Chapter Text
It’s Thursday afternoon and Jimin has sent the same email four times.
The first had been friendly. The second had been polite. The third had contained the phrase ‘just following up from my previous email’, which everyone knows is just professional language for please stop pretending you have not seen this. By the fourth, Jimin had copied in three additional people and added a smiley face at the end so nobody could accuse him of sounding irritated.
But he is definitely irritated.
Around him, the office continues making its usual noises: keyboards clicking, phones vibrating against desks, the coffee machine groaning in the kitchen like it’s also tired of being here. Somebody near the windows is discussing weekend plans loudly enough for the entire floor to hear while two members of the design team are arguing about whether a shade of blue looks welcoming or cynical.
Jimin looks at the colour on their screen and thinks it just looks blue.
When he had first applied for this job, project coordinator for a cultural marketing company had sounded exciting. He pictured gallery openings, festival launches and creative meetings where people threw around brilliant ideas while drinking expensive coffees. There had been some of that, especially in his first few months, when everything was still new enough to feel important. Mostly, though, his job involves spreadsheets, scheduling meetings about future meetings and reminding grown adults that deadlines are real even if they choose not to acknowledge them.
It’s not a bad job, not at all. The pay is decent, his coworkers are mostly nice and the office gives them free lunch twice a month. Jimin knows people who actually, seriously hate their jobs, with managers who shout at them and schedules that leave no space for anything else. But he doesn’t hate his job. Hating it would actually be easier because at least then he could point out the problem and begin working out how to solve it.
Instead, he sits underneath white office lights and nothing feels dramatic enough to justify changing anything about his life.
Jimin shuts down his computer before anybody can ask him for anything else. His phone buzzes while he is putting on his coat, and he refuses to look at it until he reaches the lift. It’s only Taehyung sending him a picture of a tired cat sitting inside a supermarket basket with a text written beneath it.
From: Taehyung
You at work.
Jimin looks at the exhausted cat’s expression and in his mind, he agrees.
To: Taehyung
Why does the cat have better posture than me?
He receives three laughing emojis before the lift doors open and Jimin puts his phone away. He follows the stream of people leaving the building, all of them moving with a sudden urgency that they had apparently been saving throughout the day by not responding to emails.
Outside, Seoul is already dark. The pavements are crowded, the traffic’s crawling past in long rows of red lights while signs flash above restaurants and shops. Jimin walks towards the station with his hands tucked into his coat pockets. He knows the route so well that he barely looks where he’s going. Down the street, across at the lights, past the convenience store, into the station and through the barriers. He could probably do it with his eyes closed.
The train is crowded enough that he stands for most of the journey. He holds the overhead strap with one hand and scrolls through his phone with the other, moving between the same few apps without actually absorbing anything. Somebody has announced an engagement. Somebody else has posted photographs from a restaurant Jimin has been meaning to visit for eight months. An old university friend is in Japan, smiling beneath cherry blossoms.
Jimin looks up from his phone and catches his reflection in the dark train window. He looks tired, but not more than he usually is. His hair is slightly flattened from a hat he had worn that morning, and there is a faint crease between his eyebrows that seems to be appearing more and more recently. He smooths it with his thumb like he can press the expression out of his face before it settles there permanently.
By the time he reaches his apartment, he’s already decided what his evening will look like. He’ll make something simple for dinner, tidy the kitchen, take a long shower and then finally start the book that has been sitting unopened on his bedside table for nearly two months. He might even stretch afterwards. His back has been aching recently, and every time it does, he remembers that he used to be so flexible that he was able to fold himself nearly in half without thinking about it.
But instead, Jimin takes off his shoes, changes into loose clothes and sits on the edge of the sofa to check one message.
Forty minutes later, he is still there.
Dinner is instant noodles with an egg. No vegetables because the ones in his fridge have become soft in a way he does not trust. He eats in front of the television, watching half an episode of a drama he started weeks ago and can no longer follow. When one of the characters reveals a secret marriage, Jimin pauses the episode and tries to remember whether he already knew about it.
He’s pretty sure he did.
He leaves the bowl in the sink with the promise that he will wash it after showering. After showering, he decides the bowl can survive until morning. By eleven, he is in bed with the unread book still closed on the table beside him and his phone held several inches above his face.
None of this is terrible. His life isn’t bad. That’s the embarrassing part.
Jimin has a stable job, a small apartment that is expensive but his job makes it affordable and friends who would come if he called them at two in the morning. His parents are healthy. Nobody has recently broken his heart. There has been no dramatic betrayal, no family scandal and no terrible event in general.
He’s simply become bored with himself.
The thought sounds ungrateful whenever he tries to explain it. He has everything he once believed would make adulthood feel settled. He finished university, found work and moved into his own place. He pays bills on time most months and owns enough matching plates to serve dinner to four people, even though he would never invite four people over at once.
He has built a life that works.
The problem is that he cannot remember the last time it surprised him.
Every week - Monday through Friday - is always the same and then Jimin spends one day of the weekend recovering from work and the other preparing to return to it. Sometimes, when a coworker asks what he did over the weekend, he has to pause and think. He knows two days have passed. He knows he ate and slept and probably spoke to Taehyung at some point but the hours have already merged into one another without him even realising.
It has been worse since he stopped dancing, although Jimin rarely thinks of it that way. Stopping makes it sound deliberate, as though he stood in the centre of a studio one evening and decided he had finished with that version of himself.
In reality, it happened much more quietly.
He danced throughout school and university, fitting classes around lectures, assignments and part-time work even when it meant arriving home exhausted. It never felt like something he needed to make time for. Dancing was simply part of the structure of his life, as ordinary and necessary as eating or sleeping.
Then university ended, and his first job began. Evening classes became difficult to reach after work. He missed one because of a late meeting, then another because he was tired, then several because returning after an absence felt more embarrassing than continuing it.
His dance shoes remained in the bottom of his wardrobe. His body became something that simply carried him between desks, trains and his apartment.
Whenever anybody asked, Jimin said he used to dance. He never noticed when he began using the past tense.
Close to midnight, Jimin opens up a social media app and begins scrolling through videos. He watches a woman reorganise her kitchen, a man rate every convenience-store coffee in Seoul and three separate people explain why everybody else has been washing their hair incorrectly.
Eventually, the algorithm gives him a video titled ‘Why Everyone Should Travel Alone at Least Once’.
