CHAPTER 40
At my question, something about Jo Yoon-jae shifted ever so slightly. His eyes flickered for a brief moment, but just as quickly, he smoothed over any sign of agitation as if nothing had happened.
“Yesterday? No.”
His breath followed half a beat too late.
“I was using a practice room nearby yesterday too.”
“Really?”
I gave a small shrug.
“Then never mind.”
If he didn’t want to talk about it, I had no intention of prying.
Besides, for someone his age, Jo Yoon-jae was surprisingly good at hiding his expressions. Even if I was mentally ten years older, I didn’t have enough social experience to confidently win a battle of wits against him.
As if he didn’t want to dwell on it either, he quickly changed the subject.
“I booked this room. Let’s go in.”
Once we stepped into the practice room, I got straight to the point.
“So what did you want to talk about?”
“It’s something Professor Jung Tae-sung suggested. He said it would be good if the ‘Birth’ and ‘Death’ parts were connected in a circular structure.”
“Hmm. That’s not bad.”
The metaphor that birth and death are separated by only a thin line was classic but also very accessible.
It could give the audience a subtle sense of catharsis. It wasn’t a bad device at all.
“So I thought it’d be good to align our compositional direction. Until the pieces are finished, we should probably share our progress to some extent. What do you think?”
“I agree.”
I nodded and then asked,
“How did you compose ‘Birth’?”
His fingertips stiffened for a split second.
Pretending not to notice, I continued,
“I think I need to hear it to understand the direction.”
“Well…”
He hesitated, then hurriedly added,
“I was planning to scrap it anyway. I’m not satisfied with it. If I hear your piece, I’ll rewrite mine to match.”
“Rewrite it from scratch?”
“Yeah. I already got feedback from the professor. Since he said to connect it with your ‘Death,’ I thought it’d be better to follow your tone.”
His voice was gentle, but what he was saying felt strange. He wasn’t asserting anything about his own work, just saying he would match everything to mine.
I tilted my head.
“I don’t think that’s what the professor meant. Didn’t he just say to connect the beginning and end structurally? Did he really tell you to completely reshape your piece to fit mine?”
“Not exactly.”
“See? He probably didn’t mean for the pieces to sound alike. You can’t just follow my direction blindly. Let’s at least hear your piece first.”
When I spoke firmly, he swallowed.
He looked like a child about to be scolded, visibly tense.
“…Okay.”
He lifted the piano cover. The fluorescent light spilled over the black and white keys.
I stood diagonally where he couldn’t see my face directly.
He sat upright on the bench, took a deep breath, and began to play.
♬♪♩♬
Clear, fluid tones. Smooth phrasing.
It was such a perfect performance that I could have believed he was a pianist rather than a composer.
But—
The melody felt familiar.
‘It’s like he patched together bits from classical masterpieces, but they don’t fully blend, so it feels slightly disconnected.’
The original sources were strong, and he had fused them decently, so at first listen it sounded pleasant.
But that was all.
♩♬—!
Suddenly, the melody collapsed. His fingers faltered, pressing two keys at once.
His shoulders stiffened.
“…That’s enough, right? That’s the direction I was thinking.”
He tried to sound bright, but some suppressed anger lingered in his voice.
Professor Jung had probably already pointed out the flaws. And as a fellow undergraduate, I had neither the right nor the authority to lecture him.
‘More importantly, he already looks like he’s about to break.’
I didn’t want to hurt him further by analyzing his composition, so I changed the subject.
“Your piano playing. This is the first time I’ve heard it up close. It just occurred to me.”
I asked carefully.
“Are you, by any chance, pianist Oh Soo-yeon’s son?”
His eyes widened.
With a face that looked remarkably like the legendary Korean pianist Oh Soo-yeon.
“Right? It was hard to tell because of your hair color. But if your hair were black, you’d look exactly like your mother. I can’t believe I didn’t notice sooner.”
I had always admired Oh Soo-yeon, so my voice rose with excitement.
Some people might say she was past her prime, forgotten now.
But hearing her play live had been one of my few dreams.
“Is that clear, refreshing tone genetic? Did your mother teach you from a young age?”
“…Why?”
His voice dropped low.
Only then did I calm down enough to look at him properly.
I had meant it as small talk, but the atmosphere had grown even heavier.
The moment our eyes met, I realized I had made a mistake.
His gaze was sharpened, as if ready to wound anyone who came close.
“So what you’re saying is my composition is terrible, and the only thing worth listening to is the piano skill I inherited from my mother?”
“What?”
“That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”
“Wait. That’s not what I—”
“You’re saying I should’ve become a pianist instead of a composer.”
“I said that’s not it!”
He stood up abruptly and walked toward me.
Our faces were so close our noses could almost touch. He blocked the light, casting his face in shadow.
“Or is this face that resembles my mother the only thing I have that’s useful?”
This brat.
Still wet behind the ears and already acting arrogant.
The way he behaved like he was some tragic male lead of the century left me dumbfounded.
I drew in a deep breath, ready to unleash a shout from the depths of my diaphragm—
Clack!
The door opened.
I turned my head sharply.
Kang Se-a stood at the doorway, looking between me and Yoon-jae.
A cold silence fell.
“Oh. Did I interrupt something?”
She smiled lazily.
“I just came to grab my file binder. I’ll leave soon. Sorry~.”
“It’s fine.”
Yoon-jae stepped back slightly.
“I’ll head out. See you.”
Before anyone could stop him, he left quickly. Kang Se-a let out a small whistle and walked inside.
“So, junior? Are you staying? I’m using the guitar anyway, so I don’t need the piano.”
“Senior, about earlier…”
“Huh? Oh~ don’t worry! You’re young! It’s that time of life. Haha. Must be nice.”
She clapped my shoulder casually. Since I was taller, she had to rise slightly on her toes.
“No. I’m worried you misunderstood. We’re not in any kind of relationship.”
“Mm-h. Sure. Not at all. I know, I know.”
She clearly did not know.
I sighed.
“Professor Jung suggested we share our compositional direction. Things got a bit heated, that’s all.”
“Ah, really?”
Only after I explained in detail did she nod in understanding.
“Did you mention pianist Oh Soo-yeon?”
“…!”
“You did, huh? You went there.”
She clicked her tongue.
“That’s a taboo topic around him. Everyone in the composition department knows that. But you transferred in, so you probably didn’t.”
“…Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about it! He’ll act like nothing happened tomorrow.”
She even told me that a fourth-year senior, who had since graduated, once made the same mistake.
It must be a sensitive subject.
Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little wronged.
“…Thank you for the advice.”
“No problem!”
She grinned and pulled out her guitar.
Just as I was about to leave—
“Oh right, junior. Do you know a second-year named Moon Ah-rin?”
At her sudden question, I turned my head sharply.
