BREATHS BETWEEN THE NOTES
1773 Words
Amani tapped furiously at her keyboard, forcing her mind to stay focused.
She couldn’t afford to think about the studio, about that moment... the way the music melted between them, the way his eyes searched for hers, like he finally saw her.
No.
She was there to work. Nothing else.
"I’m not here to feel things," she muttered like a stubborn chant. "I'm here to work."
Like that mantra had helped her any.
The buzzing of her phone cut through the tension. She grabbed it.
Manager, K-Stream Agency.
“Hello?”
“Amani…” His voice sounded cautious.
She froze. “What is it?”
“The review. The one you submitted last week for Minjae…”
“Yes?” Her eyes narrowed.
“It didn’t go through. They rejected it.”
“What?” The word shot out of her like a sharp note, a mix of disbelief and fury.
“They didn’t publish. Said it wasn’t... viable content at the moment.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Her voice was a whisper laced with fire. That piece was tailored to reach his old fanbase and re-spark interest. It was strategic. They agreed to it!”
“I know,” the manager sighed. “I’m just the messenger.”
“I’ll call you back.”
She was already on her feet, practically jogging out of the building, heart racing. She didn't even notice the curious eyes following her exit.
✦
Inside the upscale café nestled in the quiet backstreets of Itaewon, Amani stirred her coffee without sipping. Across from her sat Junji Lee—the man behind K-Urban Pulse, one of Seoul’s most influential cultural blogs.
Junji didn’t look up from his phone. “It’s business, Amani.”
“Why?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice calm.
He finally looked up, indifferent. “Minjae isn’t trending anymore. He’s lost his momentum. No hits, no visibility. Even his fans are going quiet. People want new blood. We only chase what's relevant.”
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “He's not irrelevant. He just hasn’t been seen. There's a difference.”
“You’re passionate,” Junji said, unimpressed.
“I'm calculated. I don’t chase lost causes. If I say Minjae's coming back, I mean it.”
Junji raised a brow but didn’t argue. He closed his tablet. “If he becomes a big deal again, we’ll talk.”
And just like that, he left.
Amani exhaled slowly, gripping her cup too tightly. The bitterness of the coffee mirrored the heat in her chest. She slouched into the cushioned seat and let the hum of the café drown her thoughts.
Failure.
She hated the taste of it. Especially when she wasn’t wrong.
Her phone buzzed again. A thought was already forming in her mind, sharp and sudden. She began typing furiously, already dialing before she finished.
“Chi-Chi? I need a favor. You still cool with Ryu-Jin’s team?”
“Girl, what’s cooking?”
Amani grinned slightly. “I need a miracle.”
✦
Two Days Later
“Still no sign of her?” Minjae’s voice was tight.
The assistant gulped. “She’s been… busy.”
He knew something was off. People were whispering around him. He hated whispers. Hated the sideways glances, the careful steps everyone took around him.
What was happening?
He caught a glimpse of a headline on someone’s phone as they passed by: Ryu-Jin to Collaborate with Former Top Star Minjae?
His chest tightened.
She was behind this.
He hadn’t seen her in four days.
Why did that bother him so much?
He left the building with no destination in mind. By the time he reached the studio, it was already night.
He sat at the piano, fingers grazing the keys without commitment. A melody came unbidden, familiar yet untouched for years. His hands played it before his mind could protest.
The notes filled the empty room like ghosts returning home.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
He didn’t turn. But he knew.
She was there.
Amani stepped in quietly, breath hitching as she recognized the melody. She didn’t dare speak. Instead, she hummed the next line softly—perfectly in tune.
His fingers stopped. Silence swallowed the air.
He could smell her—something warm, something faintly sweet, like jasmine and fire. His chest rose and fell sharply, his breath caught between disbelief and something he couldn’t name.
She moved closer. Each step felt like it ehoed in his ribs.
He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t move away either.
They were a breath apart.
“You’re full of surprises,” he murmured.
“You haven’t seen half of me,” she said, and regretted how sharp her voice sounded. But it was real.
He turned now, eyes locking onto hers.
Do we hate each other that much that we can’t admit how much we’re starting to like each other?
He didn’t say it aloud, but the words hung there. Tangible. Real.
She stared back, lips parted, forgetting how to breathe properly.
