Episode 13: Heartbeat

The rooftop kiss lingered in Ji-yoo’s mind long after the night faded.Days had passed, but she could still feel the ghost of his lips against hers—the hesitant warmth, the faint tremor in his hand as if he was afraid the moment would break if he held her too tightly.

The world had seemed quieter since then, but not in a peaceful way.It was the kind of quiet that came after thunder—the air still buzzing, waiting for the next strike.

She’d replayed that night too many times: the laughter, the way his eyes softened under the fading neon lights, the unspoken words that finally found their way out through a kiss.Something had shifted between them. Their love, once shy and cautious, had stepped out of hiding.

But the light always casts shadows.




Three days later, the morning sky hung heavy over Manila, gray and humid. Ji-yoo walked briskly through the alley that led to the record shop, clutching an iced coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. She had texted Marco the night before—twice—but he hadn’t replied.

Maybe he’d overslept. Maybe he was mixing again until 3 a.m.Still… something felt off.

When she reached the door, the metal shutter was already halfway open. That was strange. Marco was never careless about the shop—he treated it like a sacred space.

“Marco?” she called, stepping inside.

No response. The shop was dim, the smell of dust and cables hanging in the air. Only the faint hum of the old studio equipment broke the silence.

Then she heard it—a cough.Harsh. Dry. Prolonged.

Her stomach twisted.

“Marco?” she said again, her voice sharper now. She rushed past the counter and toward the studio door. The coughing grew louder—painful, ragged, desperate. She swung the door open.

He was there, bent over the console, one hand braced against the wall, the other clutching his chest. His skin looked ghostly pale, beads of sweat glinting under the fluorescent light. When he lifted his head, she saw the faint bluish tinge on his lips.

“Marco!” she gasped, hurrying to him. “Hey—what’s going on? Are you okay?”

He blinked in surprise, like he hadn’t even noticed she was there. “Ji—what are you doing here? It’s early.”

“You didn’t answer my messages,” she said, kneeling beside him. “I got worried.”

He tried to straighten, to play it off, but his knees buckled slightly before he caught himself on the chair.

“I’m fine,” he said, forcing a shaky grin. “Just… morning cough. You know how it is.”

“Don’t you dare lie to me right now,” Ji-yoo shot back, her voice trembling. “You’re not fine.”

He exhaled heavily, dropping into the seat behind him. His shoulders slumped. “It’s nothing serious. It’s just a flare-up.”

“Flare-up?” she repeated. “Marco, you look like you’re about to collapse.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” he muttered, though even that sounded weak.

“Dramatic?” she snapped. “You’re coughing like your lungs are about to give out and you’re calling me dramatic?”

He chuckled under his breath, trying to lighten it. “Well, you do have a flair for it.”

“Marco.” Her voice broke slightly as she said his name. “Please. Stop pretending.”

The room went quiet except for the faint buzzing of the amp. He finally looked at her—really looked at her—and something in his eyes gave away the truth. The exhaustion, the fear, the resignation he’d tried to bury under humor.

Ji-yoo crouched in front of him, resting her hand gently on his knee. “How long?” she asked softly. “How long has it been like this?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “A while.”

“How long, Marco.”

He sighed, defeated. “Months. Maybe longer.”

She inhaled sharply. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to look at me like that,” he murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m already halfway gone.”

Her throat tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But every day I don’t talk about it, I get to be just a musician. Just a guy with too many ideas and not enough coffee. Not a patient. Not a countdown.”

Ji-yoo swallowed hard. “You’re not a countdown,” she whispered. “You’re Marco. The idiot who leaves coffee cups everywhere and sings off-key when he thinks no one’s listening.”

He smiled faintly at that. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything about you,” she said, her voice trembling now. “Even when you’re trying to disappear behind your music.”

He looked away, guilt flickering across his face. “I just didn’t want this to become another sad song.”

“Then don’t make it one,” she said. “Let me help.”

“Ji—”

“No. You don’t get to push me away this time.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then let out a small, weary laugh. “You’re stubborn.”

“Someone has to be,” she said softly, reaching out to take his hand.

His fingers were cold. She pressed them against her chest, right where her heart beat steady and alive.

“Then be that guy,” she whispered. “The musician. The dreamer. The idiot who stays up mixing until sunrise. But don’t be him alone.”

Marco’s eyes softened, the wall he’d built finally cracking. “You shouldn’t have to carry me.”

“Then let’s carry each other,” she said, voice firm but tender.

For a moment, they just sat there—his weak pulse fluttering against her heartbeat, the silence stretching like a fragile promise neither of them could break.

Outside, the city stirred awake, but in that small studio, time seemed to stand still.


The sun had long dipped below the Manila skyline, and the city outside the record shop pulsed faintly with neon and rain.Inside, everything was still—quiet enough that Ji-yoo could hear the low hum of the studio monitors and the faint buzz of a dying fluorescent bulb overhead.

Marco had finally fallen asleep on the couch. He looked worn out, his breathing uneven, every exhale a soft tremor. The cough had lessened, but only because exhaustion had pulled him under.

