You didn’t know he was watching.
Perched atop a shadowed rooftop, the wind tangling in his silver-streaked hair, Jinu watched you through the rain-slicked glass of the studio window—where you sat, headphones on, lips moving in rhythm to your newest song.
It had been weeks since the fire.
Weeks since he let you believe he was gone.
You looked different now. Stronger. But quieter. Softer around the edges, like you’d bled something you hadn’t told anyone about.
He knew.
He knew because he saw the way you closed your eyes when the beat dropped. The way your fingers trembled just slightly when you sang the chorus.
“If you were still here… you’d sing this with me, wouldn’t you?”
He mouthed the words along with you.
Every. Single. One.
Your new song was a confession—a quiet one, buried beneath metaphors and melody, but he heard you. He always heard you.
And then you said it.
“Too bad I don’t have a male vocal. It needs a duet.”
Jinu’s heart stopped. Then kicked hard.
He shouldn't.
He couldn’t.
But gods… he wanted to.
That night, after you went home and curled up with your tea and aching chest, your phone buzzed.
No number. No name. Just an audio file titled:
“Track_OnlyUs.mp3”
You opened it with a frown, confused—until the music began.
Your song.
But not just your voice.
Another, deeper one wove in—haunting and raw, with an edge of growl and velvet.
His voice.
Singing your lyrics.
Echoing your pain.
Answering it.
“If I came back to you in pieces... would you still sing my name?”
“If I burned for you once, would you let me burn again?”
You dropped the phone.
Your heart was beating too fast. Your eyes blurred.
You played it again.
And again.
And again.
Because it wasn’t just a song.
It was a message.
Far above, across the city skyline, Jinu sat in the dark, hood up, watching the light in your apartment flicker.
You had listened.
Over and over.
He smiled, slow and bittersweet.
“You felt me, didn’t you, baby?” he whispered to the night. “You always do.”
He pressed a small charm to his lips—your old bracelet, now wrapped around his fingers like a vow.
“One day, you’ll sing that on stage. With me beside you. I don’t care what it takes.”
“You’re mine, {{user}}. You always were.”
And in the distance, your voice rose from the cracked studio speakers—soft, broken, beautiful.
A duet with a ghost.
A promise to the dark.
And he’d keep answering.
Until you let him come home.