Episode 14: Almost Confessions

The shop felt wrong without sound.

No humming speakers.No scratch of vinyl spinning in the corner.No half-sung melody drifting from Ji-yoo’s lips as she rearranged the shelves.

Just the low buzz of a fluorescent light and the soft hum of the refrigerator at the back.

Marco stood in the center of it all, leaning on the counter like a man twice his age. The silence pressed on his ribs, heavy but familiar. He’d switched everything off himself — not out of laziness, but intention.

He needed quiet.

 “You sure you’ll be okay tonight?”Ji-yoo’s voice echoed in his mind, clear as the memory of her perfume — citrus and rain.


He’d laughed it off earlier that evening.She had come to drop off a flash drive, still dressed in her faded blue hoodie and ripped jeans, hair tied loosely like she didn’t care but always did.

“Yeah,” he’d said, forcing a smile. “Just a day off. Promise.”

“Since when do you take breaks?” she teased, crossing her arms. “You’re usually the one dragging me back to the booth.”

He shrugged. “Guess I finally learned from you.”

She smiled faintly at that — a real one, though it didn’t quite reach her tired eyes.Her thumb brushed the strap of her bag, fidgeting. “You’ve been quiet lately,” she murmured. “Is it the meds again?”

“Nah,” he lied too quickly. “Just need to recalibrate.”

“Recalibrate,” she repeated softly, rolling the word like it was a lyric she didn’t believe in.Then, more quietly, “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted to the half-finished poster on the wall — Time Stains Tour: Coming Soon.The tour that probably wouldn’t happen. Not for him, anyway.

Finally, he said, “You worry too much, Ji.”

“Someone has to.”Her tone was playful, but her eyes said otherwise.

He smiled again — that same easy, disarming grin she’d fallen for — and gestured to the door. “Go home. Rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You sure you don’t need help cleaning up?”

“Positive.”He tried to sound firm, but the way his fingers gripped the edge of the counter betrayed him. The pain was there again — dull, radiating, spreading like heat under his skin.

She hesitated at the door, the bell above it swaying faintly.

 “Okay,” she said finally. “But if you collapse in here again, I’m changing the locks and moving the studio to my apartment.”


He laughed. “You’d hate that. My cables are a mess.”

“I already do,” she shot back, a small smile curling her lips.Then softer: “See you tomorrow, Marco.”

When the door closed behind her, he stood there a moment longer, staring at the space she’d left behind — her chair, her mug, the faint echo of her laughter trapped in the quiet.

The silence felt too big now.Too final.


He took his time setting up.

The microphone went on first, its silver head glinting under the dim light. He adjusted the stand with slow, deliberate movements, pausing when his shoulder twinged. The laptop booted with a low whine, its glow painting half his face in blue.

Each click of a key sounded like a clock tick.

The pain was familiar — it came in steady waves, pulsing beneath his ribs like music with no melody. But tonight wasn’t about the pain.It was about the time.

He opened a new project file. The empty waveform stared back at him, waiting.

Marco sat, exhaled, and leaned close to the mic.

 “Letter One… for Ji-yoo.”


His voice came out rough, hoarse — like gravel pressed through silk.

“If you’re hearing this, I guess I didn’t make it to the stage. Or maybe I did… and just didn’t make it after.”


He chuckled quietly, shaking his head at his own words. “Damn, that sounded way more dramatic than I meant.”

Silence again.He rubbed his chest where the ache lingered, then continued, softer.

“I never told you how beautiful your voice was the first time I heard it. You were off-key. Raw. Cracked. But it was real. It was like someone singing from inside a storm — all pain, all truth.”


He paused, eyes closing.

“You made me forget I was sick for a while. You made the noise stop. Just for a bit.”


He inhaled shakily, the sound hitching halfway.

 “I’m sorry… for hiding it. For pretending I was okay. For leaving you to guess the truth while I kept recording smiles instead of songs.”


He looked at the waveform building on the screen — his voice captured as rising lines and falling shapes.

“But thank you… for staying anyway.”


The cursor blinked, waiting.Marco’s hand hovered over the keyboard. Then he stopped the recording.

The silence that followed was heavier than before. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

He leaned back in the chair, staring at nothing, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. His chest rose and fell with effort. For a moment, he almost pressed record again — to add something, anything — but instead, he whispered to the empty room:

“Not yet.”


He didn’t cry.

He just sat there until the ache in his ribs became part of the silence, until even the hum of the monitor felt like a heartbeat trying not to fade.


Morning in Manila came gray and dull, the kind of light that carried no warmth — just weight.The record shop’s neon sign blinked weakly against the early daylight, struggling to stay alive, much like the boy inside.

Marco was already at the mixing desk when Ji-yoo pushed the door open.

The bell chimed softly.He didn’t flinch — didn’t even look up at first.

She paused by the entrance, taking in the scene. The air smelled of cold coffee and soldered wires. The blinds were half-closed, cutting the sunlight into strips that fell across Marco’s slouched figure.

“You’re here early,” she said softly.