Jimin nearly scrolls past it. The thumbnail shows a woman sitting beside impossibly blue water with an open book in her lap. It doesn’t exactly seem like a thrilling or entertaining video but he watches anyway.
The woman speaks about freedom, self-discovery and learning to enjoy her own company. She eats fruit on a balcony overlooking the sea, wanders through a quiet market and drinks coffee at a small table outside a café. Nobody asks why she is alone. Nobody interrupts her. Even her mistakes appear meaningful, accompanied by gentle music and captions about leaving her comfort zone.
When the video ends, another begins automatically. This one follows a man travelling through Portugal with only a backpack and an alarming number of linen shirts. He describes solo travel as the first time he truly heard his own thoughts.
Jimin cannot imagine anything worse than hearing his own thoughts more clearly, but he keeps watching.
An hour later, he has moved from videos about travelling alone to lists of underrated coastal towns in Europe. He looks through photographs of white buildings, narrow streets and beaches hidden between cliffs. The places begin blurring together, all of them promising peace, reinvention and good natural lighting.
A small coastal town in Spain appears in a video with fewer than ten thousand views.
It looks quieter than the cities surrounding it but not completely isolated. The video shows fishing boats in the harbour, a market spilling through stone streets and pale cliffs dropping towards clear water. There is an old church on the hill and a beachside bar where tiny lights hang above wooden tables.
Jimin watches the video twice.
Then he searches the town. He looks at hotels, flights and weather charts. He reads a travel blog written by a woman who describes the tiny town as ‘the perfect place to disappear for a while,’ which sounds dramatic enough to actually be appealing at one in the morning.
A sensible person would bookmark the page and look again tomorrow.
Jimin opens the booking website.
He chooses two weeks because one doesn’t seem long enough to transform him and three would use too many annual leave days. The dates are six months away, far enough in the future that the decision does not feel entirely real. He selects a small hotel called Casa Luz because the rooms have balconies and breakfast is included.
The total price makes him sit up properly.
Jimin closes the page.
He lies still for several seconds, staring at the ceiling while his phone rests against his chest.
After a moment, he opens the page again.
There is no particular reason to book the holiday. Jimin isn’t celebrating anything. He doesn’t have a romantic vision of writing a novel beside the sea or returning with a life-changing revelation. He isn’t even certain he will enjoy travelling alone.
But maybe that’s the reason.
Everything else in his life has been chosen because it’s practical, expected or easy to explain. The degree led to the job, the job paid for the apartment and the apartment made the commute manageable. Each decision connected neatly to the next until Jimin could no longer remember whether he had built the path or merely followed it.
A two-week holiday in a town he has never heard of connects to nothing.
Jimin presses ‘confirm’ before he can decide that this is irresponsible.
For several seconds, nothing happens. Then the booking page reloads with a large green tick and a message congratulating him on his upcoming trip.
Jimin stares at it and then lets out a breath.
He takes a screenshot and sends it to Taehyung, despite the time. He expects no response until morning, but Taehyung calls less than a minute later.
“What have you done?” Taehyung asks as soon as Jimin answers.
“I booked a holiday,” Jimin says into his phone, shrugging as if Taehyung can see him.
“I can see that. Why?”
Jimin looks at the confirmation again. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I just wanted to go somewhere.”
“By yourself? You complain when you have to eat alone in a restaurant.”
“That is completely different.”
“How?”
“It just is.” Jimin sits up against his pillows, already defensive about a decision he made approximately two minutes ago. “People travel alone all the time.”
“Yes, organised people with survival skills.”
“I have survival skills.”
“You called me last month because there was a large moth in your bathroom.”
“Yeah, but that was just for emotional support. I still dealt with it.”
“You opened the window and left the apartment.”
“Exactly, and then the moth left eventually too.”
Taehyung becomes quiet for a moment, and Jimin can picture him looking at the screenshot again. When he speaks, his voice is softer. “Are you okay?”
The question makes Jimin wish Taehyung had continued making fun of him.
“I’m fine,” Jimin says, then grimaces because it sounds exactly like what people say when they are not fine at all. “Nothing happened. I just feel like I need something different.”
“A holiday different or a shave-your-head different?”
“Holiday. Definitely holiday.”
“Good. Your head is too round.”
Jimin touches the top of his hair automatically. “You’re horrible.”
“You love me.” Taehyung pauses before adding, “Spain is nice.”
“You’ve never been.”
“I’ve seen pictures.”
“So have I. Apparently that’s enough research.”
They stay on the phone while Jimin reads through the booking conditions properly for the first time. The hotel is non-refundable after a certain date. Breakfast ends at ten. The airport transfer is not included, which feels like information the website should have made more prominent.
By the time they end the call, Jimin has added the dates to his calendar. The small coloured block stretches across two weeks six months from now, surrounded by meetings and deadlines that have not yet been scheduled.
For the first time in months, there is something ahead of him that does not already feel familiar.
The holiday becomes less spontaneous with every passing week.
Jimin creates a folder on his phone for booking information, then another for restaurants, activities and places he wants to visit. He reads articles about common solo travel mistakes and becomes briefly convinced that everyone in Europe is waiting to steal his phone.
He learns basic Spanish phrases, although his pronunciation makes Taehyung tell him to rely on smiling and pointing instead. He compares luggage sizes, buys packing cubes and spends several evenings analysing whether he needs special shoes for streets that are going to be rocky.
Whenever people ask why he chose the small town in Spain, Jimin says he wanted somewhere peaceful. When they ask why he is travelling alone, he says he thinks it will be good for him.
Both answers sound confident enough that nobody questions them.
Jimin begins describing the holiday as spontaneous, despite having booked it six months in advance and creating a colour-coded document containing potential restaurants. His coworkers call him brave. Taehyung calls him a liar.
The closer the trip gets, the more Jimin swings between excitement and a quiet certainty that he has made an expensive mistake. He imagines swimming in clear water, finally reading the book on his bedside table on a balcony instead of in his bed and returning to Seoul refreshed. He also imagines becoming lonely on the second day and spending the remaining twelve watching Korean television from a Spanish hotel room.
A week before the flight, Jimin goes shopping for things he doesn’t need.
He buys a new pair of sunglasses, two shirts he believes make him look like someone who holidays often and a decent portable charger. Near the till, he notices a shelf of notebooks.
Most are brightly coloured or covered in motivational phrases. Jimin picks up a small cream-coloured one with plain pages and a thin elastic band holding it shut. It fits neatly in his hand and looks serious enough to contain something important.
