Episode 8: Looped Hearts

The rain came softly that morning, not in torrents but in threads—fine lines of silver weaving across the city. Manila’s skyline looked half-dissolved in the mist, the hum of tricycles and jeepneys muffled beneath the drizzle.

Inside the record shop, the world felt smaller—warmer somehow. The hum of the old fridge, the faint smell of solder and ground coffee, and the low static from an unplugged speaker filled the quiet.

Ji-yoo sat at the high stool by the window, chin propped on her palm, tracing the edge of a ring of moisture left by her coffee cup. Her reflection stared back faintly from the glass—hair messy, hoodie oversized, eyes clearer than yesterday.

It had been weeks since her name trended again online—hashtags, gossip, old clips resurfacing like ghosts she didn’t invite. She thought the noise might reach here, too. But the shop had its own quiet gravity, a bubble untouched by fame or scandal.

And Marco—well, Marco just kept soldering cables like nothing happened.

“Those wires look like spaghetti,” she said, breaking the silence.

He grunted without looking up. “Yeah, but at least this spaghetti plays music.”

She smiled faintly. “You said that last week.”

“I did? Damn, I need new material.” He scratched the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “Guess I’m looping lines now.”

“You always loop things,” she teased. “Tracks, excuses, bad jokes.”

He raised a brow. “Says the girl who loops her morning playlist every single day.”

“It’s called mood consistency,” she said, feigning offense. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m a producer. I live off moods.”

She looked at him—really looked at him this time. His hoodie was still damp from his earlier run to the parts shop, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing thin wrists and a faint burn mark from an old soldering slip. His hair was messier than usual, eyes half-hidden under the shadow of his hood.

She didn’t know when exactly she started memorizing things about him—the way he hummed under his breath when thinking, how he always double-checked cables even after fixing them, or how he never said her name unless he meant it.

Marco set the soldering iron down and exhaled, shaking his wrist. “You know,” he began, “I owe you lunch.”

She blinked. “For what?”

He didn’t look up right away. “For saving my pride. For staying. For… not bolting when things got messy.”

“Messy?” she echoed, a hint of amusement in her tone. “You mean that mess where my face ended up on gossip pages again?”

“That one,” he said softly. “You could’ve disappeared. Most people would’ve.”

She shrugged, looking out the window again. “And go where? The rain follows everywhere.”

He smiled at that—half pity, half admiration. “Then I guess I should thank the rain too.”

“You could just say thank you,” she said, turning to him with a teasing smile.

“I could,” he admitted. “But then I’d have to buy you lunch.”

Her brow arched. “Wait—that’s your way of saying thank you?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, a grin forming. “Lunch. My treat. No street taho this time.”

“Oh?” she said, pretending to think. “What if I only accept taho?”

“Then it’s breakfast and lunch,” he countered. “Double thank-you.”

She laughed, low and genuine—the kind that didn’t sound rehearsed or polite. “You’re terrible at this.”

“At what?”

“Asking people out.”

He froze, glancing up from the cables. “I didn’t—well, maybe—okay, yeah. Kind of.”

Her eyes softened. “Kind of?”

“Fine,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I think I am.”

The words hung between them, fragile but real.Outside, the rain thickened slightly, drumming a slow rhythm on the awning.

Ji-yoo didn’t answer right away. She just stared at him, half-expecting him to laugh it off. But he didn’t. He just looked at her the way he always did when the music stopped—quiet, hopeful, like he was waiting for her to start the next verse.

“You’re serious?” she finally asked.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But no pressure. Just lunch. You can call it whatever makes it less scary.”

Her lips curved into a smile. “Lunch, huh?”

“Lunch,” he said. “Not a date. Unless you want it to be.”

She looked out the window again. The rain caught the light, shimmering like a curtain between them and the rest of the city.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Lunch.”

Marco’s grin widened before he could stop it. “Deal.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was something gentler. A rhythm they both felt but didn’t name.


The world outside smelled of sea salt and charcoal.The rain had stopped by noon, leaving puddles that reflected the bruised blue of the afternoon sky. The streets near the bay were slick, humming with the chatter of vendors and the hiss of food grills.

They ended up at a seaside food stall — the kind with faded tarpaulin menus and chipped red tables. A cheap radio perched on a crate played an old OPM ballad through tinny speakers. The bay stretched endlessly before them, waves slapping gently against the seawall like lazy applause.

Marco wiped down their table with a paper napkin that immediately fell apart. “There,” he said. “Luxury dining.”

Ji-yoo raised an eyebrow. “I’m starting to question your definition of ‘proper meal.’”

“Hey,” he said defensively. “This place has character. And grilled squid.”

