Episode 9: Unwell

The next few days should have been golden.

Their newest track, Looped Hearts, was spreading fast.A local Quezon City radio host had called it “a bedroom pop miracle.”In Cebu, a college DJ spliced it into a midnight mix, calling it “music for people who loved too late.”

Ji-yoo scrolled through her phone one night, watching her voice echo through strangers’ captions.

 #LoopedHearts on repeat. Whoever this girl is—she sounds like heartbreak and healing at once.


She smiled faintly at the screen, unsure if she was supposed to feel proud or exposed.

Marco should’ve been ecstatic. This was what they’d worked for—proof that their music mattered to someone beyond the four walls of the shop. But something had shifted.The light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something distant—like he was somewhere else even when he was right there beside her.

He laughed less, slept more.And even when he was awake, his hoodie never came off, no matter how hot it got.When he smiled, it felt borrowed. Too short. Too tight.

At first, Ji-yoo told herself it was stress. The attention. The sudden interviews. The unpaid bills still stacked under the register.

But the more she looked, the more the pattern didn’t fit.The way he rubbed his hands when no one was watching.The tiny tremor in his fingers when he reached for his coffee.The way he pressed his palm against his ribs and held it there just a little too long.

She noticed.She always noticed now.


It began with the stairs.
The morning was humid—the kind of Manila morning that clung to your skin and made even breathing feel heavy. Ji-yoo was carrying boxes of blank CDs up to the recording booth when she heard it: the sound of someone struggling for air.

She froze.

On the landing, Marco was bent over, one hand gripping the metal railing, sweat glistening on his forehead.

“Marco?” Her voice came sharp, instinctive. “Hey. You okay?”

He straightened, forcing a weak smile. “Yeah, yeah. Just… didn’t sleep. My back’s acting up again.”

“Your back?” she echoed. “That doesn’t sound like your back.”

He waved it off. “You sound like my mom. I’m fine, Ji.”

She crossed her arms, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. You were fine yesterday too when you almost dropped your laptop.”

“That was gravity, not disease,” he said with a chuckle.

“Then explain why you’re sweating bullets at eight in the morning,” she countered.

“Because this city’s an oven?” he shot back, grinning weakly.

But even as he joked, his hand stayed gripping the railing like his body knew something he wouldn’t admit.

When he tried to brush past her, she stepped sideways, blocking the stairs.

“No more lies.” Her tone softened, but the edge of worry was unmistakable. “What’s really happening to you?”

He froze, the façade cracking just a little. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” she said quietly.

He sighed, running a trembling hand through his hair. “It’s complicated, Ji. And it’s not your problem.”

“You’re my partner,” she said. “That makes it my problem.”

He stared at her—half frustrated, half grateful. “You already know, don’t you?”

Her breath hitched. “I know it’s not just your back. Or being tired. Or lack of sleep.” She hesitated. “I know about the pills in your bag. The ones you keep under the mixing board.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “You went through my stuff?”

“No,” she said. “You dropped your bag last week. I picked it up. One of the pill strips fell out.”

Silence. The hallway buzzed faintly with the hum of the fluorescent light.

Marco’s shoulders sagged. His voice, when it came, was small. “It’s Lupus.”

The word hit her like a sharp inhale.

He gave a humorless laugh, staring at the floor. “Autoimmune. Means my body’s decided I’m the enemy. Some days, it lets me live. Some days, it doesn’t.”

Ji-yoo sank onto the steps beside him. “How long have you known?”

“Over a year,” he said. “Got diagnosed late. I thought it was just muscle pain at first. Then came the fevers, the fatigue, the joint flares. Doctors said I was ‘lucky’ to catch it before it hit my kidneys. Guess that’s their version of optimism.”

She swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because…” He looked up, eyes glassy but steady. “You were just learning to live again. You were writing, singing, smiling. I didn’t want to give you another reason to stop.”

“That’s not fair,” she said, voice breaking. “You don’t get to protect me by hurting yourself.”

He tried to smile, but it faltered halfway. “It’s not about hurting myself. It’s about… not making everything about me.”

She looked at him then—the hoodie clinging to his damp shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes, the way he kept his body folded as if it were protecting something fragile.

Without thinking, she reached for his hand. “Marco…”

He flinched at first, then let her hold it. His skin was clammy. Weak. But alive.

