CHAPTER 2:ECHOES OF THEN

Chapter 2: Echoes of Then

The ice pack pressed gently against her ankle, and Hana winced as she adjusted her foot on the small bench in the back of the restaurant. Jisoo knelt beside her, carefully watching her expression.

"You okay?" he asked.

"You ask that a lot," she mumbled.

"I mean it."

Hana gave a small nod but avoided his eyes. Her heart still raced, more from shock than pain. She couldn't believe it. The boy who used to trade milk bread for lyrics—the one who disappeared after promising he'd sing her song at his audition—was now sitting in front of her with the face of an idol… because he was one.

He was Jisoo.

From Eclipse.

The name was everywhere—on billboards, screens, even her co-worker's phone lock screen. He was one of the most recognizable voices in the country. And now… he was here. With her. Like no time had passed.

Three Years Ago

Behind the music room — High School

"I don't get it," Jisoo groaned, running a hand through his hair as he paced in front of her. "I want something real. Not some recycled K-pop fluff."

Hana blinked up at him, pen hovering over her notebook. "You do realize you're literally trying to become a K-pop idol, right?"

"Yeah, but I want to mean something. I want to make people feel something."

She watched him a moment, then looked down, quietly scribbling.

Jisoo stopped pacing. "What are you doing?"

"Writing your fluff with feelings," she said with a shrug.

He laughed. "You're the best."

She didn't smile. Not fully. But her eyes softened. "Don't forget me when you're famous."

Now

The restaurant, late evening

"I never forgot you."

His voice was quieter now, like he'd read her thoughts.

She stiffened slightly. "What?"

"I knew it was you the second I heard you hum," he said. "I've never forgotten that song. Or you."

She looked at him, finally meeting his gaze. "You disappeared. You transferred and never said goodbye."

"I wasn't allowed to," he said, guilt flickering across his face. "The company wanted total focus. No distractions. I couldn't even bring lyrics from outside. They went through my notebooks. I wasn't even allowed to use your song at the audition."

Her heart sank. She remembered staying up late that night, wondering if he'd sung it. Imagining him holding the mic, singing her words.

"I thought you forgot," she said softly.

"I wanted to come back and tell you everything," he said. "But… time just ran. And now here we are."

Hana didn't reply. Her ankle throbbed again. Or maybe it was her heart.

He shifted beside her. "Do you still write?"

She shook her head. "Life happened. Mom got sick. I had to work. Music doesn't pay the bills."

Jisoo's eyes darkened slightly. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "It's fine. I'm fine."

A long silence settled between them. Then, he said, "That song you hummed. I still remember every line. It's the one I think of when I'm on stage, when I feel like none of this is real."

Hana stared at him.

"And now I know why," he said, smile slow and genuine. "Because you were real. That song was real."

The door chimed at the front.

Jisoo stood, his expression shifting into something unreadable. "That's my manager. He's gonna freak if he sees me here too long."

Before she could answer, he fished out a small notepad from his jacket and scribbled something quickly, tearing the page.

"My private number," he said, slipping it into her hand. "If you ever write again—or even if you don't—call me."

She stared at the note. His handwriting was still messy.

He hesitated at the door, hoodie back up, and gave her one last look. "I meant it, you know. I never forgot."

Then he was gone.

Later That Night

Hana lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her ankle ached dully, but her thoughts burned brighter.

She rolled over and opened the bottom drawer of her desk. Behind old pens and dusty sketchbooks was a notebook with frayed corners. She opened it slowly. Her name was written in the corner of the first page, along with one short message in familiar handwriting:

"For the realest voice I know — J."

Her fingers lingered on the page.

Maybe it was time to write again.