He adds it to his basket.
At home, Jimin places the notebook on his bed beside the rest of his travel things. He tells himself it will be useful for addresses, directions and phrases he may need. Instead, he begins imagining the pages filled with pieces of the holiday: receipts from restaurants, train tickets, pressed flowers, cards from cafés, terrible sketches and little observations he might otherwise forget.
The photographs on his phone always seem to become buried beneath newer photographs. Jimin wants something physical, something that will prove the two weeks happened even after he returns to the same office, the same train and the same apartment.
He does not want the holiday to disappear into the rest of his life before he has decided what it meant.
Jimin sits cross-legged on the bed and opens the notebook to the first page. For several minutes, he cannot think of what to write. Anything too profound will embarrass him when he reads it later, while anything practical makes the whole idea feel like another task.
Eventually, he uncaps his pen.
At the top of the page, in his neatest handwriting, he writes:
‘Things I want to remember when I go home.’
Jimin reads the sentence twice. It makes the holiday sound more important than it is, but he decides to leave it.
The pages that follow are completely blank, smooth and untouched beneath his thumb. For now, there are no restaurants, train tickets, pressed flowers or people worth writing about. There is only a town on a screen, a plane ticket in his email and the vague hope that two weeks somewhere else might make his life feel like his again.
Jimin closes the notebook and slips it into the front pocket of his suitcase.
By the time Jimin reaches Spain, he has been awake for so long that time no longer feels real.
The flight from Seoul had been too warm to sleep properly, his connection had involved far more running than anyone should be expected to do with a suitcase, and the final train journey to the town had passed in a blur of unfamiliar station names and repeated checks that he had not missed his stop. When the doors finally open at the tiny coastal town, Jimin steps onto the platform and does not feel like a courageous solo traveller.
The station is small and almost completely quiet. There are two platforms, a closed ticket office and several benches beneath a faded canopy. Beyond the tracks, pale buildings rise along a hillside beneath a beautiful blue sky.
Jimin stands there for a moment with his backpack digging into his shoulders and his suitcase beside him. The warm air smells faintly of salt, although he cannot see the sea yet.
This is it, then.
The town from the videos. The place he has spent six months planning around, reading about and quietly expecting to change him in some undefined but significant way.
His suitcase tips over.
Jimin looks down at it.
“That’s a good start,” he mumbles to himself.
According to his phone, Casa Luz is only a seventeen-minute walk from the station. Jimin could call a taxi, but seventeen minutes seems too short to justify it. He has walked much farther than that in Seoul.
He adjusts his backpack, takes hold of the suitcase and begins following the route on his screen.
For the first few minutes, the walk is pleasant. The streets are lined with pale buildings, small cafés and balconies overflowing with flowers. Bright laundry moves between open windows, and somewhere nearby, someone is playing music loudly enough for it to drift through the street.
But then, the pavement becomes cobbled.
The suitcase wheels begin making a violent clattering sound against the stones. Each bump travels through the handle and directly into Jimin’s arm, as though the suitcase is punishing him for choosing it.
The road also begins getting steeper.
Jimin stops and checks the map again. The little blue route continues uphill through several narrow streets, represented by a perfectly innocent line that had failed to mention gravity.
He stares at the hill like it’s going to become flatter.
It does not.
By the time he reaches the final street, his hair is sticking to his forehead and sweat has gathered beneath his shirt. His sunglasses keep slipping down his nose, but both hands are occupied. Every few steps, one of the wheels becomes caught between the stones and forces Jimin to drag the suitcase free.
He had spent weeks comparing luggage before buying it. The reviews had described this particular model as effortless to manoeuvre.
All of those people were liars.
Halfway up the hill, Jimin turns around under the excuse of admiring the view, hoping that anyone that walks past won’t realise he’s trying to catch his breath. White buildings cluster towards the harbour below, and beyond them the sea stretches across the horizon, bright enough to look edited.
For several seconds, he forgets how much he hates the suitcase.
Then it falls against his ankle and Jimin winces.
He chose this suitcase specifically. That’s the worst part.
Casa Luz is tucked between two taller buildings near the top of the street. Its entrance is framed by blue tiles and potted plants, with a small wooden sign hanging above the door exactly as it did in the photographs.
Jimin could cry from relief.
The receptionist greets him warmly and gives him a key card after checking his booking. She explains the breakfast hours and points towards the stairs.
Jimin looks past her for a lift.
There is no lift.
His room is on the third floor.
The receptionist notices his expression and calls someone to carry the suitcase before Jimin can insist that he is capable. A young man appears from the back room, lifts it without visible effort and begins climbing the stairs.
Jimin follows him, trying not to breathe too loudly.
The room is charming, which is the word Jimin chooses to use because the less generous word would be small. The bed takes up most of the space, with a narrow desk beneath the window and just enough room to walk towards the bathroom without turning sideways. The photographs online had made it look much bigger.
Still, the room is nice. The walls are bright, the tiles above the bed are pretty and a glass door opens onto a small balcony. Jimin steps outside and finds two metal chairs squeezed around a tiny table.
The balcony overlooks a crowded arrangement of rooftops and laundry lines. Between two neighbouring buildings, there is a narrow strip of blue sea.
The hotel listing had promised a partial sea view.
Jimin has to admit that the sea is partially visible.
He takes a photograph, angling the camera carefully so the laundry disappears and the water looks wider than it is. Then he sends it to Taehyung with a text.
To: Taehyung
Made it.
Taehyung replies almost immediately.
From: Taehyung
Have you discovered yourself yet?
Jimin drops onto the bed and types back.
To: Taehyung
I have discovered sweat, poor luggage decisions and a deep hatred of cobblestones.
Several messages appear in quick succession.
From: Taehyung
Beautiful
Transformative
So brave
Jimin sends him a photograph of the suitcase lying beside the wardrobe.
To: Taehyung
This thing tried to kill me.
From: Taehyung
You chose it
To: Taehyung
Victim blaming is ugly on you.
Taehyung asks what he is doing first. Jimin looks towards the shower and then at the bed beneath him.
To: Taehyung
Shower. Then I’m going out.
From: Taehyung
Don’t fall asleep
To: Taehyung
I’m not going to fall asleep.
Jimin falls asleep.