“I’m not made of glass,” she said softly. “If you break, I break with you. That’s how this works.”

For a long moment, they sat there—two broken rhythms trying to sync.Below them, the shop radio played Looped Hearts, faint and distant, their voices bleeding through cheap speakers.

Marco exhaled. “Guess the song was right.”

“Hm?” she asked.

He smiled faintly. “Some hearts just keep looping. Even when they’re falling apart.”

She squeezed his hand. “Then we’ll keep looping too.”


The rain returned that evening, soft at first—barely there, just a thin rhythm against the tin roof of the record shop. Ji-yoo sat at the mixing desk long after closing, the screen light washing her face in dull blue.

The track Looped Hearts played on loop, but it no longer sounded like triumph.Now it sounded like a memory.A fragile echo of something they might never get back.

The shop was silent except for the faint hum of the speakers and the creak of the fan swinging lazily overhead. She stared at the waveform on the screen, at the line that pulsed every few seconds like a heartbeat.

He’s dying, she thought. And he’s still building dreams.


She pressed her palms against her eyes until the pressure hurt. “Why him?” she whispered. “Why now?”

Every sound—the dripping from the roof, the shuffle of footsteps on the street outside—felt unbearably loud. Her chest ached in a way no melody could fix.



She didn’t hear him come in until his reflection appeared on the monitor.

Marco leaned against the doorframe, pale under the flickering light.“Can’t sleep?” he asked, his voice hoarse but teasing.

Ji-yoo startled, wiping her face quickly. “You should be resting.”

“Rest is overrated,” he said, walking slowly toward her. He winced halfway across the room but kept going, pretending not to notice the pain twisting through his side.

She spun in her chair to face him. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

He smiled faintly. “Neither should you. Didn’t you say you were taking the night off?”

“I changed my mind.”

“Yeah?” he asked. “What happened to ‘self-care’?”

“It doesn’t work when someone you care about is falling apart,” she snapped—then immediately regretted it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he said quietly, lowering himself into the chair opposite hers. His movements were careful, deliberate—like every gesture was rationed energy. “You’re allowed to be angry.”

“I’m not angry,” she said softly. “I’m scared.”

He nodded slowly, eyes flicking toward the monitor. “You think I’m dying.”

Her throat tightened. “Aren’t you?”

He chuckled, a dry, fragile sound. “Eventually. Just not tonight.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Didn’t say it was.” He looked up at her, tired but sincere. “I’m not pretending it’s fine, Ji. But I can’t live like I’m already gone. If I do that, then Lupus wins twice.”

She stared at him, at the boy who still managed to grin through fever and pain. “You sound like someone trying to convince himself.”

“Maybe I am,” he admitted. “But it works better when you’re here.”

Her voice broke on the edges. “You don’t have to keep being strong for me. Not anymore.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m being strong with you. That’s different.”

She blinked, tears threatening again. “You always have an answer, huh?”

He smiled faintly. “Only when it’s you asking.”

For a moment, silence filled the room again—gentle, not heavy. Just the sound of rain and the faint hum of their unfinished track.



“Do you ever get tired?” she asked finally. “Of pretending you’re fine? Of… fighting?”

“All the time.” He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “But I get tired of giving up, too. So I switch between them.”

“That’s not sustainable,” she muttered.

“Neither is the rent here,” he said, smirking faintly. “But we’re still making music.”

She exhaled, almost laughing through the tears. “You’re impossible.”

He leaned forward. “You know what’s worse than dying, Ji?”

She shook her head.

“Stopping before you’re done.”

Those words sank deep, like a verse she didn’t know she needed.

He reached for her keyboard and hit play. The track started again—soft, looping, alive.

The chorus filled the small studio, their voices blending perfectly, fragile but fearless.

“You ever think,” she whispered, “that music is the only way we get to live forever?”

Marco smiled, leaning his head against the back of the chair. “Then I guess I’m already immortal.”

She looked at him for a long time, trying to memorize the shape of his face under the dim light. The faint stubble, the curve of his lips, the shadows under his eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights.

She wanted to tell him everything she was too afraid to say—that she’d already written half a song for him, that she didn’t care how this ended, as long as she could stay.

Instead, she said quietly, “You should go lie down. You look like hell.”

He grinned. “You’re not exactly glowing yourself.”

