I stared at the restraining order as if it were a death certificate.
Not because I feared prison —
but because it confirmed the thing we'd been avoiding since the beginning:
This wasn't just about us anymore.
---
The picture…
The red line across our kiss…
It wasn't just a threat.
It was a warning:
> "We control the narrative."
---
He wanted to burn the envelope.
I stopped him.
> "If they're showing us this, it means they still think we can be scared."
> "Aren't you?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
Because the truth was —
yes.
But I was also angry.
And anger was louder.
---
We went underground.
Left our names behind.
Our phones.
Our passwords.
Even our music accounts.
For three days, we disappeared.
But the world didn't.
---
On the fourth day, the agency held a press conference.
Words like "defamation."
"Fabricated narrative."
"Disturbed artist."
"Regretful separation."
They never said our names.
But their shadows covered everything we ever made.
---
Miyeon sent me a voice message.
Crying.
> "They canceled my album.
My label said I'm 'too connected to chaos now.'
I'm so sorry…"
I cried too.
But not out of guilt.
Out of fury.
---
That night, he and I sat on the roof of an old hostel.
Just us, a guitar, and a city pretending not to notice.
> "Do you regret it?" he asked.
I looked at the stars.
> "No.
But I hate that truth costs so much."
---
Then he did something I didn't expect.
He pulled out his notebook — the old one, leather-bound, full of lyrics he never finished.
He handed it to me.
> "If something happens to me… these are yours."
My blood ran cold.
> "Don't say that."
> "I'm not giving up.
I'm preparing.
There's a difference."
---
We didn't kiss that night.
We just leaned against each other,
like two people trying to hold onto a raft in a storm that kept naming itself "justice."
---
The next morning, our documentary dropped.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Full of studio tapes, handwritten letters, tearful interviews.
And it ended with us.
Side by side.
No makeup.
No masks.
Just two people asking the world:
> "What is the price of silence?
And who profits when artists bleed?"
---
It exploded.
More than we expected.
Millions watched.
Millions debated.
But one person didn't stay silent.
Chairman Seo.
He released a personal video.
Calm.
Cold.
Cruel.
> "They wanted attention.
They've caused emotional harm to staff, trainees, and families.
We will pursue full legal action.
Let this be a warning to others."
---
And then…
they leaked our past.
Private photos.
Texts taken out of context.
Studio footage edited to show us fighting — not healing.
Suddenly, we weren't victims.
We were unstable lovers.
"Disgraced idols."
"Dangerous romantics."
---
Joon vanished.
Miyeon posted a goodbye to the music scene.
Fan pages were shut down.
And I—
I watched him crumble in front of me.
> "I thought I was ready," he said.
"But I didn't know it would kill everything."
He looked at me with eyes that no longer held belief.
> "Maybe… I was the mistake."
---
And then he left.
One bag.
No goodbye.
Just a song on the table:
> "If I vanish again,
it's not to leave you.
It's to make sure you don't have to vanish too."
---
I didn't chase him.
Not this time.
I screamed into a microphone instead.
I recorded the final track on the EP alone.
A scream turned into melody.
A cry turned into percussion.
Pain turned into power.
---
And in the final verse, I whispered:
> "If you're still listening…
I didn't save you.
But I kept your song alive."