When he wakes up, evening light has replaced the harsh afternoon sun and one of his shoes is still on. For several confused seconds, he stares at the unfamiliar ceiling before remembering where he is.
Spain. Holiday. Discovering himself.
He checks the time and sits up. The restaurant near the harbour that he bookmarked months ago will stop serving dinner soon, and he has not showered or unpacked.
Part of him wants to stay where he is and find a supermarket nearby to buy some quick and easy food, but doing that on his first night feels too much like surrender. He has crossed half the world to experience a new place. Eating snacks in a hotel room would not qualify.
After showering, Jimin changes into one of the shirts he bought specifically for the trip. It is pale, loose and slightly more open at the neck than the clothes he usually wears to work. In Seoul, it made him look relaxed. Now it makes him look like a tired person wearing a new shirt.
The temperature outside has softened. Without the suitcase, the walk down towards the harbour is almost enjoyable. Restaurants spill onto the pavements beneath striped awnings, their tables crowded with families, couples and groups sharing plates.
Jimin passes a lively beachside bar with tiny lights strung above the tables, but he barely notices it. His saved restaurant is farther along the water, overlooking the harbour.
The view is even prettier than the photographs. Small boats move gently against their ropes, and the evening light turns the water gold around them. Jimin stops to take a picture, then lowers his phone and looks at it properly.
It is beautiful.
The thought feels unfinished with nobody beside him to hear it.
Jimin sends the photograph to Taehyung instead, even though it is already late in Seoul. Then he continues towards the restaurant.
The host greets him near the entrance and looks briefly behind him before asking how many people will be dining.
“One,” Jimin says. The word comes out too quickly.
The host doesn’t react. He leads Jimin towards a table near the edge of the terrace, where the harbour remains visible through the plants along the railing.
The table has been set for two.
As Jimin sits, the waiter removes the second glass, plate and set of cutlery. The movement is ordinary, but the empty chair seems more obvious afterwards.
Jimin tells himself not to be ridiculous. People eat alone all the time. Confident people do it deliberately. They bring books, order wine and look mysterious while enjoying their own company.
Jimin has not brought a book. He has brought a phone with twelve per cent battery and the sudden fear that everybody can tell he has nobody to speak to.
The waiter approaches and glances towards the empty chair.
“Will someone else be joining you?”
Jimin smiles brightly. “No. Just me.”
The waiter nods and begins explaining the specials. Nothing about his expression suggests pity or judgement, but Jimin spends the next several minutes painfully aware of how much empty space remains across from him.
He orders grilled fish and a glass of wine because wine seems appropriate beside a Spanish harbour. He rarely drinks wine and has no idea what he likes, so he agrees to the first recommendation.
While waiting, he looks around the terrace. A family nearby speaks over one another while passing plates between them. Two women at another table are laughing so hard that one has to put down her drink. A couple beside the railing lean together while taking photographs of the water.
Jimin checks his phone beneath the table.
Taehyung has replied to the harbour photograph with several hearts and a message saying it looks beautiful.
Jimin types a text back.
To: Taehyung
At dinner. Very independent.
Taehyung answers a minute later.
From: Taehyung
Proud of you. Order dessert.
Jimin smiles at the screen. When he looks up, the chair opposite him is still empty.
His wine arrives first. Jimin takes one sip and immediately decides he doesn’t enjoy it, but he continues drinking because returning it would mean admitting he chose badly.
The fish is much better. It arrives with roasted vegetables, lemon and warm bread, and once he begins eating, Jimin briefly forgets to feel self-conscious. The food is genuinely good, and he does not have to share any of it.
Eating alone isn’t awful. Nobody is staring at him. Nobody appears to care that he is occupying a table by himself.
But it feels unfinished.
Every thought reaches the edge of the table and stops. There is nobody to complain to about the wine, ask to try his food or laugh when he struggles to separate the fish from the bones. At home, silence is part of the room. Here, it just feels different.
Jimin orders dessert because Taehyung told him to. It contains almonds and honey and is far too sweet, but he eats most of it anyway.
By the time he pays, the harbour is dark and the lights from the restaurants have begun reflecting across the water. The waiter hands him the receipt, and Jimin folds it carefully before placing it inside his wallet.
He takes the longer route back along the harbour, partly because he wants to explore and mostly because he is delaying the climb to Casa Luz. The streets remain crowded with people moving in groups, their conversations and laughter overlapping beneath the music from nearby bars.
When he reaches his room, the suitcase remains unopened beside the wardrobe. Jimin changes into comfortable clothes, turns on the air conditioning and sits at the small desk with his cream notebook.
He smooths the restaurant receipt onto the first empty page after his opening sentence and secures it with a piece of decorative tape. Beneath it, he writes: ‘The fish was good. The spiritual awakening has been delayed.’
Jimin looks at the sentence and laughs quietly.
Then, the room becomes silent again almost immediately.
He carries the notebook onto the balcony and lowers himself into one of the metal chairs. The strip of sea between the buildings has turned black, with only a few distant lights showing where the water ends and the sky begins.
At home, being alone rarely feels significant. His apartment is supposed to contain one person. He can eat noodles in front of the television, leave music playing and call Taehyung whenever the quiet becomes noticeable.
Here, everything seems designed to be shared. Restaurant tables have two chairs. Couples walk beside the water. Balconies look made for two people drinking coffee in the morning. Even the view feels as though it needs somebody else to confirm that it is beautiful.
Jimin knows how ungrateful that sounds. He chose to travel alone because he wanted freedom, independence and whatever spiritual clarity the people in those videos had promised him.
He had imagined arriving somewhere beautiful and immediately becoming someone who knew how to enjoy it. That version of Jimin would wander confidently through unfamiliar streets and eat alone without wondering whether everyone could tell he had nobody with him.
Instead, he is the same person he was in Seoul, only sweatier and several thousand miles from his kitchen.
His phone buzzes on the table. Taehyung has sent one final message before sleeping.
From: Taehyung
How was dinner?
Jimin considers telling him it was lonely. The word feels too dramatic for a perfectly good meal beside a beautiful harbour.
To: Taehyung
Really nice. The fish was amazing.
Taehyung replies with a thumbs-up and tells him to send more photographs tomorrow. Jimin says he will.
He remains on the balcony for a little longer, listening to the voices drifting up from the street below. Somewhere nearby, a group bursts into laughter. A scooter passes and disappears into the distance.
The holiday has officially begun.
Jimin waits for that fact to feel different.
