Episode 10: All in the Rhythm

The rain had stopped days ago, but the city still felt damp—streets slick with old puddles, clouds hanging low like gray curtains that refused to lift. The shop smelled faintly of dust, coffee, and fresh wires—an oddly comforting mix that had become their everyday perfume.

Ji-yoo sat at the counter, scribbling lines in her worn notebook, earbuds dangling loosely as she hummed something unfinished. Marco was hunched over his laptop nearby, eyes bleary, hair messier than usual.

“Are you still checking your email?” she teased, glancing up. “You look like you’re waiting for a miracle.”

“Maybe I am,” he said, tapping his keyboard. “You ever notice how every spam message feels like it could be life-changing before you open it?”

“Yeah,” she said dryly, “especially the ones promising to ‘boost your music career overnight.’”

“Hey, that one had a free ebook.”

“Trash.”

“Agreed,” he chuckled. “Straight to the trash.”

Then, silence. The good kind—the kind that hummed with something beneath it. Marco frowned, scrolling. His cursor hovered. His eyes went wide.

“What?” Ji-yoo asked, sensing the shift.

He didn’t answer. He just blinked. Once. Twice. Then whispered, “Oh, no way.”

Her heart skipped. “What is it?”

Marco leaned back, voice trembling. “You might want to see this.”

He turned the laptop toward her.

Subject line bold and blinding in the dim light of the shop:

You’re In: IndieSun Music Festival – Cebu


For a moment, all she could do was stare. Her reflection shimmered faintly on the screen—tired eyes, slightly open mouth, disbelief written across her face.

“You… applied?” she breathed.

Marco shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “On a whim. Sent Looped Hearts and Memory Tape last month. I figured, worst case, they ghost us.”

Ji-yoo blinked rapidly, trying to process. “They didn’t ghost us.”

“Nope.”

“They just invited us to perform in front of thousands of people!”

“Thousands,” Marco echoed, leaning back, his grin growing until it split into laughter. “Oh my God. Ji-yoo. We actually got in.”

She put a hand over her mouth, a laugh bubbling out of her in disbelief. “This is insane.”

“I know, right?” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I thought the email was fake at first. I almost deleted it.”

She gasped. “You almost deleted our future?”

He laughed harder. “It was sandwiched between spam and a promo for discount drum pads, okay?”

She reached over and playfully smacked his arm. “You idiot!”

“Ow! Okay, okay—fine! Maybe I should frame the email now.”

“You should tattoo it on your forehead,” she shot back, but she was smiling—brightly, helplessly.

The laughter faded into silence again, softer this time. They stared at the glowing screen as if it were a doorway. For so long, they had been trapped in this tiny shop—looping songs, chasing light through cracked windows. But now, it felt like the universe had finally opened a door and whispered, go.

Marco leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “This is it, huh? The big one.”

“Feels like it,” Ji-yoo said quietly.

He exhaled, staring at the flickering shop lights above. “You know what’s wild? I didn’t even think we’d finish a track when we started. I just… wanted to make something that didn’t sound like despair.”

Ji-yoo smiled faintly. “And now we’re performing it live.”

“Yeah.” He laughed softly. “In Cebu. Of all places.”

“Cebu,” she repeated, tasting the word like something unreal.

He turned to her, eyes bright. “We’re really doing this, Ji.”

She nodded. “We are.”

A brief silence fell again, filled by the hum of the old refrigerator and the distant noise of traffic outside.

Then she grinned. “So, what now?”

“Now,” he said, cracking his knuckles, “we get serious. We rehearse. We fix our transitions. We look like we actually know what we’re doing.”

She leaned back in her chair, amused. “You say that like we ever did.”

“Fake it till you make it, right?”

“That’s your motto, not mine.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, and what’s yours?”

“Don’t die trying.”

They both laughed, and the sound filled the shop—light, unguarded, echoing off vinyl shelves and flickering bulbs.

For the first time in a long while, Ji-yoo felt something like hope.

The shop didn’t just smell like dust and wires anymore—it smelled like the start of something.


The next few days dissolved into a rhythm of their own.Morning blurred into night, sunlight into streetlight, until time itself seemed to loop—like one of Marco’s endless audio tracks.

The shop no longer felt like a shop. It had transformed into a living, breathing rehearsal space. Wires slithered across the floor, instruments leaned like weary soldiers against the wall, and every available surface was covered in scribbled lyrics, empty coffee cups, and open notebooks.

They were building something—and it was messy, chaotic, and utterly beautiful.



One late afternoon, Marco adjusted the mic stand for the tenth time. “Okay, again from the bridge. And this time, please don’t skip the cue before the drop.”

Ji-yoo rolled her eyes. “I didn’t skip it. You jumped it.”

