Allegro

I walked into Professor Lee’s house, setting my guitar case gently on the floor and standing awkwardly as he adjusted his glasses. The new environment and the presence of the headmaster made my heart race even more than it already had from rehearsal. Professor Lee leaned casually against his couch, crossing his arms as though waiting for me to explain myself.

I cleared my throat, but the sound came out strained. “Rehearsal didn’t go well,” I admitted, shifting my eyes to the floor. “I sight-read a piece, played it terribly, and... Mr. Moon didn’t give me a single piece of criticism. If I’m going to have any shot at winning this, I need help from someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

His eyes narrowed, as if trying to formulate a conclusion. After a moment, his gaze sharpened as it met mine. “I’m assuming this is due to your connection with his son, correct?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, my voice quiet. My eyes dropped to the floor again. “That was my first thought, but... I don’t care about that. I just need honest feedback from someone who can actually help me improve.”

Professor Lee nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful in the corner of my vision. “Play it for me,” he said sternly. “We’ll go from there.”

I felt my stomach twist with nerves. It was strange — playing in front of a crowd full of students didn’t faze me nearly as much as performing in front of this one man. But I respected Professor Lee deeply, and that probably only added more pressure. Adjusting my strap, I pulled up the arrangement of The Great Gig in the Sky on my phone and braced myself.

This time, I focused harder, my mind better prepared for the rough chord transitions and melody. The performance was far from perfect, but it was an improvement from the trainwreck I’d played in Mr. Moon’s rehearsal room. I made it through without completely falling apart, which felt like a victory in itself. Still, I felt the need to explain myself. “I’m still really unfamiliar with the piece,” I mumbled, my fingers fidgeting with my strap. “I slowed the tempo down to make it through, but I know I need a lot of work.”

Professor Lee raised a hand, stopping me mid-sentence. My mouth shut instantly, watching as he studied me. “Your technique needs work,” he said finally, his voice calm but sharp. “Your transitions are rushed, and your strumming lacks consistency. But...” He paused, his tone softening slightly. “Your efforts are admirable. You seem to have an instinct for the depth of the song, but you need to put more of yourself into it.”

Relief washed over me. There wasn’t much praise in his words, but it didn’t matter — his honesty and criticism were exactly what I had been looking for when coming to him. I nodded gratefully, my shoulders relaxing for the first time of the evening. “Thank you.”

He returned the nod, his demeanor lightening up the smallest bit. “You have potential, Miss. Huang. But potential is meaningless without practice and dedication. If you’re truly willing to commit to this, I’ll help you. But you must do just that — commit.”

“I am serious,” I said quickly, eagerness slipping into my voice. I took a deep breath to steady my heartbeat. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

He watched me for a moment, as if searching for any sign of hesitation, then nodded. “Alright. Let’s begin.”

The rest of the evening was spent pulling apart the piece, working through the chord progressions one section at a time. We avoided the more difficult parts, like the chorus, for now and focused on refining the easier part. Professor Lee also helped me find a strumming pattern that was more efficient and conventional, growing more and more patient with each inevitable mistake I made.

By the end of the unofficial practice session, my playing had improved to what could generously be called decent. My arms felt heavy from all the effort, but the progress felt worth it.

“In terms of the vocals,” Professor Lee said as he walked me to the door, “I’m not the best critic. I suggest seeking guidance from someone more experienced with singing.”

“Thank you,” I said sincerely, pausing to look at him. I truly appreciated the time he had set aside for me, despite the fact that I’d barged in unannounced. I smile politely.

He didn’t smile or say anything, but he nodded — a simple act of respect that we both understood. Bowing slightly, I turned and trudged away, my guitar case feeling heavier than ever with my exhaustion from hours upon hours of practice all day.

When I finally reached my dorm, I collapsed onto my bed, my muscles aching. Almost immediately, my phone chimed with a new text. It was from Professor Lee — a reminder to continue working on the chord progressions and steadily increase the tempo. He also mentioned that I was welcome to stop by his office anytime I needed help.

I smiled faintly at the message, a sense of gratefulness washing over me. When I’d first met Professor Lee, I’d assumed him to be an uptight teacher who cared about nothing but rules and discipline. I’d assumed he had little empathy or concern for his students. But lately, he had continuously proven me wrong. The moment I’d asked for help, he’d stepped up without hesitation. I felt my respect for him develop even further — I could appreciate a blunt, no-bullshit personality.

Quickly typing out a thank you message, I sent it off and was about to put my phone down when another notification popped up, indicating a text from Minho. Market tomorrow? it read. Sure, I replied simply, before plugging my phone into the charger.