For the next few days, Jimin follows his itinerary with the determination of someone trying to prove a point.
He wakes early enough to eat breakfast downstairs, where he chooses a table near the window and drinks coffee while reviewing the list on his phone. He has already organised the places he wants to visit by distance, opening hours and how likely they are to become crowded in the afternoon.
It is efficient. It is sensible. It also makes the holiday feel suspiciously similar to work.
On his second morning, he walks to the old church overlooking the town. The path is steep, although nothing seems steep anymore after dragging his suitcase to Casa Luz. By the time he reaches the top, his shirt is sticking to his back and he has begun privately resenting every travel guide that described the walk as gentle.
The view is beautiful enough to temporarily forgive it.
The town spreads below him in pale rooftops and winding streets, with the harbour tucked along the edge of the town. Fishing boats move slowly across the water, and farther out, the sea becomes so bright beneath the sun that Jimin has to narrow his eyes.
He takes several photographs. One of the harbour, one of the church and one of himself with the town behind him. He smiles at the camera, checks the result and takes another because the first makes him look tired.
In the second one, he looks much happier.
Afterwards, he wanders through the church and lights a candle despite not being entirely sure what he is supposed to ask for. Peace feels too dramatic. Direction sounds as though he is experiencing a crisis, which he is not.
Eventually, Jimin decides not to ask for anything. He leaves the candle burning among the others and hopes that counts as something.
At the bottom of the hill, he finds a small pink petal on the pavement. It has probably fallen from one of the balconies above, and Jimin carefully places it between two pages of his notebook.
Beneath it, he writes: ‘Survived the church hill. No divine revelation.’
The following day, he visits the market. Stalls fill several narrow streets, selling fruit, jewellery, ceramics, old books and souvenirs.
Jimin buys a small bag of peaches because the vendor offers him a sample and watches expectantly while he eats it. He also buys a postcard for Taehyung, although he does not know Taehyung’s exact address without checking and has no intention of asking because that will ruin the surprise.
The postcard remains inside his notebook.
He sits outside a café with an iced drink and watches people move between the stalls. Everyone seems to be speaking to somebody. Friends compare purchases, couples argue over directions and children complain to parents in a language Jimin doesn’t understand but recognises perfectly through tone.
At the next table, a cat sleeps beneath a chair with all four paws tucked beneath its body. It remains completely undisturbed by footsteps, voices and the occasional movement of the chair above it.
Jimin tries to sketch it in his notebook.
The result looks less like a cat and more like a potato with ears.
Beneath the drawing, he writes: ‘This cat has achieved a deeper state of peace than I have.’
He tears open the sugar packet beside his coffee before realising he does not need it. Rather than throw it away, he flattens the packet and sticks it beside the drawing. The notebook is beginning to thicken now, its pages interrupted by receipts, cards and small objects that prove he has been to different places.
Jimin likes filling it. The process gives each day a shape, even when the day itself feels strangely empty.
That evening, he uploaded several photographs. The church against the blue sky. The market stalls were crowded with fruit. His feet near the edge of the sea, carefully framed so nobody can see that he is alone.
The collection makes the trip look exactly as he imagined it would.
Taehyung sends him a screenshot of the post less than an hour after Jimin called him to complain that he had spent dinner listening to the couple beside him argue about directions.
From: Taehyung
This is false advertising.
To: Taehyung
Loneliness is more attractive with a warm filter
From: Taehyung
You look like you’re having the time of your life
To: Taehyung
Yeah, because I took about seventeen pictures until it looked like I was.
From: Taehyung
Did the sea fix you?
Jimin glances through the balcony doors towards the thin strip of water visible between the buildings.
To: Taehyung
It’s taking its time.
By the fourth day, Jimin has visited almost every place he marked as essential. The itinerary has been crossed through in neat sections, but the satisfaction he expected never arrives.
Jimin photographs all of it.
Sometimes, when he scrolls through the pictures at night, they look as though they belong to somebody else. They show a perfect holiday filled with colour, sunlight and carefully selected meals. Nothing in them captures the silence after Jimin puts his phone down.
He begins feeling as though he is collecting evidence for a trip he is not even actually attending.
That evening, Taehyung calls while Jimin is lying across the bed at Casa Luz. His guidebook is open beside him, and the television is playing a Spanish game show he does not understand.
“How bad is it?” Taehyung asks.
“It isn’t bad,” Jimin says, the last word stretching.
“You sound miserable.”
“I’m not miserable.” Jimin rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “It’s nice. Everything is nice.”
“That sounded convincing.”
Jimin reaches for the remote and lowers the television. “I just thought it would feel different.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. I thought I’d feel more…” Jimin pauses, irritated by how impossible the thought is to explain. “Independent, maybe. Or interesting.”
“You travelled alone to Spain.”
“Yes, and now I’m alone in Spain. That’s apparently the main activity.”
Taehyung is quiet for a moment before asking whether Jimin wants to come home early. The suggestion bothers Jimin more than it should. He sits up, immediately defensive.
“No.”
“You don’t have to stay just because you booked two weeks.”
“Changing the flight would cost too much.”
“That isn’t the only reason.”
Jimin looks towards his open notebook on the desk. The pages contain a petal, tickets, receipts and little jokes written for himself. Proof that he climbed the hill, visited the market and stood in the sea.
None of it feels like enough to bring home.
“I’ve only been here four days,” Jimin says. “I need to stop expecting every day to be some life-changing experience.”
“You made a spreadsheet for your holiday.”
“It was not a spreadsheet.”
“You colour-coded restaurants.”
“That was helpful!”
“You turned relaxing into coursework.”
Jimin glances at the itinerary open on his phone and closes it.
“Maybe I just need to stop planning everything.”
Taehyung laughs. “You’re going to last six minutes.”
“Have some faith in me.”
“I have faith that you’ll make a new plan about not making plans.”
Jimin tells him to go to sleep.
After the call ends, he remains on the bed for several minutes. His first instinct is to open the list and choose somewhere for dinner. Instead, Jimin leaves his phone charging on the desk and gets ready without looking anything up.
He walks downhill with no particular destination in mind.
The evening is warm, and the town has begun filling with people. Music drifts from open doorways, restaurant tables spill onto the pavement and lights glow above the streets as the sky darkens.
Jimin passes several places he recognises from his research. He doesn’t stop at any of them.
