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Martin Edwards Park loved music. He practically lived for it. His father even named him after his favorite guitar, and ever since Martin could remember, music had been stitched into his days. When he was a kid, his dad let him play around on a music-creation program for fun, and that was it. He was hooked for life.
Thinking of Martin without thinking of his music would be a crime.
His routine revolved around it. Mornings meant playlists and singing loudly in the shower before his mom yelled at him. The walk to school, or the bike ride depending on the weather, never happened without his headphones. Even during lunch, while others crowded the cafeteria, Martin preferred the quiet hum of the old practice room. Sometimes he would be there after school instead of just going home.
The room was his refuge: a scuffed upright piano, a guitar that always needed the strings to be tuned, faintly yellowed sheet music, and a door that stuck when you closed it. The soundproofing wasn’t perfect, but the silence felt like it belonged to him.
No one ever bothered him there which was exactly how he wanted it. At least, that’s what he told himself.
Because sometimes, in the quiet between songs, Martin would realize how empty the room sounded. He didn’t want company, not really— but he wished, maybe, someone else understood what it meant to love music like breathing.
So he played louder, hoping the notes might fill the space where people didn’t.
The door creaked open one day, and for the first time in months, the rhythm broke.
Martin stopped mid-chord. The old upright piano buzzed faintly as the sound lingered. He turned toward the door, half expecting a teacher or maybe a freshman who got lost.
Instead, a brunette haired boy in a basketball hoodie stepped inside with earbuds hanging around his neck, hair still damp from practice. He looked around like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be there, then spotted Martin and froze.
“This room’s taken,” Martin said automatically.
The boy didn’t answer right away. He just shrugged, dropped his backpack by the wall, and sat down on the floor, back against the cabinets.
Martin blinked. “You can’t just—”
“I’m not bothering you,” the boy said, voice even but tired. “You can play.”
Martin’s fingers hovered above the keys. He didn’t. The air felt different now, heavier somehow.
After a few seconds, he muttered, “You know there’s a whole library for napping.”
The boy just smirked faintly without opening his eyes. “Too quiet there.”
Martin frowned at that, not sure what to make of it. He turned back to the piano, played a few hesitant notes, then the rest of the melody spilled out like muscle memory.
By the time he glanced over again, the boy’s head had tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, the faint rise and fall of his chest in sync with the rhythm.
Martin didn’t realize until later that he’d started playing softer, almost like he didn’t want to wake the boy up.
Martin really thought that the boy coming by would be a one time thing. Yet, the next day, he was there again.
Martin had almost convinced himself the first time was a fluke. Maybe the guy just needed a place to hide after practice and it was a one-time thing. But no, Martin was completely wrong. When Martin pushed open the door to Practice Room 204, the same boy was already sitting there, earbuds in, scrolling through his phone.
Their eyes met for a second.
Martin sighed. “You’re kidding.”
“Hi to you too,” the boy said.
Martin set his bag down a little louder than necessary, the clatter echoing in the small room. “You know, this is where music happens, right?”
“Good,” the boy said without looking up. “I like music.”
Martin turned to the piano, jaw tight. “You’re unbelievable.”
He tried to ignore him, hands finding a half-finished melody from yesterday. The notes were uneven at first, frustration creeping into his rhythm, but after a while, the sound took over. It always did.
By the time he finished, he realized the boy wasn’t on his phone anymore. He was just sitting there, listening, eyes half-open, expression unreadable.
“That was nice,” he said quietly. “Did you write it?”
Martin hesitated. People didn’t usually ask that and it made him feel a bit.. shy. “Yeah.”
“It sounds like rain,” the boy said simply, and then he stood up, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”
And as the boy left, Martin realized he still doesn’t know his name.
Martin told himself he wouldn’t come back the next day. He told himself he’d use a different room, maybe the choir one near the stairwell. He still ended up in room 204.
And so did he.
They still haven’t introduced themselves. They didn’t need to. The pattern built itself: Martin playing, the boy sitting nearby, sometimes dozing off, sometimes humming along.
Sometimes, Martin caught him tapping his fingers on his knee in perfect rhythm with the song.
