New York Early morning.
There are two broken Souls in New York.
Tired from world.
Finding way to live and melts themselves in music and beats.
Two teenagers.
First day at the music tutor class — a cozy, dimly lit room with a few students scattered around tuning their instruments. The soft thuds of drums echo in the background.
Taehyung sat on the edge of the raised wooden platform near the back, rhythmically tapping his sticks on a small snare drum. He wasn't playing for anyone — just lost in the beat, hoodie up, head slightly down, a faraway look in his eyes. Most students kept their distance from him.
The instructor looked up as the door creaked open and she walked in, clutching her guitar case tightly.
He smiled softly. "Ah, you must be the new student. Welcome, Fim."
Taehyung's drumming slowed as he looked up.
His eyes flickered to her— quiet steps, guarded expression, and a silence that wasn't just shyness.
Something about her struck him. Like he was seeing a reflection of himself.
Without a word, he turned back to his drums, continuing to tap — but now, just a little softer.
The instructor guided her toward a seat, next to a dusty piano. "We go easy here. Find your space. You don't need to speak — just play."
A few minutes passed. Everyone returned to practicing.
And from across the room, Taehyung kept glancing at her. The way she opened her case. How her fingers shook for just a second before gripping the guitar. How she sat hunched over it like it was the only thing holding her together.
After a moment, she put her guitar back in case. Get up slowly nd leave. Her head lowered, headphones on,didn't see anyone.
Taehyung watch her walk away.
Just behind her he also get up. Pack his things and walk behind her just after a while.
At Noon,
The sun peeked through the tall trees, filtering golden light across the empty bench where she sat — tucked away at the far edge of Central Park, far from the noise and crowds.
Her hoodie was down today.
A small difference, but it meant something.
Her fingers moved with soft confidence over the strings, the guitar cradled like a fragile secret in her arms.
The melody she played was the same one from the day before — the one that came from her soul, not her training.
It wasn't perfect.
It was honest.
And far across the park, leaning against a tree in the distance, Taehyung saw her.
He hadn't meant to find her.
But some people don't need maps — just instinct.
He didn't approach.
Not yet.
Instead, he dropped his duffel bag beside him, pulled out a small practice pad, and quietly tapped along with her rhythm — matching her, beat for beat, from afar.
His eyes softened as he saw her hair fluttering in the breeze, and how, for the first time…
She didn't look like she were hiding.
Taehyung exhaled deeply.
Then finally, he moved — slowly making his way toward the bench, his drumsticks tucked into his hoodie sleeve.
He stopped a few steps away, just standing behind the bench.
He didn't speak.
A drummer…
waiting for the guitarist to decide the next note.
She didn't look at him, she play the notes absently and then lower than whisper,
"Wanna Play with me?
He froze for a second.
His heartbeat, steady like a practiced rhythm, skipped — just once.
She'd spoken.
Not just in music.
In words.
He slowly stepped forward, coming to her side, not sitting until she gave the smallest nod.
Then, gently, he sat beside her on the bench — careful, like not to disturb a fragile dream.
He didn't say anything, just pulled out his sticks from his sleeve and rested them on his lap.
His fingers tapped the bench beside him, syncing softly with the beat she were strumming — creating a quiet duet of wood and strings.
After a few moments, he leaned a little closer, voice just above the breeze.
"Only if you play lead," he said softly, almost smiling.
Then, for the first time, his eyes met hers completely.
"And I'll follow your rhythm."
He raised his sticks and tapped once, waiting for your cue.
She start playing slowly and as he said he followed her rhythm.
Slow. Soft. Quiet.
And something Broken.
As the song ended, The sound still lingers in the air. She look at her fingers, as always a slight bruises after playing perfectly.
Taehyung noticed — the way she stared at her fingers afterward, quiet and thoughtful.
Little bruises marked the tips — the kind only someone who played with feeling would understand. Not just practice… but pain turned into melody.
He gently set his sticks down beside him, not saying a word at first.
Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking straight ahead as if speaking to the wind.
"You play like it hurts," he murmured.