Near the beach, he notices a bar with wooden tables arranged beneath strings of small lights. A painted sign near the entrance reads La Gaviota. It’s busy without being crowded, and the music is quiet enough that people do not have to shout over it.
Jimin hasn’t read its reviews. He doesn’t know what it’s known for or whether the drinks are overpriced.
He goes inside anyway.
The bartender introduces herself as Lucía after Jimin struggles to decide what to order. She asks what he likes, and Jimin admits that he does not know enough about cocktails to answer intelligently.
Lucía studies him for a moment before saying she will make something for him.
The drink arrives pale orange with a slice of fruit balanced against the glass. Jimin takes a cautious sip and is surprised by how sweet it tastes.
“That’s dangerous,” he tells her.
Lucía laughs. “Only if you order another.”
And Jimin does.
He sits near the edge of the bar, watching the beach darken beyond the lights. The first drink eases the tension from his shoulders. The second makes him stop wondering whether everybody notices he is alone.
He is not drunk. He knows exactly where he is, how to return to Casa Luz and that he should drink water before going to sleep. He simply feels pleasantly warm, his thoughts softened around the edges.
For the first time since arriving, Jimin does not take a photograph.
He does not write down the name of the drink, save the receipt or check whether La Gaviota appears on any travel lists. He sits there until the noise of the bar begins to thin and Lucía places a glass of water in front of him without being asked.
When Jimin finally leaves, the air outside feels cooler against his face.
He could walk back through the town, following the lit streets towards Casa Luz. Instead, he slips off his shoes and steps onto the sand.
The beach is quieter now. Most people have gathered closer to the bars, leaving the darker stretch ahead nearly empty. Jimin carries his shoes in one hand and walks near the water, where the sand is firmer beneath his feet.
The sea moves beside him in slow, dark waves. Behind him, voices and music fade with every step.
Jimin is halfway towards the path leading back into town when he hears something else.
A guitar.
The melody is faint at first, almost lost beneath the water. It comes from farther along the beach, beyond the reach of the bar lights.
Jimin slows.
The music stops, then begins again from the same place, as though whoever is playing cannot decide how the next part should sound.
He should continue towards the hotel.
Instead, Jimin turns and follows it but the music stops before he reaches it.
He pauses with his shoes hanging from one hand, waiting to see whether whoever is playing has heard him approaching. For several seconds, there is only the sound of the waves and the distant noise from La Gaviota. Then the guitar begins again, softer this time, repeating the same unfinished sequence before cutting off halfway through.
The melody comes from farther along the beach, beyond the reach of the bar lights. Jimin follows it until the shape of a man appears near a cluster of rocks, sitting with one knee raised and an acoustic guitar across his lap. His sleeves are pushed towards his elbows, and dark hair falls into his eyes whenever he bends over the strings.
He looks as though he came to this part of the beach specifically because nobody else would be here.
Jimin feels slightly guilty for intruding but it’s enough to make him leave.
The man plays the same section again, slowing near the end as though he is trying to force the right notes out of it. When his fingers stop, he mutters something under his breath in Korean.
That makes Jimin hesitate for a different reason.
Following music down a dark beach had already been questionable. Following it because the stranger happens to speak the same language feels like the beginning of a story Taehyung would repeat for the rest of his life.
Jimin takes another step anyway, and his shadow stretches across the sand.
The man looks up. He doesn’t seem startled, just mildly annoyed to discover that the beach is no longer empty. His eyes move briefly over Jimin’s bare feet and the shoes in his hand before settling on his face.
“Don’t stop because of me,” Jimin says, lifting the shoes slightly as though they explain his presence. “I was listening.”
“I wasn’t playing for you.” The man lowers his gaze towards the guitar again, but the corner of his mouth moves faintly.
Jimin pauses and stares at him. “That’s a little rude.”
“Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t talking to you.” This time, the twitch at his mouth is unmistakable.
Jimin should turn around. Instead, he walks closer and lowers himself onto the sand several feet away, stretching his legs out in front of him. He places his shoes beside his hip and pretends this was always where he intended to stop.
The stranger watches him settle. “What are you doing?”
“Resting. I have a long walk back to my hotel.” Jimin brushes sand from his ankle, avoiding the man’s unimpressed stare.
“There are hundreds of other places to rest.”
“None of them have free music.” Jimin nods towards the guitar.
“It wasn’t free. You interrupted it.” The man adjusts one of the tuning pegs, plucking the string once and listening closely.
“I think I improved it,” Jimin says. “You were playing the same part repeatedly.”
“That is usually what happens when somebody is writing something.” The stranger rests his wrist against the body of the guitar and looks at Jimin like he’s to see whether he has anything useful to add.
Jimin knows he does not. The two cocktails still warming his face persuade him to continue anyway.
“The ending sounds wrong,” he says. “You should change it.”
The stranger’s eyebrows lift. “That is very specific,” he says sarcastically.
“You asked for my professional opinion.”
“What profession would that be?”
“Listening to things.” Jimin points vaguely towards the strings. “Try making it happier.”
The man plays the melody again and finishes it with a bright, cheerful flourish that sounds completely disconnected from everything before it. He keeps his expression perfectly serious, although his eyes remain fixed on Jimin’s face.
Jimin grimaces. “Not like that.”
“You said happier.” He repeats the awful ending with even more enthusiasm.
“I changed my mind. Put it back.” Jimin leans forwards, offended on behalf of the original melody. “You did that badly on purpose.”
“That sounds difficult to prove.” The man’s fingers return to the earlier pattern, and the quiet amusement finally softens his expression.
Jimin watches him play it again. The melody is gentler than he first realised, but it still loses confidence at the same place, fading away without deciding where it wants to go.
“You’ve ruined my concentration,” the stranger says once the final note disappears.
“You’re welcome.” Jimin leans back on his hands and looks towards the sea. “It didn’t seem to be going especially well before I arrived.”
The man releases a short breath through his nose. It’s not quite a laugh, but Jimin decides it counts.
For a while, neither of them speaks. The silence is surprisingly comfortable, filled by the water moving against the shore and the faint music travelling from the bar behind them. The stranger begins playing again, and this time he doesn’t stop when Jimin shifts a little closer to hear.
Jimin closes his eyes. The melody does not sound sad exactly, but there is something unresolved inside it, as though it is waiting for another part of itself to arrive.
When he opens his eyes, the man is watching him.
“What?” Jimin asks, straightening slightly. “I wasn’t criticising it.”