He blinked, removing his headphones. The faint echo of an unfinished mix spilled from the speakers — a few chords looping endlessly, raw and unpolished.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, offering a faint smile. “Figured I’d make the insomnia useful.”

Ji-yoo’s brow creased. “You’re pushing yourself again.”

“Occupational hazard.” He smirked. “Besides, you’re one to talk.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, dropping her bag on the couch, “at least I don’t fall asleep sitting up in front of a mic.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair point.”

For a while, the only sound was the low hum of the speakers and the occasional click of Marco’s mouse. Ji-yoo wandered the room, fingers brushing over stacked lyric sheets, empty bottles, and stray cables. Everything was familiar — and yet wrong. Too neat, too deliberate. Like he’d cleaned it to hide something.

Her gaze settled on him again. His shoulders seemed thinner. The dark circles under his eyes deeper. And yet he smiled, like he was desperately trying to pretend everything was normal.

 “What are you working on?” she asked finally, breaking the silence.


He froze — only for half a second, but long enough for her to notice.

“Just… a personal project,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Something off the setlist.”

Ji-yoo tilted her head. “A new song?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what?”

He hesitated. “Just… something I needed to record.”

There it was — that same wall he built whenever the topic got too close. He was good at deflection. Too good. She’d learned to read it in his breathing, the way his eyes darted away, the way his voice softened when he lied.

But she didn’t push. Not yet.

Instead, she smiled faintly. “Fine. Keep your mysterious artist secrets.”

He smirked. “You say that like I’m interesting.”

“You are,” she said without thinking. The word slipped out before she could stop it.

Their eyes met for a second too long. Then Marco looked away, pretending to check the audio levels.The moment passed — fragile, like the echo of a note that never quite resolves.




By midafternoon, the fatigue hit him hard. His fingers trembled when he reached for the coffee mug, nearly spilling it.“Damn,” he muttered, setting it down. “Guess I’m not invincible.”

Ji-yoo chuckled softly. “Took you long enough to realize.”

When she turned back from the counter with a fresh cup, he was asleep — slumped in the booth chair, one headphone still dangling from his neck, the faint rise and fall of his chest the only proof he was still fighting.

Her smile faded.She placed the coffee down quietly, careful not to wake him. For a moment, she just looked at him — the way his hair fell over his forehead, the small scar near his jaw, the exhaustion painted across his face.

He looked peaceful.Too peaceful.

Something twisted in her chest.She’d seen him push through pain before — coughing fits, dizzy spells, late-night nosebleeds he brushed off with a joke — but this felt different. This felt like the quiet before something irreversible.

She started cleaning the space, partly to distract herself, partly to stop thinking.She unplugged the speakers, stacked the notebooks, wiped the dust from the console. And then — she saw it.

His laptop.Still open.The screen faintly glowing with the title bar of a folder.

“Letters to Ji.”

Her pulse spiked. She froze mid-step.The mouse cursor blinked over the filename, waiting — daring her.

She took a hesitant breath. “Letters…?” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. “What the hell, Marco…”

Her fingers hovered above the trackpad. One click — and she’d know everything. Every thought, every secret, every feeling he hadn’t said.

She looked at him again — still asleep, one hand limp at his side.

“You and your secrets,” she murmured. “You’d rather bleed through your songs than talk to me.”


Her thumb brushed over the touchpad. Then she pulled away.“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Not like this.”

She closed the lid gently, the soft click sounding louder than it should have.Then she turned off the light, grabbed her bag, and left.




Outside, the city was alive in a way she wasn’t.

Manila at dusk bled color — electric blues and orange streaks reflecting off puddles from the afternoon rain. The streets buzzed with traffic, laughter, music.But to Ji-yoo, everything felt muted, distant.The noise turned into static, the colors into smudges.

She walked with no direction — through sidewalks packed with vendors, across overpasses that smelled of rust and exhaust. Her thoughts looped like an unfinished chorus.

 “If you’re hearing this…”

The words from Marco’s earlier recordings echoed in her mind, imagined but vivid.



She tried to shake it off. “He’s fine,” she told herself. “He just needs rest.”But deep down, she knew better. His eyes had given him away — the hollow sheen of someone racing against something unseen.

By the time she reached the riverside, the air had cooled. The neon lights rippled across the black water, breaking apart with every wave.She sat on a bench, clutching her bag to her chest. Inside it, the envelope Marco had given her days ago — her name scrawled in his uneven handwriting.

She hadn’t opened it.Couldn’t.

“Why are you making me do this alone?” she whispered to the night.

The city didn’t answer. Only a passing jeepney honked, the laughter of strangers filling the space she couldn’t.

Tears welled up, but she wiped them away quickly, almost angrily.If she started crying now, she wouldn’t stop.

So she stood, took a deep breath, and kept walking — one slow step at a time.She walked until her legs ached, until the city lights blurred and her thoughts dulled enough for her heart to breathe again.

He was saying goodbye in silence.And she wasn’t ready to let him.


The next morning came slow, reluctant — sunlight slipping through the blinds in pale ribbons.Ji-yoo stood outside the shop, clutching a cup of lukewarm coffee she didn’t remember buying. Her eyes were swollen, the night still clinging to her like fog.