“I jumped it because you paused.”

“I paused because you looked at me!”

He threw up his hands. “You can’t blame me for having eyes, Ji!”

She groaned, tugging off her headphones. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

“I was an idol,” she deadpanned. “It’s part of the package.”

He snorted. “Yeah, but now you’re an indie artist. We don’t do drama, we do burnout.”

She smirked, then sighed, taking a sip from her cold coffee. “God, I hate how accurate that sounds.”



By the third day, they had built a small stage setup on the rooftop. The city stretched around them in a mosaic of gray rooftops and blinking lights. The air was hot, the kind of heat that clung to the skin and made everything feel heavier.

“Okay,” Marco said, holding the portable speaker like a sacred relic. “Imagine it. The crowd. The lights. The noise. You ready?”

Ji-yoo adjusted her mic. “Define ready.”

“Ready means you’re about to melt faces.”

She raised an eyebrow. “We’re singing love songs, not screaming metal.”

He grinned. “Love songs melt hearts. Close enough.”

The beat kicked in—steady, pulsing, alive. Ji-yoo took a deep breath and started to sing. Her voice carried into the open air, catching on the wind. Marco nodded along, eyes half-closed, tweaking the levels from his tablet. For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them—the rooftop, the sky, the sound.

Then she stumbled on a verse, voice cracking. She winced. “Ugh. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said immediately. “It’s real.”

“It’s wrong.”

“It’s you,” he countered. “And that’s the point.”

She looked at him for a long second, the kind of look that said more than words. Then she nodded slowly and tried again—this time softer, but stronger.

When the song ended, the last note lingered in the air, fragile and perfect.Marco exhaled, smiling. “You’ve got better stamina now than when we started.”

“Shut up,” she said, bending over, panting. “I’m still recovering from your brilliant idea to dance during the rap break.”

“Hey, it’s called showmanship!” He tossed her a water bottle. “That crowd’s gonna go wild. We need to be tight.”

She caught it, smirking. “We’re always tight.”

He grinned. “Damn right.”



That night, they stayed on the rooftop long after sunset.The sky above was a wash of violet and electric blue, stars faint behind the city glow. Ji-yoo sat cross-legged beside the speaker, humming softly while Marco tuned his guitar.

After a while, she spoke quietly.“Do you ever think about what happens after this?”

He didn’t look up. “After the festival?”

“After… everything. The songs, the shop, us.”

There was a small silence. Marco strummed a few chords before answering.“I used to think too much about ‘after.’ Now I just want to get through ‘now.’”

She smiled faintly. “That’s very Zen of you.”

“Not Zen,” he said, smirking. “Just tired.”

Ji-yoo leaned back, eyes tracing the clouds. “You know… sometimes I wonder what we’d be doing if we hadn’t met. Like, if I hadn’t walked into this shop that day.”

“You’d probably be working at some cafe, pretending not to sing,” he said. “And I’d still be making music for ghosts.”

She turned to him. “Ghosts?”

He met her eyes. “Yeah. Songs no one hears.”

The wind shifted then—cool, gentle. Ji-yoo didn’t respond right away. She just let his words hang there, echoing softly between them.




Later, when they headed back downstairs, Marco flicked off the rooftop light and said, half-joking, half-sincere,“You know, if we bomb at the festival, we can always blame the weather.”

Ji-yoo grinned. “Or each other.”

“That too.”

She stopped at the door and looked back one more time—the empty rooftop glowing faintly under the moonlight.“It’s weird,” she murmured. “I feel like this place is watching us.”

Marco smiled, unlocking the shop. “Good. Let it watch. It’ll have a story to tell.”




Inside, the air was thick with heat and electricity. Their setlist hung on the wall beside the counter—handwritten in marker, corners curling. Ji-yoo stared at it, tracing the song titles with her finger.

1. Memory Tape2. Looped Hearts3. Rumors4. Time Stains (unreleased)

Marco joined her, resting his chin on her shoulder to read the list.“We’re really doing it,” he said softly.

She nodded. “Yeah. We are.”

He grinned. “Scared?”

She hesitated. “A little.”

“Good,” he said. “Means you care.”

She turned her head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. “You?”

He smiled faintly. “Terrified.”

They both laughed—quietly, tenderly.

And for that small, flickering moment, they weren’t broken musicians or ghosts of who they used to be.They were a team.A heartbeat.A rhythm in sync.

The rain returned that evening—soft, hesitant, as if the sky itself was rehearsing.The record shop glowed dimly under the weak fluorescent light, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence between beats.Ji-yoo pushed the door open, the bell above it chiming faintly.

“Marco?” she called out.

No answer.

The air felt off—still, heavy. Then she saw him.

