Episode 15: Crash

The festival was only ten days away.

Manila’s skies had started to lose their rain, trading gray for the golden haze of early summer. Inside the record shop, sunlight filtered through the dusty glass, painting stripes of gold over stacks of vinyls and tangled instrument cords. The air vibrated with rhythm — not from the speakers, but from the steady repetition of their rehearsals.

Every day, every note, every late-night practice session was sharpening them into something formidable. Their setlist was finalized. Transitions memorized. Harmonies tightened until they locked together like puzzle pieces.

Ji-yoo leaned against the mic stand, sweat glistening on her collarbone as she sang through the chorus of “Looped Hearts (Festival Cut).” Her voice rang out — pure, clear, and edged with something fierce. Marco sat behind the drum pad, tapping out beats that pulsed like veins, headphones crooked on his head. His hoodie sleeves were rolled up, his forearms taut with rhythm.

When the final note faded, only the buzz of the amplifier filled the air.

Ji-yoo exhaled. “Okay,” she said, catching her breath. “Again, from the bridge. You rushed that second snare hit.”

Marco grinned, lifting his drumsticks like a salute. “You noticed.”

“Of course, I noticed. I have ears, don’t I?”

“You have sonar,” he teased. “You can probably hear my heartbeat when I’m nervous.”

She shot him a playful look. “You mean when you’re wrong.”

He chuckled and tapped his sticks against his thigh. “Fair.”

But the sound of his laugh was cut short by a cough — deep, harsh, one that bent him forward. He pressed a hand against his chest, turning away.

Ji-yoo frowned, the smile on her lips fading. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he wheezed softly, waving it off. “Just… water went down the wrong pipe.”

“You weren’t drinking anything.”

He gave her a weak smirk. “Metaphorically, then.”

“Not funny.”

Marco stretched his arms, trying to look casual, though the effort was visible — the way his shoulders tensed, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. “Hey, come on. I’m fine. Just tired. Been pulling extra shifts editing the mix. It’s festival season. No time to rest.”

Ji-yoo crossed her arms, unconvinced. “You look like a ghost that forgot to clock out.”

He laughed again, softer this time. “Then you’ll just have to sing loud enough to wake me up.”

She sighed but didn’t push. She’d been asking for days — Are you okay? Did you eat? Did you sleep? — but every time, his answers were the same. Jokes. Deflections. And that look in his eyes that said, please don’t ask again.

So she didn’t.Not anymore.

Instead, she sat beside him, handing him a towel. “You should take tomorrow off. Just one day. I can review the setlist on my own.”

He shook his head, pressing the towel against his neck. “Can’t. We’re close, Ji. The mix needs cleaning. The harmonizer’s still clipping on the last track. If I stop now, it’ll bother me.”

“You always say that.”

“And you always worry too much.”

“Because someone has to.”

He gave her a small, lopsided smile — the kind that looked like it was holding something back. “You’re sweet, you know that?”

Her cheeks warmed despite herself. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he murmured.

For a moment, the shop was quiet except for the hum of the ceiling fan. Ji-yoo watched him wipe his face, the tremor in his hand, the way he sat back just a little too slowly. She wanted to say something — You’re scaring me. You’re getting worse. Please, stop pretending.

But instead, she said softly, “Promise me you’ll tell me if something’s wrong.”

He met her eyes, the corners of his lips twitching upward again. “Cross my heart.”

It was the same answer he’d given every time.And every time, it sounded a little less convincing.

The rehearsal went on. They played until the sun slipped down the skyline, until the city lights bled through the windows. Ji-yoo’s voice carried into the night — but between each beat, between every echo, she could hear something else.

Something faint.Something breaking.

And when Marco coughed again behind the drums — this time muffled against his sleeve — she didn’t ask if he was okay.

Because she already knew the answer.

Morning light bled through the blinds of the record shop, soft and uneven, spilling across stacks of records and tangled cables. The air smelled faintly of dust and instant coffee — the scent of exhaustion and creation.

Marco was already there when Ji-yoo arrived, hoodie half-zipped, eyes shadowed with sleeplessness. He was hunched over his laptop, adjusting equalizers with the precision of someone trying to hold himself together one decibel at a time.

“You’ve been here all night again, haven’t you?” Ji-yoo said, setting her bag down.

He didn’t look up. “Define ‘night.’”

She shot him a glare. “The time when normal people sleep.”

He laughed, but the sound came out thin. “Then yeah. Guess I’m abnormal.”

“You’re self-destructive,” she said, slipping into her stool beside him. “And don’t even tell me it’s for the art.”

Marco leaned back, finally meeting her gaze. His lips curved into a tired grin. “Everything’s for the art.”

“Marco.”

He exhaled and rubbed his neck. “Relax. I’ll crash after we finish this cut.”

“That’s what you said yesterday,” she muttered.

“Yesterday’s over.”He smirked. “Today’s new. Fresh start.”

