It wasn't that she didn't want to. There were just too many versions of what could've been—too many questions left unanswered, years folded into silence.
Junny didn't rush her. He let the weight of her words settle between them like dust in a quiet room.
"You know," he said after a long pause, "you're allowed to grieve the people who are still alive."
Lexie's throat tightened.
"I know."
"You're also allowed to be angry."
"I am."
"And still care."
"I do."
They sat there for a while. Nothing pressing them. No schedules. No expectations. Just the kind of stillness that only came with honesty.
Then Junny nudged her shoulder, lips twitching just slightly.
"Next time, just say bring a first aid kit if you're gonna walk me into emotional landmines."
Lexie let out a soft laugh, eyes glassy. "Noted."