Marco was lying on the floor, one arm draped over his chest, an unopened bottle of water beside him. His shirt clung to him with sweat.

“Marco!” she cried, dropping her bag as she rushed over.

He winced, shielding his eyes from the light. “Hey… I’m fine. Just… overdid it.”

She knelt beside him, pressing a hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Am I?” he murmured, voice too casual for comfort. “Feels like I’m floating.”

“Stop talking like that,” she said sharply. “You haven’t eaten since noon, have you?”

He smiled faintly. “Does instant ramen count as food?”

Her glare could’ve melted glass. “No. It does not.”

He chuckled weakly, then coughed. “Okay, okay… I might’ve pushed too hard.”

“Might’ve? Marco, you almost passed out!”

He closed his eyes, breathing unevenly. “It’s fine, Ji. Just needed a break. Don’t look so scared.”

“I’m not scared,” she lied.

“You are.”

She exhaled shakily. “You’re not dying on me before our first festival. I won’t let you.”

Marco chuckled softly. “That’s… the most romantic threat I’ve ever heard.”

She scowled, then relented. Her hand brushed his hair from his forehead as she muttered, “Idiot.”

“I’ll take that as affection.”

“You should.”



They stayed like that for a while. The clock ticked. The rain deepened.Ji-yoo eventually sat beside him, her knees pulled to her chest. Marco had his eyes closed, one hand resting on his stomach, a cold pack balanced clumsily over his heart.

“You know,” he said after a long silence, “I haven’t had something to look forward to in… years.”

Her voice softened. “You mean before all this?”

He nodded slowly. “Before you walked into this shop. Everything just… felt gray. Like background noise.”

She swallowed hard, her throat tightening. “And now?”

He smiled faintly, eyes still shut. “Now, even the silence sounds like music.”

Something cracked in her chest then—something she didn’t have a name for.

“You’re saying that like it’s goodbye,” she whispered.

His smile faded slightly. “No. It’s just… gratitude.”

“Don’t you dare thank me,” she said, voice trembling. “Not like that.”

He opened his eyes and turned to her, his gaze gentle. “Ji, you don’t have to carry everything. You’re allowed to be happy too.”

She looked away. “Happiness and I aren’t on speaking terms right now.”

“Then let me introduce you again,” he said softly.

She bit her lip, trying not to cry. “You’re an idiot, Marco.”

He grinned faintly. “Your idiot.”

That made her laugh—a broken, quiet sound that somehow made the room feel lighter.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Get some rest, hero. We’ve got a stage to conquer.”

“Roger that,” he mumbled, already half-asleep.



Ji-yoo stayed up long after he drifted off.She curled up on the armchair across from him, a notebook balanced on her knees, headphones around her neck.The rain whispered outside, steady and patient.

She looked at him—the way his chest rose and fell, his features finally soft, unguarded.For once, there was no stress, no forced humor, no exhaustion. Just peace.

She turned on the player, looping their rehearsal tracks—Memory Tape, Looped Hearts, Rumors, and their unfinished final song.Every beat carried a piece of them.Every lyric was a confession they hadn’t dared to speak aloud.

As she listened, she started to write. Not a full song—just a line. A thought she didn’t want to lose.

“When the beat stops, will you still hear me?”


She stared at the words for a long moment.It wasn’t about the music anymore.It was about everything they’d built, and the fear of losing it.



By dawn, the rain had stopped.The city outside was quiet, painted in early gold.

Marco stirred on the couch, murmuring something half-asleep.Ji-yoo smiled softly and whispered, “Morning.”

He blinked, sitting up slowly. “You stayed?”

“Of course I did,” she said. “Somebody had to make sure you didn’t die in your sleep.”

He chuckled hoarsely. “You’re terrible at bedside manners.”

“Good thing I’m not a nurse.”

He rubbed his eyes, looking at her notebook. “What’s that?”

She closed it quickly. “Just… something new.”

“For the setlist?”

“Maybe.”

He smiled faintly. “You never stop, huh?”

She met his gaze. “Neither do you.”



The first light of morning spilled through the windows, turning the shop gold.Cables gleamed like threads of sunlight.Their instruments waited quietly in the corner—silent, but ready.

Ji-yoo stood and stretched, glancing at the setlist taped to the wall.
1. Memory Tape2. Looped Hearts3. Rumors4. Time Stains (unreleased)


She traced the last title with her finger, then looked back at Marco.

“This is it,” she said softly.

He nodded. “Yeah. This is it.”

They stood there for a long moment—two dreamers caught in the stillness before the noise.

Then Marco broke the silence with a crooked grin.“Hey, Ji?”

“Yeah?”

“When the beat stops…” he began.

She smiled knowingly. “I’ll still hear you.”



End of Episode 10 – “All in the Rhythm”