Ji-yoo sat at the mixing desk, staring at the blinking lights on the console. Each one felt like a heartbeat—steady, fragile, temporary.She let her eyes wander to the piles of paper and scattered notebooks around the room. Every page had his handwriting—lyrics, chord notes, fragments of melodies he never finished.

It hit her how much of him was here.In the mess. In the music.Every mistake, every laugh, every piece of him trying to outrun time.

She stood quietly and began to clean up. It wasn’t much, but it felt like something she could control.She coiled the wires, stacked the sheets, shut off the monitors one by one until the glow dimmed into moonlight.Her movements were soft, deliberate—like she was afraid of waking a ghost.

As she turned to tidy the small table beside the couch, she caught sight of him stirring slightly in his sleep. His brow furrowed, a weak cough escaping his lips before he relaxed again.

“Still fighting even in your dreams,” she murmured.

She knelt beside him, tucking a blanket around his shoulders. Her fingers brushed his hair back, the strands slightly damp with sweat.It broke her heart—the quiet fragility of him. The boy who turned sound into sunlight now breathing like every breath was borrowed.

Her eyes drifted to his bag on the floor beside the couch. It was half-zipped, bulging with papers and notebooks. She reached for it, intending to move it so he wouldn’t trip over it later. But as she lifted it, something slipped out.

The soft thud of paper hitting the floor startled her.

She froze.

A folder had spilled open—edges frayed, pages wrinkled from handling. Ji-yoo knelt to gather them, but the words printed across the top stopped her cold.

“Pulmonary Function Test – Abnormal Results.”“Rheumatology Follow-Up.”“Oxygen Saturation Decline.”

Her heart clenched. There were multiple documents—lab reports, prescription receipts, medical letters, all with his name neatly typed at the top.Every one of them was dated within the past six months.

Her hand trembled as she picked up the last page, but then something else slipped out—a small envelope, pale and creased from being handled too often.

Her name was written on it.Ji-yoo.In Marco’s handwriting.

The sight of it hit harder than she expected. She sank back onto her heels, staring at it in disbelief. For a moment, all she could hear was the faint thrum of his breathing in the background.

Her fingers hovered above the flap. Part of her wanted to tear it open. The other part was terrified to know what was inside.

“Why did you write me this, Marco?” she whispered under her breath. “What were you planning to say?”

The silence offered no answer. Only the sound of his uneven breathing, like waves hitting a fragile shore.

She swallowed hard and pressed the envelope against her chest.Not tonight, she thought. Not when he’s still here.

Ji-yoo gathered the papers, carefully placing them back inside the folder. But before zipping it shut, her eyes lingered on the medical reports again. The numbers meant little, but the tone of the words—progression, degeneration, monitoring required—spoke volumes.

She closed her eyes.Her chest tightened with something she didn’t want to name.

She looked back at him. He was still asleep, though his face twitched slightly as if caught in some distant dream.She moved closer, kneeling beside him, the glow from the desk lamp spilling over both of them.

Her voice trembled as she spoke, barely a whisper.“Don’t you dare leave me with unanswered letters, Marco.”

He stirred, mumbling something incoherent before settling again. Ji-yoo’s lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. “You talk even in your sleep. Figures.”

For a while, she just watched him breathe.The rise and fall of his chest. The faint movement of his fingers twitching, as though still drumming to a rhythm only he could hear.

Then, gently, she placed her hand over his heart.She felt it—soft, erratic, fighting to keep its rhythm.

Her own heartbeat quickened, syncing to his as if her body was trying to keep time for both of them.

In that fragile stillness, the truth struck her like lightning—terrifying and beautiful all at once.

She had fallen in love with someone who was running out of time.




She stayed there for a long while, tracing the shape of his hand with her fingertips, as though memorizing it.Then she whispered the only promise that felt real anymore.

“I’ll write it down,” she said softly. “Every word, every song, every heartbeat you give me. So even if you stop, your music won’t.”

The rain outside began again, light and rhythmic against the glass—like percussion, like breathing.Ji-yoo leaned back, eyes burning but calm.

If the world was going to take him piece by piece, she would make sure the songs they made together would give those pieces back to the world. Louder. Brighter. Unforgettable.


The storm hadn’t stopped by morning.Rain streaked the shop windows in diagonal lines, catching faint reflections of the neon lights outside. Ji-yoo sat by the console, fingers tapping an idle rhythm on the desk. The empty mug beside her had gone cold hours ago.

Marco stirred on the couch, waking slowly, rubbing his eyes. His voice was raspy when he spoke.“Did you stay here all night?”

She turned toward him, half-smiling. “You snore like a dying amplifier. I couldn’t sleep even if I wanted to.”

He let out a tired chuckle. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” she teased softly. “You hit notes even the devil wouldn’t dare harmonize with.”

Marco groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Remind me to ban you from all future recording sessions.”

“You’d miss me,” she said.