“Ah yes, the universal symbol of romance.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

She smiled, the sound of his laughter warming something inside her that had been cold for a long time. He ordered for them — grilled squid, garlic rice, and coconut juice in thin plastic cups sealed with tape. The kind of simple meal she hadn’t had since before the spotlight found her.

They ate in silence at first, watching the sea shift between silver and green. Ji-yoo glanced at Marco as he picked apart the squid, tongue between his teeth in concentration. The sight made her laugh unexpectedly.

“What?” he asked, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.

“You look like a kid trying to solve a puzzle.”

He looked down at the squid. “To be fair, this thing is a puzzle. It’s like they grilled it just to mock me.”

“You could just eat it.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He tore off a piece and offered it to her on a fork. “Here. Mystery solved.”

She hesitated, then leaned forward and took it — slow, deliberate, their eyes meeting briefly.The gesture was so casual, yet something about it made the air feel charged.

“Good?” he asked.

She chewed thoughtfully. “Better than I expected.”

He grinned. “See? Told you. This place has character.”

“And cholesterol,” she said, but she was smiling.

For a while, they just sat like that — the noise of the bay fading behind the rhythm of their conversation. Ji-yoo had forgotten what it felt like to talk without a script, to laugh without cameras watching.

“So,” Marco said after a beat, “first crush?”

She groaned. “We’re doing this now?”

“Mandatory first-meal question.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Hey, you can’t say that until you answer.”

“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “My dance instructor. Fourteen years old. He wore leather pants and smelled like mint gum.”

Marco made a face. “That’s horrifying.”

She burst out laughing, nearly spilling her drink. “You asked!”

“I regret everything,” he said, but his smile was wide. “You idol kids really live in another universe.”

“Your turn,” she shot back.

He tapped his fork against his cup, thinking. “There was this girl in my high school talent show. She rapped. Didn’t win, but… she owned the stage. Everyone else was pretending to perform — she was living it. I think I fell for her before she finished the first verse.”

Ji-yoo tilted her head. “You’re a sucker for talent.”

He smiled, his eyes softening. “I’m a sucker for heart.”

The words landed between them, delicate as a ripple across water.Ji-yoo froze, her gaze lowering to her drink. The plastic creaked in her grip.

“Marco…” she began carefully.

He exhaled, waving it off too quickly. “Too soon. Yeah. I know. Just—forget I said that.”

She shook her head. “No. It’s not too soon. Just… unexpected.”

He looked at her, uncertain, trying to read her tone.“Unexpected good, or unexpected run for the hills?”

Her lips twitched. “Haven’t decided yet.”

He chuckled softly. “Take your time. I’ll wait.”

The moment stretched. The wind carried the faint scent of salt and smoke. Ji-yoo looked out at the bay — where the city met the horizon in broken light — and realized that, for the first time in years, she wasn’t performing. She wasn’t trying to be someone else.

She was just there.And someone was looking at her — really looking — and not for who she used to be.

She glanced back at Marco. “You really don’t care, do you?”

“About what?”

“The things they say online. The old clips. The stories.”

He leaned back, wiping his hands with a napkin. “Ji-yoo, I’ve been broke, ghosted by labels, and rejected by every streaming algorithm known to man. You think I have the energy to care about clickbait?”

She laughed softly. “That’s your defense mechanism, huh?”

“Maybe. But it’s also true.” He looked at her earnestly. “People don’t define music. People become noise. You just have to decide which sounds you keep.”

She stared at him for a moment, silent. The simplicity of what he said hit deeper than she expected.

“I missed that,” she said finally.

“What?”

“Talking like this. Without measuring every word. Without wondering who’s recording.”

He smiled gently. “Then don’t wonder. Just talk.”

She did. About her first stage fright. About her last concert. About how strange it felt to live quietly. Marco listened — not nodding out of politeness, but really listening. Every so often, he’d smile or make a quiet sound of understanding, and it made her feel… safe.

When the food was gone and the coconut juice long finished, they sat in silence, watching the last of the sunlight bleed into the sea.

Ji-yoo leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You know what’s weird?”

“What?”

“I don’t hate the noise anymore. I just… don’t want it to find me yet.”

He thought for a second. “Then we stay off the grid a little longer.”

“You say that like we’re fugitives.”

He grinned. “Musical fugitives.”

She laughed — the sound caught by the breeze and carried out toward the water.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The world around them blurred into the sound of distant traffic and the whisper of the tide.And in that quiet, something fragile began to take shape between them — like the first verse of a song still being written.


By the time they got back to the record shop, the city had already swallowed the last of the sunlight. The air smelled faintly of rain and engine oil; the streets shimmered with leftover puddles reflecting neon signs.

Inside, the shop was dim, the only light coming from the old desk lamp near Marco’s setup.The soft buzz of the fluorescent bulb matched the low hum of his computer. Ji-yoo hung her damp cardigan on a chair and stretched, her voice breaking the silence.

