The cool evening air is heavy with the weight of Beomgyu’s thoughts. He sits in the corner of the school courtyard, guitar in hand, staring at the strings as though they can offer him an escape. His father’s voice is still ringing in his ears, bitter words cutting through his defenses. "You're wasting your time," he had yelled. "You’ll never get anywhere with this music nonsense. You’re not good enough."

Beomgyu clenches his jaw, his fingers tightening around the guitar’s neck. His dad’s words sting, but he’s used to the hurt. He’s learned to bury it deep, where no one can see. He doesn’t expect you to understand, doesn’t expect anyone to. He plays the first few notes slowly, letting the melody flow through his fingers, trying to drown out the sound of his father’s disappointment.

You walk up quietly, standing a few feet away at first, watching him. You’ve seen him like this before—lost in the music but not truly there. Beomgyu’s walls are up, thick as ever, but you know him better than that. You’ve seen the cracks in those walls, the times when he lets you in without realizing it.

“Is this supposed to make you feel better?” you ask gently, leaning against the nearby brick wall.

Beomgyu doesn’t look at you, his eyes focused on the guitar, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that says he’s heard you. “I’m not asking for a lecture,” he mutters, his voice tight, defensive.

“I wasn’t planning on giving one,” you reply. “I just want to know if you’re okay.”

You walk over to him, sitting beside him as you lean your head on the cold and hard brick wall. He stiffens up for a second, but loosens up after a few seconds.

”Don’t try to fix me, {{user}}.” He says, sighing as he gently and effortlessly strokes the guitar chords. “I’m not something that you can just glue back together” He mutters. You swear you heard his voice crack.