CHAPTER 30
“Hm?”
Jung Tae-sung was momentarily flustered by the sudden change of topic.
She had just seemed upset that Yoon Seol left first. Why was she suddenly bringing up the scholarship?
Come to think of it, Yoon Seol didn’t mention that anyone was waiting for her. If she had known Moon Ah-rin was waiting, would she have agreed to meet the other scholarship students before leaving…?
As that sense of unease began to build, Moon Ah-rin suddenly burst into loud sobs and covered her face with both hands.
“Sniff… actually… since Seol transferred into the composition department, she’s been acting strange…!”
Jung Tae-sung’s suspicions couldn’t develop any further. He didn’t have the luxury to keep thinking while a student was crying in front of him.
“First, calm down. Okay?”
“Sniff… yes…”
Moon Ah-rin took the tissue he handed her and gently dabbed at her eyes.
She’s crying like this… there’s no way she’s lying.
There wouldn’t even be a reason to lie. It must have been some misunderstanding between her and Yoon Seol.
“Do you feel a bit better?”
“Yes… thank you, Professor. I got emotional for a moment. That was embarrassing.”
Moon Ah-rin lowered her head shyly.
They acted like adults, but they were barely a year out of high school.
Friendships were still awkward. Emotions were still hard to control.
I may not be able to solve it for them, but at least I can listen.
Jung Tae-sung poured her a warm cup of tea and asked gently,
“So. What happened between you and Yoon Seol?”
“Oh, no! It’s nothing! I just said something unnecessary.”
Moon Ah-rin waved her hands quickly in denial.
“I’m worried you might misunderstand Seol because of me.”
“Hey now, misunderstand? I’m not that kind of person~.”
“No. Seol’s going to be a scholarship student too, right? That means you’ll see her often.”
“Well… that’s true…”
The scholarship announcement would be made officially soon anyway, so it wasn’t exactly a secret.
Still, it feels a bit uncomfortable to mention it privately before the official announcement.
But it was hard to shut down a crying student.
“Yoon Seol is my student, but so are you, Moon Ah-rin. You’re both equally important to me. How could I ignore your struggles just because of Seol?”
As Jung Tae-sung reassured her earnestly, Moon Ah-rin’s eyes trembled slightly.
She held the warm teacup in both hands, then nodded as if making up her mind.
“Actually…”
And what followed was rather shocking.
“I was already a little surprised when Seol transferred to composition. Whenever something big happened, she always talked to me first. I was surprised when she got accepted, but I sincerely congratulated her! But…”
She bit her lower lip.
“From then on… I started feeling like she was subtly excluding me.”
“Excluding you?”
“It was like that with the assignment the other day! Seol said she had to work twice as hard to catch up with the other students, so she wanted to submit extra work and even do my part too so she could get more feedback. But when the assignment day came, she acted like she never said that!”
Now that he thought about it, Moon Ah-rin, who was always diligent, had forgotten an assignment once.
I did think the atmosphere felt strange back then… so that’s what happened?
Before he could fully process it, she continued.
“That part was fine. Seol’s busy too. She could have just forgotten. But after that, little things kept happening. I told myself I was imagining it… but!”
Tears rolled down her cheeks again.
“…This scholarship. I could have gotten it.”
“Huh? Th-that…”
“The fourth-year senior who graduated told me. When she left, there would be an open spot, and I’d probably get it. She said she saw the documents in your office.”
Jung Tae-sung felt a chill.
His office was always messy. He hadn’t paid much attention. It hadn’t even been finalized yet—he didn’t realize Moon Ah-rin knew.
“I talked to Seol about the scholarship before. She said she wasn’t interested. Because unlike me… she doesn’t need the money.”
Moon Ah-rin fidgeted with her fingers.
Only then did Jung Tae-sung remember how she always worked part-time while studying.
That’s why I admired her even more.
Meanwhile, as far as he knew, Yoon Seol’s tuition was being paid by a company her late father had belonged to.
“She definitely said she wasn’t interested. But when I told her I wanted the scholarship, her expression changed. I told myself I was imagining it, that there was no way… but…”
Moon Ah-rin broke down again.
“Professor. Am I misunderstanding? Is it just a coincidence?”
She looked at him with eyes that seemed to say, Please tell me it’s not true. I don’t want to doubt my friend.
“Even so… couldn’t she have yielded the scholarship to me? Am I being unreasonable for thinking that?”
“W-Well… it’s not that, but…”
Jung Tae-sung gave an awkward answer, unable to take either side.
What am I supposed to say?
If everything Moon Ah-rin said was true, it would mean Yoon Seol was bullying her one-sidedly.
From that perspective, it almost looked like jealousy. Or inferiority.
Even if I ask Yoon Seol, she’ll deny it. That means one of them is lying.
Yoon Seol, always composed.
Moon Ah-rin, on the verge of tears.
Neither seemed like they would lie.
“Sniff… I’m sorry, Professor. I wasn’t going to say anything, but I guess I needed to tell someone.”
“No, no. You did well. Talking about it helps.”
“Yes… thank you.”
Moon Ah-rin wiped her tears and forced a small smile.
Seeing her like that, Jung Tae-sung felt a sting in his chest.
“I’ll head out now. I think I took too much of your time.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“I’ll be going.”
She bowed.
Just before opening the door, she turned back and asked,
“Professor, if one of the scholarship students can’t attend the recital due to unavoidable circumstances… what happens?”
***
The seconds ticked away on the clock at the top of the computer monitor.
Every breath felt dry with tension. My heart pounded so loudly it was almost deafening.
Min Chan-hyuk leaned forward in his chair, glaring at the screen with bloodshot eyes.
I sat beside him, staring at the clock. I tried to stay calm, but my fingertips were ice-cold.
“It’s almost time.”
“Yes.”
The second hand entered the 50s.
51, 52, 53…
“58,” Min Chan-hyuk counted.
“59.”
I followed.
“60…!”
The moment he refreshed the page, the screen changed.
The new album’s music video had been uploaded to the VTunes YouTube channel.
.
The title, named after the source track, was finally released to the world. Under Lee Ha-in’s name, in small letters, it read:
Composed by YULE.
My heart dropped.
It was really out there. My song, under my name, released into the world.
My chest tightened, and it took me a moment to breathe out. Comments started appearing one by one. The view count rose. The likes climbed rapidly.
“So?”
Min Chan-hyuk asked.
“How does it feel, debuting, Composer YULE?”
Even at his teasing tone, I couldn’t answer right away.
After a long pause, I finally spoke.
“…I feel alive.”
Finally.
Min Chan-hyuk chuckled.
“Yeah. A composer only truly exists when their music is released. Sounds dramatic, but it’s not wrong.”
He probably had no idea what I was really feeling. He likely thought I was just a rookie composer happy about her debut.
But for me, it was different.
It was proof that I was alive.
“Huh?”
Suddenly, Min Chan-hyuk leaned closer to the monitor, as if he’d spotted something.