“You looked like you were.”
“That is just my face.” Jimin pulls one knee towards his chest. “It’s nice.”
“Nice,” the stranger repeats, clearly unimpressed by the word.
“I can take it back.”
“You probably should.” He lowers his hand over the strings, stopping them from vibrating.
Jimin smiles. “Do you always play guitar alone on beaches, or is tonight special?”
“Do you always follow strangers along beaches, or is tonight special?” The man tilts his head slightly, returning the question without missing a beat.
“I heard music.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“I had two cocktails.” Jimin says, before nodding. “That probably answers the question.”
The stranger looks towards the lights behind them. “You came from La Gaviota?”
Jimin nods. “I decided to stop planning everything for one night. Apparently, that led me here.”
“That sounds unfortunate.”
“It was going well until I met you.” Jimin digs his toes into the sand, enjoying the coolness beneath the surface. “Are you visiting too?”
“For a few weeks.”
“From where?”
“Seoul.”
Jimin sits straighter. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” The man looks genuinely confused by his reaction.
“I’m from Seoul.” Jimin points between them like the coincidence requires visual assistance. “We crossed half the world to meet someone from the same city on a beach in Spain.”
“We haven’t met,” the stranger says, which Jimin doesn’t think makes any sense. The man glances back at the guitar, though his mouth is beginning to curve again. “You interrupted me and refused to leave.”
“That is how some people meet.”
“Difficult people, maybe.”
“Seoul must have become too small for us to meet normally,” Jimin says. “We needed international assistance.”
The man laughs properly this time. The sound is low and brief, but it changes his face enough that Jimin looks away towards the sea before he can be caught staring. The alcohol is making him too easily interested. That is the explanation Jimin settles on because it is less embarrassing than admitting he finds the rude stranger attractive after barely knowing him for ten minutes.
“How long are you here?” the man asks, shifting the guitar more comfortably against his thigh.
“Two weeks. I arrived four days ago.” Jimin pauses before admitting, “It has felt longer.”
“That bad?”
“No, it’s beautiful.” Jimin hears the defensiveness in his voice and sighs. “That’s the problem. Everything is beautiful, so I feel like I should be having a better time.”
The stranger studies him for a moment. “You’re angry at the town for not entertaining you?”
“I’m not angry at the town.”
“You sound angry at the town.”
“I’m disappointed in myself in the town,” Jimin says, waving one hand between them. “That is completely different.”
“It sounds more complicated.” The man plucks a quiet note, letting it fade while he looks out towards the water. “Maybe you’re expecting the place to do something to you.”
Jimin turns towards him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You came here expecting to become a different person. Now you’re disappointed because you brought yourself with you.”
Jimin narrows his eyes. “That sounds like one of those annoying travel quotes people put beneath photographs of mountains.”
“It can still be true.”
“It can still be annoying.” Jimin looks pointedly at his rolled sleeves and guitar. “You sit alone on beaches, play unfinished songs and offer unwanted wisdom to tourists. You definitely own linen.”
The man glances down at his shirt. “This isn’t linen.”
“That is not the important part.”
“You approached me,” he says, his fingers moving lazily over the strings again.
“You keep saying that like it makes you less irritating.” Jimin tries to maintain his offended expression, but the stranger’s quiet smile makes it difficult. “Did you come here to find yourself too?”
“I know where I am.”
Jimin stares at him before laughing. “That was awful. You should be embarrassed.”
“I came here to rest.” The man looks down at the guitar. “It isn’t going particularly well.”
“Is that why you’re awake at two in the morning arguing with a song?”
“I wasn’t arguing until you arrived.”
“You were losing very quietly.” Jimin nods towards the instrument. “Do you work in music?”
There is a slight pause before the man answers. It is so brief that Jimin would not have noticed if he had not already been watching him.
“Yes.”
“What do you do?”
“I write. Produce. Perform sometimes.” He lists the words casually, without the eagerness Jimin expects from people explaining creative work.
“That explains the dramatic beach behaviour.” Jimin glances at the guitar. “Are you any good?”
The man’s eyebrows lift. “You followed the music.”
“That only proves you were loud enough to hear.” Jimin waits for more, but none comes. “Do you make a living from it?”
“I make enough to keep doing it.”
Jimin accepts the answer without suspicion. He imagines small venues, recording studios and artists whose names he probably would not recognise. The stranger doesn’t seem interested in impressing him, which Jimin likes more than he expected.
“Do you have a name?” Jimin asks. “Or should I keep calling you the rude musician in my head?”
“You haven’t called me anything yet.”
“In my head,” Jimin repeats. “Try to keep up.”
The man gives him a long look before answering. “Yoongi.”
“Just Yoongi?”
“Is that not enough for tonight?” The question sounds light, and Jimin sees no reason to examine it further.
He shrugs and holds out one hand. “ Jimin.”
“Just Jimin?” Yoongi asks, matching his tone.
“Hey, you get back what you give.”
Yoongi looks at his offered hand before taking it. His palm is warm, and the tips of his fingers are rough from the guitar strings. The handshake lasts a moment longer than it should, long enough for Jimin to become aware of it before Yoongi lets go.
“Do you always introduce yourself this formally while barefoot?” Yoongi asks, returning his hand to the guitar.
“I had shoes when the evening began.” Jimin points towards them beside him. “I’m not wandering around Spain completely unprepared.”
“You followed a stranger down a dark beach.”
“But I mentally prepared for that before I sat down here.”
Yoongi looks down, hiding another small smile. Jimin finds himself pleased by how often he has managed to pull one out of him.
Their conversation becomes easier after that. Jimin tells him about the suitcase that nearly killed him on the walk to Casa Luz, and Yoongi points out that choosing a hotel at the top of a hill was Jimin’s own fault. Yoongi complains about tourists who leave rubbish on the beach, while Jimin accuses him of rejecting every recognisable form of holiday enjoyment.
When Jimin mentions his notebook, Yoongi looks faintly amused. “What have you collected so far?”
“A flower petal, tickets, receipts, a sugar packet and a drawing of a cat.”
“That sounds like rubbish.”
“It is meaningful rubbish.” Jimin frowns at him. “You are not allowed to insult the notebook. You haven’t seen it.”
“I don’t need to see a sugar packet.”
“The cat drawing is very good.”
“Is it?”
“No.” Jimin gives in immediately. “It looks like a potato.”
