Yeri’s a night owl. Her timeline does not coincide with a normal Korean’s standard time. She doesn’t care though, her job’s not normal any more than her penchant for being nocturnal.

That’s why when she receives an email clipped with three mp3 files at 3:02 am while being bored to death, she immediately reviews it, finishes by 3:20 and is now calling the sender of the email.

“This unnie must be insane.” She murmurs under her breath when she hears the ringtone end and the bright voicemail greets her.

‘Hi! This is Son Wendy! Sorr—‘

She ends the call, harshly swiping the red button before dialing the number again, because she’s getting impatient and hearing that cheery voice in goddamn 3 in the morning is something Yeri won’t let herself go through.

“If this unnie won’t pick up, I swear—“

‘Hello?’

“What in hell took you so long to answer?!” Yeri shrieks into the phone and she hears shifting from the other line before replying, the terse low voice contrasting greatly to the high-pitched one in the voice mail and Yeri would have doubted if she has called the right person if she hasn’t known the ridiculous range of the other girl’s voice.

‘Yerm?’

“Where are you and what possessed you to send this on goddamn 3 in the morning?”

The other line chuckles, Yeri’s trained ears catching on the rickety ends of the husky laugh. Her finger begins tapping on her desk as she waits impatiently for the other to stop laughing and answer her questions. When a minute has passed she realized she was tapping the beats of the song she has just listened to in a faster rhythm.

Damn that catchy chorus.

‘Do you like them?’

Yeri’s groan makes the other line laugh again and this time she has solidified her guess that the rough edges on Wendy’s voice isn’t born from sleep. Her brows furrow, the two lines stitching themselves together at the info.

Wendy has cried, if not still.

And Yeri has to know why because she’s bored and the curious cat inside her rears its head.

Yeri knows well how the older girl despises crying, that always jovial disposition something Yeri still can’t cope up with. What more is that Wendy’s compositions are always electrifying, with bold lyrics that listeners would laugh at for their wit and undertones; the type that would be blasted loudly on jam-packed clubs and would hype everyone in the party in the first second of the song, all a reflection of the writer who embodies hyper activeness and sensibility at the same time.

That’s why when she goes through three toned down songs in one sitting, despite all having pop and R&B influences her chest constricts, each line getting heavier accompanied with unstable yet powerful vocals of the songwriter.

It grips on Yeri like a vice the thought of her unnie writing these songs, singing these demos because if there’s one thing that people know about Wendy as a songwriter, it’s that she never writes any ballads.

For people like them who express more of their thoughts to melodies and lyrics it’s like a blaring signal to Yeri’s mind.

She abruptly stands up, the computer chair swirling in circles, debates to change from her sweats and shirt but decides to keep it as she grabs a scarf and a thick coat instead.

“Where are you?”

‘Why? Were the songs not to your taste? That’s too bad. Just ignore them then. I thought that you—“

“Can’t you just answer me, unnie?”

“I’m at the studio right now. Yerim—”

“Shut up and wait for me there.” A deep sigh from the other line. “I’m serious, Wendy-unnie. Stay in your seat. I’m tired and sleep-deprived so don’t make me go around circles in Seoul trying to find you.”

Yeri doesn’t wait for the response and ends the call. Over the years she has learned how to manipulate her unnie’s reactions and knowing Wendy’s almost frustrating kindness, Yeri’s guilt trip will solidify the older in the recording place. Heck, the older will probably even take what she said literally and stay in her seat.

True to prediction, when Yeri arrives at the studio Wendy is there, sitting on the couch. On the table are a bunch of papers and a paper bag which she blindly guesses contains her favorite chicken sandwich and a cup of steaming hot chocolate at the side.

(Because Wendy is such a mom. The same goes for the older’s girlfriend. They’re both such Yeri moms.)

Wendy looks up the moment the studio’s door slammed open. And Yeri notices it. Her unnie has tried washing it off but Yeri can see traces of bloated eyelids and red eyes. She wants to scoff at her deducing mind but reels it in to plop herself in the couch. Her stomach grumbles, the interrogation can come in later.

