"What do you think of this?” Wonpil asks, playing a segment of our track after adjusting the EQ for the what I think is the eleventh time.

Friday night and we’re in the music lab Wonpil reserved for the semester. We did end up pairing with each other for Music Tech. Wonpil even made me swear an oath that any time we needed partners for the class, we’d automatically pair up. An exclusive and binding contract. Pinky swear and all. Our mix report isn’t due until another week, but Wonpil says he wants to get the processing out of the way because he has rehearsals with his band over the weekend.

I wasn't really listening. I could still see the look on Professor Park’s face and the sound of his voice as he spoke to me. Every time, the memory would return more vivid than ever. Thinking about it now makes my skin feel scorched raw. “Turn up the volume?”

He does that and plays it again. “It sounds weird.”

“Everything sounds weird in this room.”

That makes him laugh. “Yeah, why is that?”

“Maybe it’s the acoustics.”

“Or maybe it’s your headphones.”

“Or maybe it’s your ears,” I say. Wonpil has one of those smiles that completely change the character of his face. At first glance, you’d think he was the cold and aloof type but then he smiles and you’d be left asking yourself why you even thought that in the first place. Then I lightly bump the legs of his swivel chair. “How do you write songs so fast? You come up with lyrics and a melody in one session.”

He shrugs and starts fidgeting with the controls again. “It’s easier when you’re with a team. It’s not like I sit on the keyboards and something magical happens as soon as I get to it. It’s days of banging on the keys until I find something that’s even remotely magical—why are we talking about this? You write songs just fine. You’re good at it.”

“This team of yours,” I say, “your band?”

He nods. “And you’re ignoring the compliment again, aren’t you? You’re supposed to say Thank you, I am good at it. Thanks Pil, you’re the best. Not avoid it because you’re being too hard on yourself.”

I really am not.

“Give me that.” I nudge Wonpil away and take over the trackpad. I’m almost tempted to talk to him about what Professor Park said to me this afternoon and the results of latest evaluation, but decide against it. Professor Park, Eric Nam, and Dr. Choi and her assistant, and now Park Sungjin were already too many people who know about what’s going on.

“Is this about your Songwriting class?”

I nod. “Yeah, it’s just this assignment…and demos and this EP for our final project and I want to get the writing done so I can start on everything else. I just…want to do something special.”

When I was younger, I used to think writing was 80% of the process, and 10% each for recording and performing. Now, composing is 10% and the rest is recording, editing, mixing, and mastering. So far, I’ve submitted two songs each with a single verse and single chorus looped in an electronic dance mix. They’ve been…average at best. If I can submit something that can wow The Asian Soul even just a bit, then maybe he’ll believe me when I say I’m okay and he’ll leave me alone.

“Give me your brain for, like, five minutes maybe,” I say.

Wonpil always sent me his demos before he started mixing them, and he let me listen to the album he’s been working on since the summer. His songs are vibrant and pop-py—so much more than I could ever write—but still engaging as it is dancey and sugar rush-y. Beneath all that fluff is sophisticated substance that targets your aural pleasure centers with deadly aim. Wonpil is just good.

"Or if you like, you can join us some time. Maybe you just really need to try something new. You know? Get out more and eavesdrop and look for stuff to write about.”

“I’ll think about it.” After tinkering with the controls, I play the track from the start. “How about this?”

Wonpil slaps my arm with the back of his hand. “I hate you. How are you so good at this?”

“Trial and error.”

“Seriously?” he laughs. And nudges my arm again. Not gently, mind you. “Come on. Laugh, will you? I feel like a crazy person when I’m the only one laughing and you’re just scowling at all the things.”

“I’m laughing on the inside.”

“Are you really?”

Working with Wonpil like this feels like working with Jae (and yes, admittedly the rest of the Sweg Crew). It feels…right somehow. It feels like I’m not a person hiding beneath three layers of clothes, fear, and diagnosable mental disorders. We work for another hour until we’re both happy with how our mix turned out.

“Do you mind if I stay a while?” I ask as Wonpil shrugs on his jacket. “I think I’m getting something and I want to write it down before I lose it.”

“Sure,” he answers. “The guards don’t even bother checking this late anymore and the studios are open until, like, four a.m. This whole floor isn’t as fully booked as the others so have at it. You sure you don’t want to go with me to this dinner thing? We’re going bowling afterwards.”

“You’re the only I know there. It’s weird.”

“You know Jungyeon and Nayeon. Jaebum and Jinyoung will be there, too. Are you sure?”

“Maybe I’ll meet you guys a little later? Text me the place.”

“Okay. I promise, it’ll be fun!” Then he was gone.

The studio was perfectly quiet. Everyone else is somewhere else, having fun. Not working. I look at the monitors again, and hear Professor Park’s voice in my head. I’ll show him six never-before heard songs that showcase who I am as an artist. I’ll show you. I’ll show all of you.

Every time Huiryong, or in the rare case Ayeon, broke up with a boy, they’d go out to a club and dance the night away. They’d go to wherever I was spinning for the night and afterwards they’d tell how much fun they had.

Joonyoung had a similar approach. When he’d get fired for not being conventional enough, when he’d get so frustrated with his bandmates and/or his music, when everything just got too intense, or when I’d act like a zombie we’d crawl around the underground clubs until the sun shone on us. Joonyoung would just show up, declare it Club Day and I’d watch him dance and shout out lyrics, whether or not he knew them, to whatever’s on stage. He’d do this until he felt better. Sometimes all it takes is one set, other times it would take a while and we’ve covered a trail of rock, to hip-hop, to trap, and to EDM.

I can do that, too. I don’t need an audience or a stage to call it a rave, right? I can rave by myself. Okay, it sounds pathetic when I say it like that, but that’s not the point.

I check outside just to be sure. Wonpil was right, no one else seems to be around. I reach into my bag for my laptop and plug it into the mixer and the monitors. Then I turn the volume all the way up, put on my headphones (the left just barely covering my ear), and hit play.

I start raw. The right number of beats per minute and the right frequency is all you need to stimulate the effects of a twenty second hug. My intros never dwell, no getting to know stage, no easing in. No standing with your eyes closed, swaying to the music, and whispering the lyrics. This is my antidote. The right kind of medicine for any frustration. No anger, no indignation, just the aural equivalent of standing under an explosion of colors and light. A steady thumping bass line crawling into your brain, razor-sharp prog synths, and then a moment of euphoria that drags you down a rabbit hole that goes up into the clouds.

After a few songs, I’m banging my head, singing the words, and jumping into the fray.

That’s when I hear banging not from my monitors.

Thinking it’s security, I pull my headphones off and rush to the door ready to show my permit and student ID.

It’s Sungjin.

Life’s a joke, and I’m the punchline. “Why are you everywhere?”

He says something, but I don’t hear it over the music.

“What?” I yell.

“I said, this is you?” he says over the music. Smiling. If he’s not making weird faces, he’s smiling. Always smiling. He’s wearing his grey hoodie, zipped nearly all the way up. He wasn’t wearing it this afternoon. It looks strange with his black button-down. Or maybe that’s just because he’s buttoned his shirt all the way to the collar. Ridiculous.

“What’s me?”

He points to his ear, then vaguely around the room. Then he mimics a DJ on his turntables. I sincerely hope I don’t look that ridiculous. “This is you?”

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