Her eyes softened despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

He gave her that grin again — the same grin that once made her believe they could take on the world with nothing but broken microphones and borrowed amps.But today, it looked brittle. Forced.

Ji-yoo sighed. “At least drink something. You look dehydrated.”

He reached for a water bottle, only for his hand to tremble slightly. He steadied it before she could comment, taking a small sip.

“See?” he said, voice light. “Hydration achieved. You can stop worrying.”

She didn’t respond. Just opened her notebook, the one filled with lyrics and crossed-out lines.The one they’d bled their dreams into.

They practiced for hours.Vocals. Beat drops. Transitions.Every sound in sync — except Marco’s breathing.

Ji-yoo heard it, the way it came shorter now, uneven between measures. Every time the bass pulsed, his chest seemed to fight against the rhythm.But he kept going.

“Let’s take five,” she finally said, sensing the tension in his shoulders.

He shook his head. “No, no, let’s run it again. The last drop still feels stiff.”

“Marco—”

“Just one more take.” He flashed a tired smile. “Promise.”

Ji-yoo hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. One more. But if you fall over, I’m telling your mom.”

He laughed weakly. “Joke’s on you. She already thinks I’m dead from overwork.”

She rolled her eyes, pretending not to notice the tremor in his fingers as he adjusted the volume knob.

The music began again — Ji-yoo’s voice rising through the static, the drums blending, everything alive and beating like a single heart. For a moment, she almost forgot her fear.

Almost.

Then came the sound.A sharp, heavy thud.

Not from the speakers.Not from a dropped mic.

Her voice cut mid-line. “Marco?”

No response.Just a soft groan.

When she turned, the world snapped.He was on his knees, both hands gripping the floor, body trembling.

“Marco—?” she said, stepping forward, confusion turning to panic. “Hey—hey! What’s—?”

He swayed, his lips parting soundlessly, eyes losing focus. Then, before she could reach him, he collapsed sideways — a marionette with its strings sliced clean.

“Marco!”

Her notebook hit the floor. She was beside him in an instant, knees slamming against the tiles. His head lolled against her lap, his skin clammy and pale.

“Marco, wake up! Hey—come on, you’re scaring me!”She tapped his cheek lightly. Nothing. His chest rose unevenly, shallow, like a broken rhythm.

His lips were blue.

Ji-yoo’s breath came out shaky, too fast. “Okay, okay—breathe, Ji-yoo. Just—think. Call someone. Call—”

Her hands fumbled with her phone, shaking so hard she almost dropped it. She pressed the emergency number and held it to her ear, voice trembling.

“H-hello, I—I need an ambulance! Please! He just collapsed—he’s not responding—his lips are blue—please—yes, 2439 Don Palanca Street, the record shop, please hurry!”

The operator’s voice was calm, professional, asking questions, giving instructions — but it all blurred. Ji-yoo barely heard them. Her world had narrowed down to the weight of Marco’s head in her lap, the faint flutter of his chest.

“Marco, listen to me,” she whispered, tears spilling freely now. “You’re going to be fine. You hear me? You’re—”

His eyes flickered open, barely. His voice came out cracked and small. “Ji… y-yoo…”

Her throat closed. “Don’t talk, don’t you dare talk. Just—just stay with me, okay? You’re fine, you’re—”

He coughed weakly, trying to smile. “Told you… I’m dramatic…”

“Shut up!” she cried, pressing her hand against his cheek. “Don’t you—don’t you make jokes right now. Please.”

Her tears fell onto his shirt.

“Stay with me. Please. You promised. You said—”

Her voice broke as sirens echoed faintly outside.The paramedics burst through the door moments later, voices sharp and urgent.

“Unresponsive male, early twenties—get the oxygen—”

Ji-yoo backed up, clutching her arms, trembling. The shop felt too small, too cold. The same room where their laughter used to echo now rang with the beeping of medical monitors and shouted orders.

“Pulse weak but present—on three—lift—!”

They carried him out on a stretcher. Tubes. Wires. The faint sound of the heart monitor syncing to his chest.

Ji-yoo stumbled after them, the smell of metal and sweat in the air.

“Is he—will he be okay?” she gasped, voice shaking.

“Ma’am, please step back—we’ll do everything we can.”

The ambulance doors slammed shut.

Ji-yoo stood frozen on the curb, her hands still stained with ink and trembling. The street around her blurred — cars, people, colors all blending into nothing.

And then, for the first time since she met him, the rhythm stopped.



The hospital smelled like bleach and fear.

Ji-yoo sat slumped in a cracked plastic chair, the kind that seemed designed to remind you that comfort didn’t belong in places like this. Her hands were clasped tight, her knuckles white. She could still feel Marco’s pulse under her fingers — faint, desperate, fading.

The hallway buzzed faintly with fluorescent light. A monitor beeped somewhere in the distance.