“I’m not your daughter, unnie. Don’t always try to feed me.”

Despite her words, Yeri’s already opening the paper bag, taking out a—surprise, surprise—neatly wrapped sandwich and three boxes of Pepero (cookies and cream, also Yeri’s favorite).

Great, there’s even dessert.

“As much as umma likes you I don’t think she’d like it if you replace her as my mom. Seriously, you and Joohyun-unnie need to cut off that ridiculous parent game with me.”

A second pause, Wendy's eyes flashes something. Yeri notices and starts to frown but then loud laughter, forced, grating makes way to Yeri’s ears. She almost winces at the strained chuckles.

“But you’re hungry.”

“How would you even know I am?”

Wendy smiles that teasing but fond smile that Yeri always see when the older works with her in the studio, doing stuff, producing stuffs and the latter compliments her works. The this-brat-has-grown-a-lot-since-I-first-met-her kind of smile and this time the chuckles that comes out of Wendy soothes her ears.

“When aren’t you, Yerm?”

She shrugs, feeling warm at the smile and snorts a chuckle.

“True.”

And Yeri starts devouring her early breakfast as Wendy continues to sip from her cup of coffee.

They talk about rumors, new gossips that only music insiders know—is it true those two are going to collaborate?, I didn’t know that single went through!—while constantly teasing each other for every ridiculous thing. They talk a lot, talk about anything under the sun actually, but frolics around the topic of intimate human relationships and women with names starting with a J and end with an N. Add in Wendy’s blatant effort of sounding explicitly fine even when Yeri knows the moment she got the songs that her unnie isn’t in high spirits as she tries to appear in front of her and that her Joohyun-unnie has something to do with it. 

The fake glee in Wendy’s voice strains on Yeri’s ears, hits her eardrums loudly like a screech and when she can’t take it anymore takes a huge gulp  at her hot drink, flinching at the burning sensation but thankful the older has stopped rambling, looking at her in worry. Because Yeri needs her ears perfect to continue topping this career.

She opens the box of Pepero while walking to the computer chair. By the time she plops herself down, a piece of stick already dangles in .

“Do me a favor and make yourself useful, unnie. Get inside the booth. Let’s record that demo.”

Blinking confusedly but still obeying, Wendy stands up from her seat, taking a swig at her bottle of water.

“For what song?”

“The third one you sent me.”

“I haven’t finished the lyrics yet.”

Yeri flickers her hand in the air.

“Just sing whatever.”

“Yerm.” Wendy whines. Yeri knows how the former dislikes it when everything’s not in order.

For Wendy writing songs follow a chronological order. Write the guide melody. Mix in the beats. Twerk around it until a full track’s made. Then pen the lyrics before recording the demo.

Yeri never really understands that. Contrasting her unnie, she’s really a messy person and it reflects in her way of creating music. She can spring up in the middle of her sleep when an inspirational line comes in her mind. If fortunate that line is given a melody and be made into a verse or a chorus or maybe even a refrain and from there spins a whole new song. If not then it sits quietly in her notes until another inspiration hits her.

Funny how Wendy, the organized one, produces songs that seem utterly wild and chaotic and she, the disordered one, makes the souls and ballads.

“Let’s just say this is serves as the, uh, guide track. Yes, yes, guide track. Then after you finish the lyrics we can record the whole demo. If you permit I could even pitch in some words that come to mind,” The older frowns. “Come on Wendy-unnie, you can’t expect me to come to a studio and not to do anything. That’s like against our work ethics!”

“Pabo, that’s not ethics you’re talking about. But fine let’s record this guide track you’re insisting on.”

Yeri rolls her eyes but shots the older a grin.

“Of course, unnie. Anything you say.”

Wendy glares at her and scoffs before going inside the booth, a bunch of papers in hand. The older puts on the headphones, coughing twice, warming .

“Yerm, there are quite some high notes in this. My voice isn’t in the best condition and—”

“You’ll do fine, unnie. You made this song.”

