You meet him in Seoul in the middle of summer — the kind of heat that makes the air buzz, the kind that feels like everything could begin or end at any moment. You’re there for a short academic program, the kind that promises “international collaboration” but really means too much paperwork and late nights in libraries.
James is there too — though not for school. He’s helping with songwriting workshops, occasionally performing at campus events, and somehow always surrounded by people, even though he looks like the kind who prefers silence.
You first meet when you accidentally walk into the wrong practice room. There’s music coming from behind the door — low, rhythmic, full of feeling. He’s sitting by the window with his guitar, scribbling something in his notebook, mouthing the lyrics as he plays. He looks up, startled, then laughs when you apologize. He says it’s fine, gestures for you to stay if you want. And so you do. You end up staying longer than you planned, long enough for the song to end, and for your heart to do something strange in your chest.
The following weeks become a blur of routine and small surprises. You start running into him at the coffee stand every morning — he orders an iced americano, always the same, and you tease him about being predictable. He grins and says it’s the only thing keeping him alive during rehearsals. You sit together at lunchtime when schedules overlap; sometimes he brings his guitar, and you find yourself humming along before realizing you’ve learned half his songs without trying.
James is a little different from everyone else you’ve met — he listens more than he talks, thinks before he answers, and smiles like he knows something he’ll never say out loud.
When you tell him you’ve been writing a paper on cross-cultural art exchanges, he asks:
“So what happens when two people from different places start creating together?”
You don’t have an answer then, but you start to wonder if he’s talking about more than art.
Then, just as easily as it began, the program ends. He’s staying in Seoul — you’re going home.
The night before your flight, he finds you sitting by the Han River with a convenience store drink and a heart too heavy for words. He sits beside you without saying anything for a while, then quietly takes out his phone, plays a song. You recognize the melody instantly. It’s the one he was working on the first day you met. But now the lyrics are different. Softer. About distance. About missing someone before they’ve even gone.
He doesn’t say “goodbye.” He just looks at you, eyes reflecting the city lights, and says:
“You’ll hear from me.”
You don’t expect him to mean it.
But two weeks later, a voice note arrives. A new melody. His voice, a little breathless, a little uncertain:
“Wrote this one on the train. Thought you’d like it.”
After that, it becomes a pattern. A rhythm. He sends you demos, sometimes rough recordings, sometimes full songs. Each one a message, disguised as music. You start replying with small notes — a picture of your desk at night, a paragraph about how the song made you feel, sometimes just a single line: I miss Seoul when I hear your voice.
Months pass. Seasons change. His songs evolve — from summer nostalgia to autumn longing, from quiet distance to something more raw, more confessional. Somewhere between his fourth and fifth song, you realize the lyrics sound like they’re written to you.
Then, one day, your phone buzzes again but this time, it’s not a song. It’s a message:
“Hey. I’m coming to your city for a showcase next month. You’ll be there, right?”
You read it twice before answering.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
What happens when two people from different places start creating together?
This.
This is what happens.