Time didn’t move here. It just hung.

A nurse passed by with a clipboard. Ji-yoo straightened instantly. “H-how is he? The one they just brought in—Marco Reyes—he—”

The nurse hesitated. “Are you family?”

Ji-yoo froze. Her mouth opened, but no words came. What was she supposed to say? Bandmate? Friend? Almost something more?

Finally, she whispered, “No. I’m… I’m his everything else.”

The nurse gave her a small, sympathetic look and nodded. “He’s stable for now. They’re running more tests. You can see him in a bit.”

Stable.That word should have brought relief.Instead, it landed like a stone.

When Ji-yoo finally stepped into the room, it was colder than she imagined. Machines lined the bedside, their quiet beeping slicing through the silence. Marco lay there, a pale outline of the boy who used to fill rooms with rhythm. Tubes coiled around his nose and arm. His chest rose slowly, mechanically.

For a moment, Ji-yoo couldn’t move.

This wasn’t Marco — not the one who argued about snare timing, who made dumb jokes during mixing sessions, who smiled when she hit a perfect note. This was someone else. Someone fragile. Someone mortal.

She sat beside him, her fingers hovering over his hand before she finally took it. His skin was cold.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she said softly.

His eyelids fluttered open, just barely. He looked disoriented at first, then found her face. A faint, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Hey… drama queen move, huh?”

She laughed through her tears, shaking her head. “Don’t make jokes like that.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmured. “It’s how I deal.”

She brushed her thumb against his knuckles. “You don’t have to deal right now. You just have to rest.”

Marco’s eyes shifted to the window, where sunlight tried and failed to break through the blinds. “How long was I out?”

“A few hours,” she whispered. “They said you—your heart rate dropped. Oxygen too. You scared everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“Fine,” she admitted. “Just me.”

That drew a soft chuckle from him — then a weak cough that made his entire body tense. The monitor beeped sharply before steadying again.

Ji-yoo reached for the call button, panicked, but he shook his head. “Don’t. It’s okay. Just tired.”

“Tired isn’t supposed to look like this,” she said, voice cracking. “You were—Marco, you collapsed. You almost—” She stopped herself before the word “died” could slip out.

He looked at her for a long moment. “Guess I should’ve taken that day off, huh?”

Her lips quivered. “You think?”

Silence settled again — heavy, uncomfortable, filled only by the soft rhythm of the monitor. Ji-yoo wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but the tears kept coming anyway.

“You shouldn’t have pushed yourself,” she whispered. “You knew something was wrong.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t want to stop. Not before the festival.”

She looked at him sharply. “You can’t be serious right now.”

He smiled faintly. “I might not make it to the festival, Ji.”

Her breath hitched. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Then lie to me,” she said, tears falling faster now. “Just this once. Tell me you’ll be fine.”

He looked up at the ceiling, a faint sadness flickering in his eyes. “I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.”

She gripped his hand tighter. “Then I’ll keep them for you.”

He turned his head slightly toward her. “What do you mean?”

“If you can’t make it to the stage,” she whispered, “then I’ll bring the stage to you.”

Marco blinked, confused, maybe amused. “Ji-yoo…”

“No,” she interrupted firmly. “You don’t get to vanish. Not yet. Not after everything we’ve built. Not after all those nights you stayed up just to fix a single sound because you said ‘perfection deserves patience.’ You said we were gonna make noise until the world had no choice but to listen.”

He smiled faintly. “I already sang those songs for you. That’s enough for me.”

Her heart cracked open. “Don’t you dare make me your last audience.”

He chuckled softly, though his voice trembled. “Always bossy.”

“And you always listen,” she replied, trying to smile through the ache.

They sat in silence for a long while — the hum of machines filling the space between words. Ji-yoo leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his, their breaths syncing, uneven but together.

“Then live for me,” she whispered, “just a little longer.”

His fingers twitched in hers — a faint squeeze. “I’ll try.”

And as his eyes fluttered shut again, Ji-yoo stayed by his side, watching the steady pulse on the monitor. Each beep felt like a heartbeat she was willing into existence.

She thought of the songs they wrote — the laughter, the fights, the rooftop rehearsals, the warmth of the night they almost confessed everything but didn’t.

And right there, in that sterile room filled with the quiet hum of life and loss, she made herself a silent vow:

If he couldn’t make it to the stage, she’d bring the music here.To this room.To him.

Even if it meant singing through tears.Even if it meant finishing their set alone.

Ji-yoo looked down at him — the boy who made rhythm out of chaos — and whispered into the dimness,“Don’t worry, Marco. The beat’s still playing. I’ll keep it going.”

Outside, the city moved on — traffic, sirens, chatter — the noise of life carrying on without mercy.

But inside that quiet room, the world had narrowed down to two things:the faint sound of his breathing,and the vow she wasn’t ready to break.

End of Episode 15—”Crash”