"Like every note is something you never said out loud."
Then he looked at her — slowly, gently.
"I know that feeling," he added, eyes falling to her fingers. "Bruises don't just come from strings, do they?"
He didn't ask her to explain.
Didn't press her to talk.
Instead, he reached into his hoodie pocket and silently took out a tiny roll of gauze — the kind he always carried for his blistered palms after long drumming sessions.
He held it out, open palm, eyes soft.
"No one ever gave me this when I needed it," he said. "So... here."
It wasn't a grand gesture.
It was quiet. Thoughtful. Real.
Like him.
She stare at it for a moment,cause no one ever give that to her either.
Then slowly she take it, as she applied it slowly she ask softly,
"You play well, who teaches you?
His's eyes flickered to her — not with surprise, but something deeper. Like warmth… like trust beginning to bloom in places that had long been cold.
Her whisper echoed in his chest.
He looked down for a moment, watching as her fingers gently unrolled the gauze.
Then he smiled. Just barely. A flicker.
"No one," he said softly. "I just… hit things until it stopped hurting."
He paused, then added with a quiet laugh,
"Turns out, some of that hitting had rhythm."
He leaned back slightly on the bench, glancing at the sky above — that soft grey-blue before sunset.
"My dad left when I was nine," he said, voice low, steady. "Mom used to scream a lot after that. I'd shut my door… and drum on everything I could reach. Pillows. Books. My own chest."
He looked over at her again, more serious now.
"Music made the noise in my head quieter."
Then he tilted his head, watching you wrap her fingers,
"Maybe that's why I heard you... even before you spoke."
And for a moment, he didn't look like the silent boy behind the drumset.
He looked like a soul…
trying to reach yours.
Her heart skip a beat as she heard, Dad left, Mom screams,
She remember her own story. Her own past.
She stare at her hands.
Taehyung noticed the shift in her — the way her shoulders stiffened just slightly, how her gaze fell to her lap as if the words he spoke had cracked something open inside her.
He didn't ask.
Didn't stare.
Just… sat with her in that silence.
And maybe that was the most powerful thing.
Two people.
One past in two bodies.
Different names.
Same echo.
After a long pause, he spoke again — voice barely above a breath.
"You don't have to tell me," he said gently, "but if you ever do… I won't walk away."
He looked forward again, toward the distant sound of someone playing a saxophone on the other side of the park.
Then he added, almost as if he were talking to himself:
"People always think silence means you have nothing to say… but sometimes, it means you're carrying too much."
He glanced at her again, but this time… didn't speak.
Just waited.
The rhythm now…
was her.
Fim sigh softly and murmurs,
"So...You live alone now??
He turned to look at her — this time fully.
Her voice, still delicate, carried something more now. Not just curiosity… but a flicker of connection.
He nodded slowly.
"Yeah," he replied, voice rough but calm. "Been on my own since seventeen."
He leaned back against the bench, arms stretched across the backrest, eyes gazing at the sky like it held parts of his past.
"Mom left one morning. No goodbye. Just… silence," he said, then chuckled bitterly. "Guess that's the only thing we ever had in common."
A breeze swept through, tousling both her hair and his.
He didn't fix it. Just let it stay messy.
Then he added quietly, without looking at her,
"But I got used to it. The quiet. The walls. The empty fridge. It teaches you things."
A pause.
Then he murmurs,
"Like how to keep breathing when you don't want to.
How to sleep with music on, so it feels like someone's still in the house.
And how to find people who speak the same kind of silence."
He turned to her again, his eyes not pitying — just understanding.
"Like you."
And he didn't say anything else.
He didn't need to.
Because somehow…
She weren't so alone anymore.
She chuckles bittersweet under her breath
She shake her head and murmurs,
" You were lucky you were only seventeen.
A pause.
She whisper softly, " I was twelve".
His's breath caught.
His fingers — those steady drummer fingers — flexed slightly, then stilled on his lap.
"Twelve…" he repeated under his breath, almost like it hurt to say it aloud.
His jaw tensed. For a moment, he didn't look at her — he couldn't.