It was distracting.
And weirdly comforting.
The next day, Wednesday, Martin forgot to bring his lunch. His stomach growled halfway through a chord change. He tried to play it off, but a quiet laugh came from the corner.
“Here,” the boy said, tossing a Nature Valley granola bar his way without looking up from his phone.
Martin caught it awkwardly. “Thanks.”
“No problem, Piano Guy.”
Martin frowned. “You don’t even know my name.”
“Do you know mine?”
He didn’t. And yet somehow, the question stuck with him all day.
Later on that night, Martin was in his room trying to write a new melody after finishing a few small homework assignments. But every time his fingers reached for the keys on his piano, his mind kept wandering back to the way the boy had said it sounded like rain.
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
But it did, and Martin was scared. Scared of the way he was starting to feel about this boy he still doesn’t know the name of.
It rained for the next few days.
The sky outside the music wing’s windows was a soft, endless gray, the kind that made everything feel slower. Martin had spent the afternoon half-distracted in class, tapping out rhythms on his desk and thinking about melodies that sounded like thunder fading into calm. Yet despite the dreary weather, he still had a giddy feeling in his chest for when lunch time happens.
When he reached Practice Room 204, Seonghyeon was already there with his shoes damp, hair a little messy from the rain. His hoodie had dark patches near the shoulders where the water hadn’t dried yet.
“You’re going to get sick,” Martin said, setting his own guitar case down.
“Then you can play something sad for me,” Seonghyeon replied, leaning back against the wall with that faint grin that always seemed half-serious, half-mocking.
Martin rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile that came with it. His cheeks may have turned a bit red too but Martin hoped the boy didn’t notice. He turned to the piano, pressing out the first few notes of something soft and unfinished.
Seonghyeon listened in silence for a while before saying, “You ever play for people?”
Martin hesitated. “Sometimes. School recitals, maybe. But… not really.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It feels different when someone’s watching. Like I can’t hear the music right anymore.”
“You sound fine when I’m here.”
Martin looked over, startled.
Seonghyeon’s gaze was calm and direct like he didn’t even realize how bold that sounded.
The rain hit harder against the windows, filling the silence between them.
“…You’re not really watching, though,” Martin said finally, voice quieter now. “You just—sit there.”
“Maybe that’s why you play so well,” Seonghyeon said simply, pulling his hoodie tighter around his shoulders.
Martin didn’t answer. He just turned back to the keys, trying not to think about the warmth that spread through his chest at the thought.
Seonghyeon had just come from basketball practice. His hoodie was damp from sweat, sneakers squeaking faintly against the wet hallway floor, hair sticking to his forehead. Normally, he would have rushed straight to the showers, to the locker room, to anywhere but here. But somehow, the quiet of Practice Room 204 had drawn him in. Or it was just the boy who was always there.
Martin was already there, hunched over the piano, headphones dangling around his neck. He looked up as Seonghyeon opened the door, and for a second, both of them froze.
“Hi,” Seonghyeon said softly.
Martin blinked. “You—don’t you have practice?”
“I’m done for the day,” Seonghyeon replied, shrugging. “Coach finally let me leave early.”
Martin nodded, unsure what to say next. He turned back to the piano and started pressing the keys, letting a quiet melody fill the small room.
Seonghyeon leaned against the wall, adjusting his hoodie. The room smelled faintly of polished wood and old sheet music, a comfort that felt completely different from the gym. There were no squeaking sneakers, no shouting coaches, no bouncing balls. Here, he could just exist, and listen.
When the rain started to hit harder against the windows, Martin was checking the sky like it might clear up on command. It didn’t.
“My bike’s probably flooded by now and I forgot my umbrella,” Martin said with a sigh.
Seonghyeon tilted his head almost as if he was trying to think of a quick solution. “I can walk you home.”
Martin blinked because he definitely wasn’t expecting him to say that. “You don’t even know where I live.”
“Then tell me.”
He should’ve said no. He should’ve insisted he was fine but instead Martin found himself laughing quietly, something easing in his chest.
“Fine. But if I get sick, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal.”