When she finally gathered the courage to open the door, the familiar chime sounded — soft, almost hesitant, like the shop itself knew something had changed.

Marco was inside, right where she’d left him.Headphones on.Laptop open.The faint hum of a piano loop filling the space.

He looked up when she entered — startled for just a second — then smiled, that same crooked smile that used to melt her worries and now only reminded her how fragile it looked.

 “You’re early,” he said, voice hoarse.


“So are you,” she countered, setting down her coffee. “Did you even go home?”

He rubbed his neck, avoiding her eyes. “Didn’t feel like it. Got stuck on a mix.”

“Or maybe you got stuck running from it,” she said softly.

He blinked. “What?”

She took a step closer, her tone steady but gentle. “We need to talk, Marco.”

He hesitated. “About what?”

“About everything you won’t say.”

The words hung in the air like static. He stared at her, the color draining from his face.For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then he sighed, leaning back in his chair. “You opened the file, didn’t you?”

Her eyes flickered — she could’ve lied, but didn’t. “No,” she said quietly. “I didn’t need to.”

He frowned, uncertain. “Then why—”

“Because I already know what’s in it,” she said, voice trembling now. “Goodbyes disguised as lyrics. Words you couldn’t tell me because you thought it’d hurt less if I found out later.”

Marco looked away. The silence that followed felt like a wound reopening.

“Ji…” he began, voice barely above a whisper. “I just didn’t want you to see me like this.”

She crossed her arms, fighting the lump in her throat. “Like what? Human?”

He flinched. “Like dying.”

The word shattered the room. No one moved. The music loop cut abruptly, the silence almost cruel in how complete it was.

Ji-yoo swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in her eyes. “You don’t get to decide how I love you, Marco.”

He laughed bitterly. “Love me? Ji, I’m—”

“Don’t,” she cut in sharply, stepping closer. “Don’t finish that sentence like you’re already gone.”

His breath caught. He looked up at her then — really looked — and for the first time, his composure cracked. His eyes glistened, his lips trembled like a boy trying too hard to be strong.

“I didn’t want this to turn into pity,” he said.

“It’s not pity,” she whispered. “It’s grief in advance. It’s me trying to hold on while you keep slipping away.”

She reached out, touching his cheek — fingers trembling, voice soft as a prayer.

“You already said enough when you loved me with music before you ever said it with words.”

He leaned into her touch, eyes closing. “I don’t deserve you.”

She smiled faintly, tears catching the light. “Then let’s call it even. Because I never deserved you either.”



That night, they stayed in the studio.

No one spoke for a long time. The air between them was full — not with silence, but with things unspoken that no language could carry.

Marco eventually stood, pulling the mic closer.“Let’s record,” he said simply.

Ji-yoo looked up from her notebook, startled. “Now?”

He nodded. “Now. Before I lose the nerve.”

She hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Okay. But this time… no filters. No takes. Just truth.”

He smiled, faint and broken. “Deal.”




The lights were dim again — just enough to see the outlines of each other’s faces.Marco sat at the piano, fingers trembling as they pressed the keys.A slow, stripped-down progression — soft and fragile, like something that could fall apart if played too loudly.

Ji-yoo adjusted her mic, the same way she always did — tapping it once, whispering a test line:


 “Check. Check. For the ones we almost lost.”

Marco chuckled. “That’s our title right there.”

“No,” she said quietly. “No title. Just… us.”

He nodded. “Just us.”

They began to play.

No chorus.No hook.Just verses traded back and forth like vows too afraid to sound like promises.

Her voice came first — shaky, intimate, like she was confessing to the mic itself.

“If I could write you a sky, I’d paint it in breaths you left behind.”


Then his, rough but warm, echoing the ache in her tone.

“If I could borrow a song, I’d leave it unfinished… just to keep you listening.”


She smiled through tears, eyes never leaving his.

“If you fade before the encore, I’ll sing your verse for both of us.”


And he answered softly, almost to himself.

“Then I’ll hum along from wherever the silence goes.”


When the last note faded, they didn’t stop recording right away.They just sat there — breathing, staring, waiting for something neither could name.

Finally, Ji-yoo whispered, “You think people will hear it?”

Marco smiled faintly, his voice weak but certain. “They’ll feel it. That’s enough.”




Later that night, after he’d fallen asleep on the couch, Ji-yoo found herself flipping through her lyric notebook.The ink had smudged from her tears, but she didn’t mind.She turned to a blank page and wrote the date, then paused — unsure what to call it.

After a long moment, she simply wrote:

“Not goodbye. Just in case.”


She closed the notebook, looking toward Marco — asleep, breathing slow, one arm over his chest like he was holding the sound in place.

For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel fear.Just quiet understanding — the kind that hurts, but also heals.

Outside, the city kept moving — jeepneys rumbling, neon signs flickering — unaware that somewhere inside a small record shop, two souls had finally stopped pretending time was infinite.

End of Episode 14—”Almost Confessions”