Even as exhaustion washed over and made my eyes heavy, I couldn’t resist pulling out my guitar again. Opening my laptop, I pulled up the sheet music for the song and worked through the first minute again, as Professor Lee had instructed. Each playthrough felt a little smoother than the last, and I felt like I was moving forward.

. . .

I woke up the next day to a loud banging sound on my door. I was lying on my back, still in the clothes from the day before, one leg hanging half off the bed while my guitar rested flat on its spine beside me. Groaning, I rubbed my eyes before getting up to open the door.

Minho stood in the doorway, wearing a baggy long light brown jacket and black attire that hugged his figure well. His eyebrow arched slightly, and his gaze lingered on my hair. “Long night, Michelle?”

I whipped my head around to look in the mirror, only to see the horrendous bedhead I had. I groaned, leaning my head against the wall. “God damn it.”

He invited himself in, closing the door behind him. His lips twitched as he held back a laugh. “I told you two o’clock, Mischa.”

I glanced at the clock, surprised by how late it was. I swatted at his arm. “Don’t laugh. I guess I was up late practicing or something. Can you put my stuff away while I throw something on?”

Before he could respond, I dashed to my bathroom and slammed the door shut. I wet my hair with a spray bottle and tried to comb it through with my fingers. Realizing it was going to take far too much effort to tame, I tossed it into the messiest bun I could manage and quickly applied whatever basic makeup I could to salvage my tired face.

When I came out, I found Minho sitting cross-legged on my bed, staring blankly at the sheet music on my computer. I walked over, snapping the device shut. He looked up at me, his gaze seemingly studying my face. I felt a slight blush creeping up my neck, but neither of us said anything.

I moved to my closet and grabbed a few basic layers to complement Minho's outfit. I changed in the bathroom, adding a scarf and a paperboy hat to play it safe for the weather. When I came back out, Minho was waiting by the door. I quickly locked it behind me.

Even though the market was in a fairly close proximity to campus, Minho insisted on driving us to the market, claiming that I  “look cold”, despite being quite well-layered. His car dropped us off near one of the entrances, and he took my hand, slipping it into his pocket as we walked.

A few of our peers nodded at us as we passed by, offering quiet hellos as we moved through the market. We walked by Juliana’s art stand, where she was adjusting the cloth covering a large painting. Though I wasn't particularly close with her, I made a mental note to come back and see the piece's unveiling — just a small artist hoping to support another small artist.

We stopped at a small fruit stand run by a polite older Korean woman. Using my limited knowledge of Korean, I bargained with her for a small pack of blueberries. She was kind enough to humor me, claiming that she liked my scarf. A win was a win, and I happily snacked on my blueberries as we wandered further down the lane. We passed a flower stand, where I paused to smell the camellias, their green tea scent lingered in my nose.

Minho left me at a stand for another local artist who created collages from sheet music. I lightly ran my fingers over a piece featuring a section of music from a Studio Ghibli movie’s soundtrack. Before I could take in more, the stand keeper scolded me for touching the art — fair enough — and I quickly backed away. I scanned the crowd around me, searching for Minho on my toes.

A tap on my shoulder startled me, and I spun around. Minho was there, holding up a small bouquet of the flowers I’d been smelling earlier, tied together with a simple pink ribbon. I grinned at him. “Min, these are so sweet, thank you.”

He smiled, taking my hand in his. “What kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I didn’t get you flowers, Mischa?”

I held the flowers in my hand, tossing my blueberry container in a nearby bin as we continued walking. We bumped into a group of young kids, probably around primary school age, playing Gonggi. Minho explained the game to me. One of the boys eagerly grabbed my hand, pulling me down to join them and speaking excitedly in Korean, though I couldn’t understand all of what he was saying, only picking up basic words.

“He said he wants you to play with them,” Minho murmured in my ear, squatting down so he was on our level. I glanced at him, and he flashed me a grin.

The boy eagerly handed me five colorful objects, which I could only describe as dice. I hesitated, trying to return them. “Can you tell them I don’t know how to play?”

Minho spoke to the kids in Korean, and the boy giggled. He demonstrated the game, tossing the dice to the ground before picking one up and throwing it in the air, catching it with the same hand. He repeated this, eventually getting four dice in his hand at once. I watched him, admiring the kid’s focus.

The boy, looking at me to ensure I was following, said something to Minho. “Nae yeoja chingu ige himdeun bubun-ilago malhaejwo,” he said confidently.

Minho snorted, barely containing a laugh. “He, uh, said to make sure you watch closely because this is the hardest part.”