He looked up at her then—really looked. For a moment, his grin faltered, replaced by something quieter, almost tender. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I would.”

A fragile silence stretched between them. The kind that carried too many unspoken things—fear, gratitude, love, and the slow ache of time slipping through their fingers.

Ji-yoo broke it first, reaching for the small notebook on the table. “I wrote something,” she said.

He blinked. “At 3 a.m.?”

“3:47, actually.” She flipped to a page, the ink slightly smudged. “I couldn’t sleep, so I… wrote lyrics.”

Marco sat up, curiosity lighting his eyes. “Can I see?”

She hesitated. “You’ll think it’s too sentimental.”

He grinned faintly. “Coming from you, that’s impressive.”

She handed the notebook over anyway. He read the words quietly, lips moving soundlessly.

‘If your lungs forget the rhythm,I’ll breathe the song for you.If your heartbeat falters,I’ll play it through the night.’

When he finally looked up, his eyes glistened faintly. “You wrote this for me?”

Ji-yoo exhaled. “For us.”

He smiled—slowly, painfully—but his voice trembled when he said, “Then let’s record it.”

She frowned. “Now? You should be resting.”

“I’ve done enough resting,” he said, standing with effort. “If I’m running out of time, I’d rather spend it making something worth remembering.”

Ji-yoo opened her mouth to protest, but the determination in his eyes stopped her. She nodded instead. “Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s do it.”




They set up the mic, the small studio glowing under the warm light of the desk lamp. The rain outside softened, turning into a gentle percussion against the roof—steady, rhythmic, alive.

Marco adjusted the levels, his hands shaking slightly on the faders. Ji-yoo stood behind the glass, watching him with a mixture of awe and fear.

“Ready?” he asked through the intercom.

“Ready,” she said, though her heart was anything but.

The first chords played—soft piano, faint reverb, the kind of sound that hung in the air long after it ended. Ji-yoo took a breath and began to sing.

Her voice was low at first, trembling, as if afraid to disturb the air between them. But as she went on, something inside her steadied. She poured everything into it—fear, longing, love, grief. Every word bled truth.

Through the glass, Marco watched her. Even from there, she could see the faint smile tugging at his lips, the glint of pride in his tired eyes.

When she finished, the silence that followed felt sacred. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Then Marco’s voice crackled through the speaker. “You know what this needs?”

She wiped her eyes quickly. “A better vocalist?”

He laughed weakly. “A heartbeat.”

She blinked. “What?”

He tapped the mic near his chest, grinning faintly. “Mine. The tempo’s off without it.”

“Marco—”

“Trust me.”

He walked over, pulling the second mic closer. He placed it near his chest, adjusted the gain, and pressed record.For a moment, the room filled with a soft, irregular thump-thump. Faint but real. Imperfect, human, alive.

Ji-yoo covered her mouth with her hand. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he said, smiling. “But now it’s our song.”

The sound of his heartbeat merged with the melody. Ji-yoo stepped closer, unable to stop the tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Why do you always have to turn pain into something beautiful?” she whispered.

He shrugged lightly. “Because if I don’t, it wins.”

She stood there, trembling. “Then let’s not let it win.”




Hours later, the track finished rendering. The song was done.They sat side by side, listening to it in silence. The heartbeat echoed faintly under the chorus—steady, defiant, alive.

Marco leaned back, eyes closed. “If I go,” he said softly, “promise me you’ll finish the album.”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m serious, Ji. The world deserves to hear what we made. Even if I’m not around to see it.”

Her throat tightened. “You’ll be here.”

He smiled faintly. “Maybe not in the way you mean.”

She couldn’t respond. Her hands curled into fists in her lap, nails digging into her skin as she blinked away tears.

Marco reached over and placed his hand over hers. “Hey,” he said gently. “You remember the first day we met? You couldn’t even look me in the eye.”

She laughed through her tears. “You were wearing that stupid orange jacket.”

He chuckled. “Still have it. Still stupid.”

They both laughed quietly, their voices overlapping with the faint sound of rain outside.Then Ji-yoo leaned her head against his shoulder, eyes closing. “You’re not leaving me,” she said, almost childlike. “I won’t let you.”

“I know,” he whispered. “You’ll keep me in the music.”

She smiled faintly, tears still falling. “Yeah. Every note. Every heartbeat.”




That night, when Marco finally drifted off again—head tilted back, mouth slightly open, the soft rhythm of his breathing blending with the sound of rain—Ji-yoo opened her notebook.

She began to write.

Not just lyrics this time, but a promise.

“ If your heart stops, mine will remember the tempo.If your song ends, I’ll play the next verse.Because love—real love—doesn’t fade when the music ends.It lingers. Echoes. Lives on.”


She glanced at him, asleep, fragile yet unbroken.

Then she whispered to the quiet room, “I’ll make sure they hear you, Marco. The world will remember your heartbeat.”

The cursor blinked on the screen beside her, waiting for a title.

She typed it slowly.

“Heartbeat – Demo 01.”

And pressed save.

End of Episode 13—”Heartbeat”