“Feels weird coming back here after that.”

Marco looked up from his laptop. “Weird good or weird bad?”

“Weird… calm,” she said, sitting down beside him. “I forgot the city could be quiet for once.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s why I like nights here. No honking, no calls, no chaos. Just loops and echoes.”

“Loops and echoes,” she repeated. “That sounds like a track name.”

He smirked. “Already taken. You can have it for your next mixtape, though.”

“Ha. You think I’m making another one?”

“You will,” he said. “You just don’t know it yet.”

Her eyes softened at his certainty. “You always sound so sure about things that aren’t.”

“That’s called faith,” he replied. “The lo-fi kind.”

She leaned back in the chair, watching the waveform on his screen flicker in slow pulses of blue. “What are you working on?”

“Something I started last night,” he said. “Before the rain.”

He clicked play.A soft beat filled the room — gentle, steady, unhurried. A looping melody built around a faint hum, like a heartbeat hiding behind static.

“It’s a loop,” he said quietly. “Minimal. I wanted something simple this time. Something… honest.”

Ji-yoo closed her eyes, letting the rhythm breathe. The music was fragile but warm — every note sounded like something unsaid.

“What’s it called?” she asked after a while.

He turned to her. “Looped Hearts.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at him, her lips parting slightly, as if the title alone carried too much meaning.

He laughed softly to defuse it. “Yeah, I know. Cheesy, right? I almost named it Track_88 just to sound less sentimental.”

But she didn’t laugh.Instead, she stood, crossed the small space between them, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t,” she said gently. “It’s perfect.”

Marco froze. Her touch was light — almost unsure — but it anchored him in a way words never did.

“You sure?” he asked, voice smaller now.

She nodded. Then, almost without thinking, she let her head rest against his shoulder. The movement was slow, hesitant, but when she settled, it felt inevitable — like the natural resolution of a song’s final chord.

He hesitated, hands hovering awkwardly before one finally came to rest against her back, careful not to push, just there.

“You know,” she murmured, eyes half-closed, “it’s strange.”

“What is?”

“Every time I think I’ve forgotten how to care about something… you make me remember.”

He chuckled softly, though it cracked at the edges. “You make it sound like a bad habit.”

“Maybe it is,” she whispered. “But it feels good to relapse sometimes.”

The music looped again, quieter this time — like the beat itself was listening.

For a while, they just stayed like that. The rain outside started again, tapping faintly against the glass, syncing almost perfectly with the rhythm on Marco’s speakers.

“Marco,” she said after a long silence.

“Yeah?”

“Promise me something.”

“What kind of promise?”

“That you won’t disappear one day. Without a word. Without finishing the song.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I mean it,” she said. “You disappear all the time — into your work, your silence. Don’t make a habit of it.”

He exhaled, the weight of her words settling in his chest. “I’ll try.”

“You better,” she murmured.

He wanted to tell her I won’t, but something in his ribs twisted sharply — a dull, searing pulse that made his breath hitch. He covered it with a quiet laugh.

“Guess I’ll need more taho for strength,” he said.

She lifted her head, smirking softly. “You’re not funny.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re trying too hard,” she said, nudging him lightly.

He smiled again, weaker this time, and turned back to the screen. “You should record something for this track.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Just hum. No lyrics. Just… something from you.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

He handed her the mic. She closed her eyes, let out a slow breath, and hummed — low, steady, vulnerable.It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be. The tone melted into the beat, filling it with life, like rainwater finding cracks in dry ground.

Marco layered it into the mix, looping it twice, then muted the main track. The shop was filled with nothing but her soft voice repeating, fading, returning — a ghost circling warmth.

When it ended, they sat in silence.

“That,” he said finally, “is the sound of healing.”

She smiled faintly. “No. That’s the sound of trying.”

He met her eyes and nodded. “Yeah. That too.”



Later that night, Ji-yoo had gone home, and the shop was silent again.The lamp cast a pale ring over his desk. The waveform blinked idly on the screen, still looping her voice.

Marco leaned back, pressing a hand against his ribs. The pain was sharper now — deep, insistent, crawling up his chest like something alive.

He fumbled for the bottle of pills on the table, shaking one into his palm. The label had worn off, the letters faded by time and denial.

He stared at it for a long moment before swallowing it dry.

The room was too quiet. Even the rain outside had gone still.

He clicked play again — not to work, but to listen.

Ji-yoo’s hum filled the air, looping endlessly, wrapping around him like a memory that refused to fade.

He closed his eyes.

The silence tried to return.

But he wouldn’t let it in.Not yet.Not when she had just begun to sing again.


End of Episode 8—”Looped Hearts”