They left the building a little bit later just as the rain was starting to somewhat slow down, the sound of it still drumming on the pavement like static. The air smelled like wet asphalt and spring. They were still under the canopy of the entrance of the school building. Beside him, Seonghyeon pulled his hoodie over his head, then hesitated, glancing at Martin.
“You’re going to get soaked,” Martin said, glancing back at him.
“Better than freezing,” Seonghyeon said, tilting it just enough to cover their shoulders. It barely reached Martin’s tall frame, but when their shoulders brushed, a quiet warmth spread between them.
They stepped into the rain together.
“Here,” he said, holding the edge up toward him, as if to shield them both.
Martin raised an eyebrow. “You realize I’m taller, right?”
Seonghyeon frowned up at him through the rain. “I was being nice.”
“It’s not working.”
“Then stop being tall.”
Martin laughed quietly, and before he could stop himself, he leaned down a little, enough for Seonghyeon to lift the hoodie over both of them. With the hoodie barely shielding them, water dripped down their sleeves and hair, but the sound of the raindrops became a kind of accompaniment to the piano melody still ringing in Martin’s mind.
When they reached his street, Seonghyeon let the hood drop, shaking out his hair.
“Guess this is you.”
“Yeah,” Martin said softly. “Thanks for walking with me.”
Even in that simple exchange, Martin felt it. The connection and the quiet understanding that didn’t need words.
Two weeks later, the world had gone back to its usual rhythm, or at least, that’s what Martin told himself. Classes, practice room, music. Somewhere between shared granola bars, lunch or after school practice sessions, and arguments about chord progressions, Martin finally learned the boy’s name: Eom Seonghyeon.
In Martin’s head, this was the kind of name that stayed with you long after you heard it.
They didn’t talk about what happened that rainy day. They didn’t need to. The space between them had changed. It was quieter, but heavier, like every silence now carried something unspoken underneath it.
Sometimes Seonghyeon sat beside the piano instead of across the room, his legs stretched out, head tilted back, listening. Sometimes Martin caught him mouthing the melody like he knew the words, even though Martin never wrote any.
It was easy to pretend everything was fine, until Tuesday afternoon, when Mr. Han called him after class.
“Martin,” the teacher said, flipping through a few sheets of paper on his clipboard. “Have you thought about the spring showcase yet?”
Martin froze halfway through packing his things. “Showcase?”
Mr. Han looked up, smiling faintly. “You’re one of our best performers, you know that. I thought you’d want to submit something original again. Maybe that new piece you’ve been working on?”
The new piece.
The one that sounded like rain and laughter and Seonghyeon’s voice saying ‘anytime, Piano Guy.’
Martin swallowed. “It’s not ready.”
“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” Mr. Han said gently. “It just has to be you. That’s what people connect with.”
He left before Martin could respond, leaving the words hanging in the empty classroom.
Later on after school, Martin couldn’t focus. He sat in the practice room, staring at the piano keys, the low hum of the building filling the silence.
He pressed a few chords. The chords of the opening of the song that has been haunting him for days. But it didn’t sound right anymore. Too quiet. Too safe.
“You’re overthinking again.”
He turned. Seonghyeon stood by the door, basketball under one arm, the familiar hoodie still damp around the sleeves.
Martin exhaled, half a laugh. “Do you ever knock?”
“I tried,” Seonghyeon said, walking in. “Didn’t hear me.”
He dropped his bag in the corner and leaned against the piano, glancing down at the scattered sheets of music. “That the song?”
Martin hesitated. “It’s—something.”
“Play it.”
“I don’t—”
“Martin.”
Something about the way Seonghyeon said his name made it impossible to say no.
So he played.
The melody started shaky, but once it found its rhythm, everything else fell away. The rain, the walk, the laughter. It all just spilled out in sound, stripped bare.
Seonghyeon’s voice was quiet when he finally said, “You wrote that about me, didn’t you?”
Martin froze. He wanted to deny it, to make a joke, but his throat was tight, his face was turning red, and his chest hurt in that way that meant the truth was too close.
“I don’t know,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe. You make it easy to feel things I don’t know how to explain.”