It wasn’t just an attraction. It was something raw. Messy. Dangerous.
The air in the studio seemed heavy.
Minjae couldn’t even remember why he came here. Maybe to escape. Maybe to find something. Maybe to scream. But now, with her there—just standing—he felt like he was the one being read, unraveled, rewritten.
Her voice still echoed in the room like a balm and a challenge. How did she know that melody? And how was she able to match it so effortlessly, so instinctively?
Amani was standing by the piano, her body language still and composed, but her fingers twitched slightly at her sides. She had felt it too—that charged ripple between them. It wasn’t imagined.
Minjae stood, slowly. His knees were stiff, not from the cold, but from tension. He turned toward her.
“You haven’t seen half of me,” she had said.
He swallowed, his throat dry. “Why do I feel like you’re the only person not trying to fix me... but still managing to?”
Amani’s eyes didn’t shift away. Because I’m not here to fix you. I’m here to remind you.”
“Of what?”
She paused, stepped a little closer. Her scent— wrapping around him.
“That you were never broken.”
Silence pressed in. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just dense. Like the moment had thickened around them, cocooning them into something unspoken.
He looked away. “You make things confusing.”
“I’m not trying to,” she replied softly, “but if you’re confused, maybe it’s because you’re finally feeling something.”
He glanced at her again, sharply. But her expression wasn’t smug. It wasn’t victorious. It was open. Honest.
It was the most terrifying thing he’d seen in a long time.
He backed away, just a step. “You know, I spent years building this wall. Perfectly. Brick by brick. And you—”
“I didn’t come here to knock it down.” She offered the faintest smile. “But if you’re tired of carrying it, I might be able to help you set it down.”
The weight of her words sat on his chest. Too heavy. Too intimate.
He turned his back to her. It was safer that way.
She stood there a few moments longer, watching the curve of his shoulders, the tension in his neck. She knew what it meant to fear being seen. She knew how hard it was to lower your guard when the world had taught you not to.
So instead of pushing, she turned too, walking over to the soundboard. She picked up a pair of headphones, ran her finger across the polished surface, and then sat down.
He didn’t look at her, but he heard her move.
“You going to sit there all night?” she asked after a beat, playful but gentle.
He didn’t reply immediately, then muttered, “Maybe.”
She glanced at the time. 1:47 AM. It didn’t feel late. Or maybe everything felt timeless in this room.
“You play like someone who's been silent for too long,” she said after a moment.
Minjae looked at her then, his expression unreadable. “You talk like someone who hears too much.”
They both half-smiled, the smallest curve of lips. Not quite ready for more. But acknowledging it.
He finally moved, sitting on the stool beside her. “I didn’t mean to disappear on you.”
“You didn’t,” she replied. “You were just figuring yourself out.”
He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling, as if the answers were hidden between the light panels.
“I heard about what you did,” he said suddenly. The review. The meeting with Ryu.”
Her brows lifted. “Didn’t think that’d make its way to you so fast.”
“It didn’t. I just... everyone was acting like something big had happened. "Like you’d staged a political coup.” He chuckled bitterly. “They’re scared of you, you know.”
“Good,” she replied, without missing a beat.
He blinked at her. “You’re serious.”
“I didn’t come here to make friends," Minjae. I came here to make a difference.”
Her words weren’t boastful. Just factual. Clear.
And something in his chest tugged.
“I saw the way you spoke . "That video,” he added, “from Oprah’s event. You were like... something else.”
Her eyes softened. “I used to be. Before... everything.”
“You still are.”
She turned to face him. And for a moment, neither one said a word.
Then she whispered, “Minjae... what are we doing?”
He let the silence linger. Then, slowly, “I don’t know. But I haven’t felt this awake in a long time.”
Minjae’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. A melody was still playing in his head—but not the one from earlier. This one had no structure. Just emotion. A low hum of conflict and something that felt dangerously like longing.
Amani stood now, pacing slowly, her heels quiet against the studio’s cushioned flooring. Her arms were crossed, but her guard wasn’t entirely up—more like held loosely, like she wasn’t sure whether to shield herself or open up further.
“You said earlier that you didn’t come to fix me,” he murmured.
She turned halfway. “I didn’t.”
“But you’re doing it anyway,” he said. “You’re making me feel like maybe I could be... more.”
- Writer
