As he lead the way.
First Fim just stare at him as he chuckles.
He was also silent like her she thought, At least he laughs..
Taehyung caught her stare — and for a split second, he quieted. His smile lingered, softer now, more knowing.
He understood exactly what that look meant.
Because it used to live on his own face.
Silent people… know each other without words.
He didn't say anything. Just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod — one that spoke: Okay. I got you.
Then, slipping his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets, he turned and started walking ahead, slow enough that her steps could catch up beside his.
"You ever had strawberry mochi pancakes?" he asked suddenly, glancing sideways.
"Found this tiny place a few blocks from here. No music. No crowd. Just warm food and old wooden chairs. It's quiet." He paused, then added, "You'll like it."
The street buzzed faintly in the distance, but here — in her little pocket of the world — everything felt hushed, like the universe had dropped its volume just for the. two.
As they walked together, he didn't fill the silence.
He matched it.
Step for step.
Like the start of a song not yet written…
but already in perfect rhythm.
She look at him, nodded.
She murmurs softly,
"Let's see...sound good anyways..
Taehyung smiled again — not wide, not loud — just that small, content kind of smile that felt real. The kind that wasn't for show, but for the moment.
He glanced over at her as she nodded, and for a second, his gaze lingered.
"You just agreed to strawberry mochi pancakes," he said with mock-seriousness. "That makes us officially bound by food loyalty."
He pushed open the quiet café door a few minutes later — just like he promised. No crowd, no music, only the soft clinking of plates and the faint scent of warm vanilla and strawberries.
The old wooden chairs creaked as they both sat near a window that caught the last of the fading gold light.
Taehyung dropped his bag beside the chair, casually leaned forward on the table and asked — gently, honestly —
"So... do you ever name your guitar?"
He drummed his fingers on the table softly.
"Because mine's called Misery. " he smirked. "Felt appropriate at the time."
As she settle, her movements was almost like his. Not because she is copying but maybe because They both are almost same.
She nodded slowly and murmurs,
I have.
"Well sometimes people say me stupid because I named my guitar...but yeah,
My guitar name is Spirit.
His's eyes softened instantly.
"Spirit…" he repeated, almost reverently — like the word held more weight now that it came from her.
He leaned back slightly, arms resting along the sides of the chair as he looked at her.
"They called you stupid for that?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Guess they've never been haunted by something worth naming."
He looked toward the window, then murmured, "Spirit suits you. You don't talk much… but everything you are is in that guitar."
He glanced down at his fingers, calloused from years of drumming, then looked back up at her.
"Maybe that's why mine's misery," he said with a wry smile. "I used to think it was the only thing I had left. But…"
His eyes flicked back to her — just briefly — then returned to the soft wood grain of the table.
"Maybe it's time to rename it."
A waitress brought their orders quietly — warm pancakes, melting strawberries, soft syrup, and two mugs of quiet steam.
Taehyung waited a beat, then said, barely above the hush of the café:
"To Spirit," he murmured, lifting his mug just slightly toward her.
And in that tiny, quiet toast,
he wasn't just raising it to her guitar.
He was raising it to her.
She shake her head and murmurs,
"Rename is a bad idea...your drum gonna cry then.
She teased but there is something honest in her tune.
Then she add gently,
"This name holds memories somehow,
Misery is not bad at all.
She take a slow sip and whisper under her breath,
"Misery"
He paused mid-sip, her words settling into the air like a soft melody echoing from an old string.
He lowered his mug slowly, eyes fixed on her — not wide or shocked, just… deeply quiet.
"Yeah…" he whispered, a slight curve returning to his lips.
He watched you repeat the name again — Misery — and something in the way you said it didn't sound heavy anymore. It sounded understood.
Accepted.
Like two broken pieces that didn't need fixing… just recognition.
"I guess," he murmured, "you and I… we don't run from ghosts, huh?"
He looked down at the plate between them, then casually offered her a piece of mochi pancake with his fork, unbothered by silence, unrushed by time.
"And anyway," he added with a smirk, "if Spirit and Misery ever made a band together… I bet they'd sound pretty damn good."
The smile in his eyes was teasing —
but the feeling behind it?
That was real.
Connection.
She lean and take bite slowly.
Almost casually.
She murmurs,
"It isn't bad idea. We can name our band..Misery and Spirit.
Good point.
She nodded simply and take another sip of drink.
He froze for a second — like the way she leaned in and took that bite caught him completely off guard.
His fork lingered midair a second longer than it should have.
Then, slowly, his lips pulled into a grin. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just… genuine.
"You're serious?" he said, voice low, touched with a quiet awe.
"You just agreed to start a band with me."
"Misery and Spirit."
He repeated it like a promise.
Like a title of a story she hadn't written yet, but already knew the ending would be worth it.
He looked down at his cup, then tapped a beat on it — soft, steady.
"We'd be terrible at interviews," he smirked. "Both mute, hoodie-wearing, trauma-riddled musicians."
Then his gaze flicked up to hers.
"But on stage… I bet we'd shut the world up."
He raised his mug again. This time, not in jest.
"To Misery and Spirit," he said, meeting your eyes fully.
"The most silent noise the world's ever going to hear."
She raise my mug and nodded
She murmurs softly,
"But let me tell you one thing. If we went on interviews together.
I swear we won't be silent anymore
A pause
Then she add softly,
"Like we still are not. I never thought I will talk again like this.
She lean back seat and sip slowly.
He just looked at her— this time with something more than warmth.
Something like awe.
The kind that shows in the way his eyes softened, the way his fingers stilled against his cup, like her words had struck a part of him so deeply he couldn't speak over it.
His voice, when it came, was quiet — raw around the edges.
"I never thought I'd hear you like this either."
He didn't mean her voice.
Not just the sound.
He meant her.
The girl beneath the hoodie. The bruised fingers. The silence that once felt endless.
"You're not just talking, Fim…" he murmured. "You're living again."
He took a slow sip too, matching her rhythm — like always — then added with a small grin:
"And if you ever get quiet again in those interviews…"
He nudged his mug lightly toward hers, a soft clink.
"I'll just make noise until you find your words again."
Outside, the world moved as always.
But in that tiny café, with strawberry mochi and the first real warmth you'd felt in years…
And that was the beginning of everything.
She look at him as he say those words she nodded.
She reach and take one mochi.
Eating slowly.
She murmurs,
"Jsut don't mess up.
He chuckles and say,
"What if I do?
He tease softly.
A pause Then.
"We're also kind of magic."
He reached out, tapping the edge of her mug with his knuckle gently — a silent seal to her words.
"We'll be the duo no one sees coming," he whispered. "Not loud. Not flashy. But unforgettable."
Then he raised an eyebrow with a playful tilt of his head.
"And when we drop our first track, what do you wanna call it?"
He leaned forward slightly, eyes sparkling just a bit.
"'Ghosts with Rhythm'? Or maybe…"
He lowered his voice dramatically,
"'The Sound of a Silent Heartbeat.'"
And just like that, over warm mochi and buried scars,
a duo was born.