I did not disappear.
I simply paused—somewhere in between. Between air and light, between sound and silence.
Like a thread caught between frames of old film, still flickering, even though the movie had ended.
My body, if it could even be called a body, had become transparent, like breath on glass.
I felt no pain, no longing—only a quiet, elusive balance.
The kind of feeling a raindrop experiences in the instant before it falls into the sea.
This was my last moment, and I knew: I had chosen it myself.
I was allowed to linger.
I was allowed to witness the life I loved continue moving—without me.
***
Do-yun stood by the piano.
His shoulders trembled slightly, not from fear—but from anticipation. From the realization that he no longer needed to hide.
Min-seo stood beside him. In his eyes—fatigue, but also care. He did not reach forward, did not impose closeness. He simply existed beside him—and that said everything.
I watched them, like a man finally releasing his breath after a long dive underwater.
So quietly that even eternity would not notice.
— Please, — Do-yun said.
The word was not a request. It was a blessing.
An invitation to live.
— I am here, — Min-seo replied.
In those two words, there was no drama. Only acceptance.
I felt everything inside me freeze, as if time itself held its breath, afraid to interrupt their dialogue.
***
They did not touch lips, nor speak loud words. Their gestures were restrained, almost shy.
Yet between their palms, there was no less warmth than between hearts.
I saw Do-yun smile for the first time in so long. Truly. Not out of politeness, not out of habit.
The smile came from within.
A laugh—soft, husky, like a string creaking—escaped him unexpectedly.
I froze.
That sound was like a crack in the wall between worlds.
He was alive.
The living is always stronger than the dead.
And I felt my body—or rather, my existence—begin to dissolve under the force of life.
It was not painful. It was right.
***
Min-seo was the first to understand what was happening.
He turned sharply. His gaze darted to my corner—where the air vibrated with a faint shimmer.
He saw me fading.
— Do-yun, — he said, a little louder than usual, as if to hide the tremor in his voice. — You need to finish what you started.
— What? — Do-yun looked at him questioningly.
— The score. The one you've been hiding. Finish it.
Silence.
Then—a soft exhale.
— Why? — Do-yun asked.
— Because Cheon-woo would have wanted it, — Min-seo replied quietly. — He wanted you to complete your circle.
I smiled. He remembered. He understood.
And now he spoke for me.
— I will finish it, — Do-yun said. — But… only if you stay by my side.
— I will stay. Always, — Min-seo said.
And in that moment, I realized I was no longer needed.
I had been the bridge they crossed from darkness into light. And now no one walked that bridge anymore.
My role was complete.
My love had fulfilled its purpose.
***
I looked at the table where Min-seo's camera rested.
It sat silently, like a forgotten witness.
And suddenly I remembered: it was the same camera that once caught my gaze.
My last living portrait—not a photograph, but a promise.
And now I wanted it to capture my end.
Not as a tragedy—but as a conclusion.
I gathered all the energy I had left into a single point.
The camera trembled. The lens turned on its own. A click, soft as a sigh.
The focus settled on the empty space in front of the wall.
My space.
Min-seo froze. He felt the cold—that same cold that comes not from wind, but from presence.
He took the camera in his hands.
And looked through the lens.
We met.
Not with eyes—but deeper.
Everything I had left unsaid in life, I poured into that gaze.
He saw me.
The way I wanted to be seen: not as a ghost, not as regret, but as a person who simply loved.
I smiled.
— Goodbye, Min-seo. Thank you. Now I can go.
His lips trembled. He did not answer with words—only closed his eyes and let the tears fall.
Not grief. Release.
Do-yun approached, hugged him, resting his head on his shoulder.
— What happened? — he asked softly.
— Nothing, — Min-seo replied. — Just… time to let go.
And I understood: they had done it.
They had let go.
***
The studio was filled with soft sunset light.
Dust danced in the beams like tiny particles of music.
The piano stood open, the keys trembling slightly from the air.
I took a step. Then another.
The air passed through me, but for a moment I felt its density, as if the world were saying goodbye.
— Thank you, — I whispered.
— For everything.
My last breath was like a scattered chord, lingering in the air long after the strings had fallen silent.
I did not fall. I did not vanish. I simply dissolved—like morning mist in a sunbeam.
I saw them embracing.
Saw that there was no longer guilt in their eyes.
I felt only one thing: peace.
— I love you, Do-yun. Live.
The light passed gently through me.
Not blinding, not heavenly—but human.
The color of ash and sun.
I became it.
They no longer saw me.
But perhaps, sometimes, when a beam of light hits an old photo in the studio, or when Do-yun touches the keys and the sound trembles — then somewhere between sound and silence, my reflection flickers.
Not to remind them of me.
But to affirm: nothing was in vain.
______________________
"Some remain not for memory, but to make sure that others have learned to live without them."