Yeri cuts her through. Seriously this unnie talks too much. She prepares the track.

“Still.” Wendy shifts inside the booth. “You know I’m not good at singing.”

Yeri groans, shots a glare at the still fidgeting person inside because what the heck? Is this unnie trying to start a fight with her?

“What do we sound to you then? Dying pigs?”

The sarcasm overflows in her words. Wendy grunts and Yeri scoffs in reply.

Trust this super humble unnie of hers to berate her voice when Yeri can easily say that Wendy’s better than 90% of the idols that she has worked with. And she’s even untrained.

Pretty enough to be a celebrity and a proclaimed genius with a voice any agency would kill for. Not to mention Wendy’s filthy rich even before she dived in to composing music (which only made the older even more filthy rich with all those royalties under her belt).

God, life can be unfair sometimes.

“Both us know how much of a bull that is. With that voice of yours, I can make you famous even with a ty song. But I can’t because my ballads ain’t and it’s not for you.”

This time Wendy laughs, brightens a little. It’s a bit fuller, Yeri hears a little bit of happy Seungwan. It pleases her ears.

“Now sing yours. Nobody’s going to hear you except for me so knock yourself out.”

Her serious tone takes Wendy aback, the older stares at her through the glass separating them, their eyes locking as she stares back indignantly. Wendy chuckles softly, shaking her head as if in disbelief before giving her a nod, eyes glimmering under bright lights.

As unbelievable as it sounds, Yeri and Wendy are never the type to confide to each other. Their personalities don’t blend in well, it gets awkward, but Wendy tries to comfort her in her own way and Yeri responds just as imperceptibly.

(She fails to get that OST spot she was aiming for and she sees brownies wrapped up neatly on her studio the next day.  The ‘Song rec for the day: SNSD’s Himnae’ all she needs to know who it’s from.

She uploads a picture of the empty wrapper to her social media with a caption, ‘Brownies for breakfast. #SeriouslyJustDessert?’)

They don’t talk feelings, they have their music to do that and that makes their relationship unique. Using their passions to support each other and be the other’s’ silent solace.

“Thanks for the pep talk, Yerm.” Wendy’s eyes glazes again, that half grin on her lips. And Yeri understands what her unnie is saying, what her unnie isn’t saying. She nods and does her job.

Yeri pushes the red button and music blasts through the whole studio, synth and instruments and Wendy’s voice clashing together in a beautiful mess. The second chorus ends, the thick-skinned front crumbles and Wendy abandons her sheets, closing her eyes as streams of broken phrases comes out.

Yeri pumps the volume up, wanting to hear the truth that her unnie tries to hold back as the song picks up.

geurae ibyeoriran ge da geureon geoji mwo
Of course, goodbyes are all like this
hamkkeyeoseo haengboghaettdeon giog
Memories that were happy because we were together

 

It hits Yeri like a train that got off tracked, abrupt, hard, unexpected. Everything fades out and for five seconds she can only hear an aching confession.

 

modu jiwo ganeun geot
I’m erasing all of it

To see Wendy cry is one thing but to hear her unnie crying out is another.

The barely stable voice cracks.

It throbs.

It screams.

Raw.

Vulnerable.

Hurt.

Wendy’s painful resignation grates on her ears, clogs , pierces her heart. It sends her gasping for air, shuts her eyes close as it burn in the back of her lids from holding tears back, the emotion transmitted from inside the booth suffocating and overwhelming.

They don’t talk feelings but maybe that’s why it hits her twice as hard hearing it, actually hearing it explicitly, with loud words and louder feelings, unburied and free for the first time.

When Wendy comes out of the booth, dry eyes reflecting nothing but broken pieces of a once promised forever, Yeri stumbles into her embrace and Wendy wraps her arms around her and pats her head as if Yeri is the one who needs comfort. As if she’s not the one breaking. And Yeri cries, with shoulders shaking, snot dripping and tears flowing. She cries, cries out for Wendy and for a love where the beginning and end are different.

 

geurae ibyeoriran ge gyesok nal ullyeo
goodbyes keep making me cry