I paid close attention, though I was unsure what was so amusing. The boy held the dice tightly in one hand, spun it around, and then let them land on the back of his hand. I smiled, watching him concentrate hard on the next part, his friends cheering him on. He carefully tossed the dice into the air, swatting his hand to catch them all at once.

I gave him a light clap, impressed by his skill. When the boy handed me the dice, I nervously tried my best to perform the trick. I succeeded for the first few levels, but when it came to flipping the dice onto the back of my hand, I dropped one. Still, I managed to catch the other four, my heart racing from the pressure of a children’s game.

The boy grinned at me. “Jalhaess-eo, yeoja chingu.”

I looked at Minho, who was struggling to hold back another laugh. He composed himself and translated. “He said good job.”

I patted the boy on the head, returned the dice, and thanked him in Korean. Minho helped me up, our hands locking again. I shot him a curious look. “What was so funny?”

Minho finally let out a laugh. “I think that kid had a thing for you, Mischa.”

My jaw dropped in protest. “What? No, he was just excited to show me his game!”

“He called you‘yeoja chingu’,” Minho pointed out. When I gave him a confused look, he sighed. “Yeoja chingu means girlfriend, love.”

I blinked in surprise, my mouth forming a small "o." I shook my head, tightening my grip on Minho’s hand subconsciously, for no apparent reason other than to hold his hand. I let out a small cough. “I suppose that’s sweet.”

Minho mirrored my shift in grip, making my heart skip a beat. I held the flowers up in my vacant hand and sniffed them once more. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. The “fake date” felt perfect to me.

We wandered over to a game area with a board game that involved sticks and tokens. I let Minho take the lead, as the game seemed far more complicated than the one we'd just played. I admired the way he interacted with the kids, speaking to them in Korean and making them laugh. Although I could tell Minho was close to winning, he let the boy he was playing against take the victory. The kid jumped up, grabbing his friend's hands and cheering in celebration.

Minho laughed and brushed himself off, pulling me up with him. As we continued walking, I nudged him with my arm. “You know, I thought you’d hate kids — maybe think they’re walking dirt or something.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Wow, Michelle, do you think I’m the Grinch or something?”

I laughed. “No, I’ve just never seen you like that. It was endearing.”

He groaned. “Don’t mock me, Huang.”

I peeked at him, curious about the use of my last name. He looked back at me and ruffled the back of my hair under my hat. I slapped his hand away, adjusting my cap, both of us laughing.

“You hungry?” I asked as I heard his stomach growl. He clutched his stomach, nodding sheepishly.

We headed to a small dakkochi stand and each ordered a few skewers. I watched hungrily as they grilled, standing against a fence as we ate. Minho devoured his meal quickly, while I took my time, trying not to dirty anything. Despite my efforts, he laughed at how messy I was eating.

He moved in front of me, standing close. “You’re quite the messy eater, you know.” I could feel the sauce from the chicken on my cheek. Embarrassed, I turned away, trying to rub it off. Minho rolled his eyes. “You’re not getting it, Michelle.”

“Yes, I am,” I muttered, rubbing my face in random spots.

“Just let me help you,” he sighed, pulling out a napkin. The tips of his fingers gently steadied my chin, and I froze, feeling my breath shallow out. He stared at my cheek and  carefully wiped the sauce off.

When he finished, he withdrew the napkin and looked into my eyes. Neither of us moved for a moment, the tension between us thickening immensely. We both looked away at the same time, perhaps embarrassed by the moment.

I tossed my trash from the food and rejoined Minho with an awkward smile. Rather than taking my hand, he linked our arms together. We walked in silence, neither of us daring to talk about the previous encounter.

I remembered my earlier goal and quickly pulled away, trying to find any sort of excuse to get a breath of fresh air and take in what had happened. “I’m going to check out Juliana’s art, alright?”

“I’ll meet you there in a bit,” he muttered quietly, breaking away to see Q and Dae who were lingering around, hanging out nearby.

I walked over to Juliana’s stand, where the previously covered painting was now unveiled. It was a beautiful depiction of her and her girlfriend, Yuri. I admired the piece in awe, wishing I had even a fraction of her talent. Looking around, I saw the artist staring at Kitty and Yuri’s closeness, disappointment on her face.

Not wanting to interrupt, I decided to find Minho. I spotted him in the crowd, no longer with Q and Dae. Before I could approach, I noticed that he was also staring at Kitty and Yuri, his expression a mix of heartbreak and longing.

The lump in my throat grew, and the events of the day felt heavy on my mind. I dropped my flowers and felt my feet walk quickly away, deciding to remove myself from both situations and losing myself in the market’s crowd.