Yoongi laughs again, more openly this time. The sound is warmer than his speaking voice, and Jimin finds himself watching him instead of the sea.
At some point, Jimin tells him about the restaurant by the harbour. He intends to make the story funny, focusing on the terrible wine and the waiter removing the second place setting, but his voice becomes quieter before he reaches the end.
“I know nobody cared that I was there alone,” Jimin says. “That almost made it worse. I was uncomfortable for absolutely no reason.”
“You were alone,” Yoongi says, plucking one soft note from the guitar.
“I’m alone at home all the time.”
“That’s different.” Yoongi glances towards him. “At home, being alone is part of the routine. Here, you keep noticing everything you would have shown somebody.”
The answer is irritatingly accurate. Jimin looks down and draws a line through the sand with one finger, giving himself a moment before responding.
“You’re doing the mountain quote thing again.”
“It sounded better this time.”
“A little,” Jimin admits. He glances sideways at Yoongi. “Don’t become smug.”
Yoongi’s mouth curves. “Too late.”
In return, Yoongi manages to talk without giving Jimin much that is concrete. He describes his work as exhausting but avoids naming any projects. He says a friend recommended this spot for his holiday because people here mostly mind their own business, and when Jimin asks about the friend, Yoongi says only that he talks too much.
“Then I would probably like him better,” Jimin says, pulling Yoongi’s jacket closer when the breeze turns cooler.
“You probably would.”
Jimin doesn’t remember exactly when the jacket appeared around his shoulders. At some point, Yoongi had noticed him rubbing his arms and held it out without comment. Jimin had protested for approximately five seconds before accepting it.
The gap between them has shortened too. Jimin is now close enough to see the scratches along the body of the guitar and the faint veins across the back of Yoongi’s hand.
Yoongi plays fragments of other melodies whenever the conversation pauses. Jimin offers opinions whether they are requested or not. One sounds too sad, another makes him imagine driving somewhere at night, and a third sounds like the background music in a hotel that is too expensive.
Yoongi listens more seriously than Jimin expects. He occasionally changes a note and plays the section again, watching Jimin’s expression rather than asking whether it improved.
“Do you always take musical advice from strangers who have been drinking?” Jimin asks.
“You’re not drunk.”
“I could be.”
“You don’t sound drunk.” Yoongi leans his arm over the guitar, looking at him with mild amusement. “You also keep checking the path back towards town.”
Jimin glances behind him, caught. “That proves nothing.”
“You’re careful.” Yoongi says it plainly, not as criticism or praise. “You’re sitting far enough away to leave quickly and your phone has been in your hand all night.”
Jimin looks at the phone against his knee. He had not realised Yoongi noticed any of that.
“You notice too much,” he says.
“It’s useful for writing.”
“Maybe I don’t want to become a song.” Jimin means it as a joke, but Yoongi’s fingers still against the strings.
“You won’t,” he says. The answer is too serious for the conversation around it. Jimin watches him for a second, then decides not to ask why.
“Good,” he says instead. “I don’t think Jimin rhymes with much.”
The tension breaks. Yoongi tells him that depends on the language, and Jimin begins suggesting increasingly terrible possibilities of things that rhyme with his name until Yoongi threatens to pack up and leave.
He does not leave.
The bar closes sometime during their conversation, taking most of the distant music with it. The beach grows colder, and the sky slowly begins changing from black to deep blue.
Jimin notices only when Yoongi stops speaking and looks towards the horizon.
“What?” Jimin follows his gaze, then checks his phone. The time makes him sit upright. “You’re joking.”
Yoongi glances over. “About what?”
“It’s nearly six.” Jimin checks again as though the numbers might change. “We’ve been sitting here for hours.”
“You said you were resting.”
“For the longest walk back to a hotel in recorded history.” Jimin pushes himself to his feet, only for one numb leg to give slightly beneath him.
Yoongi reaches out without thinking, his hand closing around Jimin’s wrist. Jimin catches himself, but neither moves immediately afterwards. Yoongi’s grip is firm and warm against the cool air.
Jimin looks down at his hand. Yoongi releases him and begins brushing sand from his trousers as though nothing happened.
The jacket is still around Jimin’s shoulders. He starts taking it off, but Yoongi shakes his head. “Keep it until we reach the path.”
“You’re walking with me?” Jimin asks.
“I want my jacket back.”
“That is not very gentlemanly.”
“I was never trying to be.”
Yoongi stands and lifts the guitar. Together, they walk towards the town, their steps slow despite the cold. The beach looks different in the early light, grey-blue and almost empty, with the bars sitting silent beneath strings of unlit bulbs.
Their conversation becomes quieter as they approach the path leading back towards Casa Luz. The night is ending, and Jimin becomes aware that Yoongi is still mostly a stranger, despite the hours they have spent speaking.
Near the edge of the sand, Jimin slips the jacket from his shoulders and holds it out. Their fingers brush when Yoongi takes it, and the small touch feels more noticeable than it should.
“I should go before the hotel reports me missing,” Jimin says, adjusting his shoes in one hand.
“Would they notice?” Yoongi asks. “You said the room barely has enough space for you.”
Jimin gives him an offended look. “The room is charming.”
“You called it misleading.”
“Both can be true.” Jimin begins walking backwards towards the path. “Try not to lose another argument with your song.”
Yoongi shifts the guitar against his side. His expression becomes carefully neutral, but his eyes remain on Jimin. “Are you going to follow strange music across dark beaches every night?”
Jimin pauses. He cannot tell whether Yoongi is warning him not to return or trying not to ask him to.
He smiles. “Only if the musician improves.”
Jimin turns before Yoongi can answer.
The walk back to Casa Luz feels shorter than usual, even though he is tired enough to stumble twice on the hill. The town is beginning to wake around him, with delivery vans moving through the streets and shutters opening above cafés.
Once inside his room, Jimin washes the sand from his feet and changes into his sleep clothes. He should go directly to bed, but the cream notebook is waiting on the desk.
He sits and opens it to the next blank page. For several seconds, he considers writing about Yoongi’s unfinished melody, the way he watches people too carefully or how different his face looks when he laughs.
Jimin writes none of those things. Admitting that level of interest after one night would be embarrassing, even inside a notebook nobody else is meant to read.
Instead, he writes: Met a rude musician from Seoul. His song needs work.
He reads the sentence once and begins closing the notebook. Then he stops, opens it again and adds one more line beneath it.
I hope he is there tomorrow.