When I peek into Professor Park’s office Thursday morning, Sungjin is in there with him sitting at the other side of the desk smiling like he did something and he’s very proud of himself. Professor Park looks happy as well, he’s relaxing in his office chair and his legs are crossed. Looks like we’re off to a good start.

“There you are, perfect timing,” the professor says to me, gesturing at me to step inside. “I was looking forward to today.”

Hesitantly, I walk inside. Sungjin and I are supposed to meet after this—both of us deciding not to talk about the EP or anything about the professor or his class. Too complicated. I think I’m going to have to reword our rules for that. “I have a sound report. Ish. I’m halfway there.”

Three new original songs, written and produced by me (with some performance help from Jae). Six demos done. One song mastered. Two more in production. And three more to go. I’ve already scheduled studio time with the boys and sent them the demos and the sheet music. I’m a nervous wreck, but Wonpil has been the most supportive friend ever. I surmise it’s because I’m making him sing with Jae for that summer EDM anthem. It’s going to be wild. I’m not even worried. Nervous, but not the kind that paralyses me in fear. I’m excited to work with them.

“Good, good.” Professor Park waves at the seat across Sungjin. “Have a seat. I can’t wait to hear it. You look like you’re doing well.”

Just hearing the Professor say that cracks something open inside me. I’m doing well. I’m okay. Tears sting my eyes, but they’re the good kind. To hear my mentor say this, even if he just means I don’t look like a mess means more than I can ever explain. In his eyes I see confidence and hope, and I believe him now when he says I can be so much more. Because I believe I can be. Because now I realize my brain has been lying to me all along, letting me sink into an endless loop of self-loathing.s A feeling swells in my chest, making it hard to breathe. My throat catches and my fingers shake.

I’m doing well.

I am okay.

Discreetly, I blink the barely there tears away and slide my bag off my back.

“Hey,” Sungjin says, eyes saying everything he needs to say. He’s wearing that charcoal plaid shirt over a white shirt and he just looks so good. It’s very stressful. Even after all this time, he still stresses me out. And in the most inappropriate time and place.

Don’t be making eyes at me, Professor Park is right there. I glance nervously at him. “Does he have to be here?”

Professor Park laughs. “Your choice.”

“You’re kicking me out?” Sungjin gasps, half standing up from his seat.

“Yes.” I playfully kick at his sneakers. “Go away. Wait for me outside.”

He makes a petulant face at me. “Seriously?”

“Yes.” I jerk my head toward the door. “Go.”

Muttering under his breath, he picks up his belongings. As he passes by me, he leans just a fraction closer, tilts his head just a fraction more so only I can see him, and he smirks. My eyes flit toward the professor who is busy checking his laptop screen. After another second of Sungjin’s brain flirting, he leaves, shutting the door gently behind him. When he’s gone, Professor Park just looks at me, amused. He knows. He knows everything. How long has he known? Did he know this was going to happen? Is this an okay thing?

Okay, relax.

I take a breath and sit down. “It’s really nothing revolutionary,” I say, but I catch myself mid-way to apologising. Ayeon says I should only apologise when I do something wrong or hurt someone’s feelings, never for being myself or liking the things I like. “I mean, I’m writing about summer and feeling lonely during a time that’s often associated with freedom from responsibilities like school and things, but hopefully in a way that sounds like accepting that life is just like that sometimes—maybe you should just listen to it.”

I hand him my hard drive and every move, from him reaching out for it, to plugging the drive into his computer, and navigating through the files is excruciatingly slow and painful. Not even Sungjin has heard these songs. No one has, apart from me.

Professor Park hits play on the first track, and a soft and light guitar melody fills the room, it’s very much head in the clouds—because it’s Jae—and it’s followed by a steady beat and synths like the tide rushing to kiss the shore. But the words are cutting, harsh like the summer sun beating down on all of creation. The track ends in a fadeaway, an echoing of the initial rise in the chorus.

Professor Park nods pensively to himself. “It’s different.”

I’m on the edge of a cliff poised to jump into the ocean.

The professor’s brows are drawn together in concentration, and his lips are pressed in a tight line. He taps his fingers in a quadrille on his desk. Then he smiles and nods again, smiling to himself. “I hear it,” he says, “I hear you. Thank you. Music should be honest. Do not make art just to fit in. Art should be sincere. If there is no joy in what you are doing, your art becomes a forgery that fools yourself most of all. Thank you for being honest in your music. You know you’re good at the technical stuff, but this is what I’ve always been hoping for. To hear you. For your voice to touch people’s hearts. This is good work. I don’t need to listen to the rest. I’m looking forward to the final product.”

I nod.

I don’t know what else to do or say—if I should even do or say anything at all. My heart feels like it dived off a cliff and soared in the air and la