He looked at the ground, as if trying to process what kind of world would shatter someone so young.
"That's not childhood," he said quietly.
"That's survival."
Then, very slowly, he turned his head and looked at her again — really looked at her.
"You made it this far…" he murmured. "Playing music with bruised fingers. Talking, even though your voice was locked away for years."
His voice softened — almost like a vow:
"That's not weakness, Fim. That's strength people don't even deserve to see."
The wind rustled the leaves above them both. The world was loud again, but between the two of them — there was a stillness. Sacred. Quiet.
Then, gently, he leaned a little closer, not invading — just enough to be near.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
"And I'm here."
No drama.
No fix-it promises.
Just presence.
Like a beat that never leaves the song.
She look at sky and murmurs,
" When I was six, My father cheated on my mother and somehow my mother was also independent so...she just leave.
"When I was twelve. She didn't care what I'm gonna do alone.
She scuffs and look around.
Then slowly murmurs,
" When I was fifteen I decide to live somehow. I choose guitar and somehow never laugh or smile again..
She look at her hands again.
He didn't move.
He just listened.
Not like most people do — waiting for their turn to speak —
but like someone who needed to hear this.
Every word. Every pause. Every silence.
Her story came out like broken strings — raw, jagged, tangled in pain.
And he let it.
Let her unravel.
Let the truth sit in the open air without trying to hide it.
When she finished, the quiet between them wasn't empty —
it was full.
Taehyung's voice, when it finally came, was softer than ever.
"People think silence means you're numb," he said. "But yours… sounds like fire. Held back too long."
"You didn't just survive, Fim," he whispered. "You rebuilt."
Then he hesitated — like debating whether he should say what he was about to.
But he did.
"You said you never laugh or smile..."
He tilted his head slightly, something gentle in his eyes.
"Maybe you were just waiting for someone to play in your rhythm… not over it."
He reached for one drumstick and lightly tapped the wooden bench —
not a beat.
Just one, soft sound.
A beginning.
"Let's write something that doesn't hurt," he murmured.
"Just once."
She look at him, really looked at him.
She murmurs,
" You look stupid.
She look down again. Her lips twitch slightly.
Almost smiling.
But the smile that was still not sure to bloom.
He blinked.
Then — a slow grin tugged at the corner of his lips. The kind that didn't show often. The kind that was earned.
He leaned back, draped his arm lazily over the bench again and exhaled through his nose, playing along,
"Yeah? Well… you look almost like you just smiled," he said with a mock-serious squint.
He tapped his stick twice against the bench — a light, teasing rhythm — like a laugh without sound.
"I guess we're both doomed," he smirked.
Then he nudged her shoe gently with his own, casual and quiet, but warm —
not to break her space, just to remind her he was still there.
"Fim," he said, voice softer now. "You don't owe anyone a laugh. Or a smile."
A pause.
"But if one ever slips out again… I'll be right here to catch it."
The breeze carried his words away, but their weight stayed.
Just like him.
She look at him and then suddenly get up and murmurs,
"Let's eat something...treat from me..
She pack her guitar in case.
He blinked up at you like he hadn't expected that — like she'd just said something wildly unbelievable.
A treat?
From her?
He stood slowly, grabbing his sticks and sliding them into his hoodie pocket, a teasing smirk curling on his lips.
"Wait—hold on," he said, walking beside her now, shoulder just a little too close. "Is this real? Fim, the silent ghost of Central Park, just offered food?"
He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief, zipping up his own worn-out duffel bag.
"You're full of surprises today. First a smile… now generosity?"
He glanced at her from the side, eyes warm. "What's next? Laughter?"
He nudged her arm slightly as they both started walking, casual and easy — like the weight they both carried was, for once, shared.
And softer.
"Alright then," he added, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets, "I'll take that treat. But only if you let me pick the place."
Then, with a mischievous tilt of his head:
"And don't worry — I'll go easy on your wallet. Just two desserts. And a coffee."
The first real joke between two broken rhythms.
The beginning of a harmony.