“Go,” she insisted, standing up. “I’ll close up.”

As he walked toward the door, he paused. “Hey, Ji?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t stop writing. Even when I can’t play.”

Her breath caught. “You’ll always play. You just rest for now.”

He smiled softly. “Sure. Just for now.”

And when he was gone, the silence in the room felt heavier than before—like the ghost of his presence still lingered in the hum of the equipment, in the faint scent of his cologne, in the space he left behind.

She pressed her hand to her chest. The beat beneath her palm felt fragile, syncopated. But it was still there.

She turned back to the screen, opened a blank lyric sheet, and began to type:
“For the ones who stay, even when staying hurts.”

They started recording again the next night.

The air was thick with humidity and the faint scent of coffee that had long gone cold. The record shop lights were dimmed, leaving only the soft glow of the monitors and the neon “OPEN” sign flickering faintly through the rain-streaked window.

Marco sat in his usual spot—hoodie on, headphones half-slipped, hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the sliders on the console. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale, but when he smiled at her across the booth window, it looked real this time.

“Ready?” he asked, voice rough but steady.

Ji-yoo adjusted the mic and nodded. “You tell me.”

He chuckled softly. “Let’s make something worth remembering.”

The beat began.Soft. Slow. Warm.A loop that felt like breathing.

She started singing. Her voice was low, hesitant at first—like it was afraid to be heard.

 “I tried to hold the sky, but it kept falling through my hands...”


Her throat tightened halfway through the verse. She stopped.

Marco pressed the intercom. “You okay?”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “It’s too much.”

“You can,” he said, gently. “Don’t sing it for me. Sing it to me.”

She stared through the glass. He was smiling again, faintly, like he knew exactly what she was feeling.

So she took a breath and tried again.

This time, she didn’t hold back. Every word cracked, trembled, burned—but it was real. When she reached the second verse, her voice broke entirely. She didn’t stop. Tears slipped down her face, and the mic caught everything—the pain, the fear, the love she hadn’t spoken aloud until now.

When the final chorus faded, the only sound left was her breathing.

The silence stretched between them—raw and honest.

Marco didn’t move for a long time. Then he clicked off the recorder. “That’s it,” he whispered through the mic. “That’s the one.”

She wiped her face. “You’re not cutting it?”

He shook his head. “No. That’s part of the music now.”

Ji-yoo stepped out of the booth, her knees unsteady. “You’re serious?”

He turned toward her. “Every great song needs truth in it. That—” he gestured to her tear-streaked face “—that was the truth.”

She laughed shakily. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said softly. “But you’re crying for me. That’s something.”

She exhaled, half-laughing, half-breaking. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

He shrugged. “Takes one to love one.”

That stopped her.

Her breath hitched, the words hovering on her lips before she even realized she was saying them.“I love you.”

The room went still.Even the rain outside seemed to pause.

Marco didn’t speak at first. His eyes softened, his hand hovering in the air before he reached out and pulled her close.

Her forehead rested against his shoulder. His heartbeat—uneven, fragile, but real—thudded softly beneath her ear.

“I know,” he whispered. “I’ve known for a while.”

She closed her eyes, gripping his hoodie tightly. “Then say it back.”

He smiled faintly. “I don’t want to waste it on words.”

She laughed against his chest, voice trembling. “That’s the worst answer ever.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But if I only get so many breaths left, I want to spend them listening to you.”

She went quiet. The rain picked up again outside, drumming gently against the windows like an old metronome.

“Marco?” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Promise me you won’t stop.”

“Making music?”

“Living.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “If you promise the same.”

She looked up at him, eyes wet but shining. “Deal.”

They stood there for a long moment, surrounded by the hum of machines, the smell of rain, the faint warmth of the lights. The world outside was still spinning, but in that small room, everything slowed.

Finally, Marco stepped back and hit play.The song began again—their song.Her voice trembling through the speakers, his harmonies weaving beneath like quiet strength.

She leaned into him, head resting against his chest once more, listening to the beat.Not the beat of the track, but the one inside him. The one she was terrified of losing.

It was uneven.Weak.But it was still there.

She closed her eyes and whispered,“Loop it again.”

And Marco smiled, pressing the spacebar.The music started over—soft, imperfect, endless.

Just like them.
End of Episode 9—”Unwell”