For a long time, Seonghyeon didn’t say anything. Then he moved closer, slow, deliberate, not touching, but close enough that Martin could feel his warmth.
“You don’t have to explain it,” Seonghyeon said softly. “I get it.”
Martin looked up then, eyes searching his face. “You do?”
Seonghyeon nodded once, small and certain. “Yeah. I’ve been feeling the same thing every time you play.”
The moment he said it, the ache in Martin’s chest eased.
The night of the spring showcase arrived faster than Martin expected.
He had spent the last week pretending he wasn’t terrified, telling Mr. Han that yes, the piece was ready, and telling himself that no, he definitely wasn’t about to humiliate himself in front of half the school.
But this song was different.
It wasn’t written for a grade or a crowd.
It was written for him.
Backstage, he kept his head down, fingers tightening and loosening around the edge of his sheet music. From the side curtain, he could see the glow of the audience with his parents and older sister, teachers, classmates and in the fourth row, the familiar hoodie, the calm face that made everything else fade.
Seonghyeon.
He’d come straight from basketball practice with his hair sticking to his forehead and hoodie clinging slightly from sweat. Normally, he’d be rushing off to shower, to decompress, to anywhere but here. But tonight, he’d stayed. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching quietly, steady and patient, the way he always did. Seeing him there steadied Martin more than any deep breath ever could.
When Mr. Han called his name, Martin walked out, each step weighted with nerves.
He sat at the piano, adjusted the bench, and exhaled.
The room fell silent.
He pressed the first note, and the melody began: soft, hesitant, but perfectly his.
Every note carried the laughter in the rain, the quiet afternoons in Practice Room 204, the little touches and glances that meant more than anything he’d ever said aloud.
He played as if no one was watching. Except, in the back of his mind, he knew exactly who was.
By the final notes, the hall seemed to hold its breath. Martin’s fingers lingered on the keys, letting the last chord hang in the air before releasing it completely.
The applause was instant, warm, and overwhelming.
And as Martin was bowing to conclude the end of his performance and take in the cheers, all Martin could focus on was Seonghyeon standing, smiling softly — not cheering, not clapping wildly, just there, quiet and steady.
Later on after talking to his family and classmates, when the hall had emptied and the lights dimmed, Martin found him near the exit. Hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, damp hair sticking out in a way that made him look endearingly disheveled.
“You did amazing,” Seonghyeon said softly.
Martin’s chest tightened. “Thanks.”
There was a long and gentle pause. The kind of silence that spoke louder than words.
“That song,” Seonghyeon said, eyes fixed on him. “I could feel everything in it.”
Martin swallowed, heart pounding. “I wanted you to.”
Seonghyeon stepped closer, just enough that Martin could feel the warmth radiating off him.
“You know,” Seonghyeon murmured, “I’ve been waiting for you to play that for me. The whole thing.”
Martin’s breath hitched. He laughed quietly, nerves and relief tangled together. “Guess I finally did.”
There was another pause. A long, suspended moment where the room seemed to shrink to just the two of them. Martin, who usually doesn’t keep eye contact when nervous, glanced down. Seonghyeon’s eyes were soft and earnest. It was in that look that Martin understood everything he hadn’t said in weeks.
Seonghyeon stepped closer, slowly, deliberately. Closer than a friend, but not too close. Hesitant. Careful. The way you are when something fragile is finally in reach. Martin’s breath hitched.
Without thinking, Seonghyeon reached up and put one hand on Martin’s shoulder, the other along his jaw.
The kiss was brief, just long enough to confirm that yes, this feeling was real and mutual.
Not a dramatic declaration, just a quiet acknowledgment, a shared secret finally allowed to exist in the open.
Martin’s hands landed on Seonghyeon’s waist. When they parted, just slightly, their foreheads rested together, and the silence felt warm, full of everything they had been holding back.
“I… I’ve been waiting for that,” Martin whispered, voice trembling but steady.
Seonghyeon smiled, quiet and small. “Me too.”
They stayed like that for a moment longer, letting the quiet and the aftermath of music and confession settle around them.
And for the first time, Martin felt completely heard.