"To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves."
— Federico García Lorca

I first heard that demo on a soft, rainy afternoon.

The first time — to check the audio quality.
The second — to double-check the lyrics.
The third... was just to hear your voice.
After that, I had no more excuses.
I simply... couldn't stop.

⸻

The sound filtered through paper-thin studio walls, blending with the soft whir of the AC.
Still, it was clear enough for me to realize:
You were singing about someone who wasn't me.

Maybe someone you met last week at the bar.
Someone who kissed you in the basement parking lot.
Someone who made you laugh all morning today.

I didn't ask.
I never do.

I just sat quietly behind the wooden door,
headphones on,
playing your raw recordings —

listening as if I were the one you loved.

⸻

The guitar was gentle, like rain falling through midnight.

Your voice — raspy, trembling — carried the weight of a love too brief to be deep,
but heavy enough to become a song.

I knew you were writing for someone else.
Of course I did.
It was that voice again —
the one that only came out when you'd let someone slip through a half-open door.
Not painful enough to scar.
Not quiet enough to forget.

You write fast.
You love even faster.
And you forget... even faster than that.

⸻

I sat behind the soundproof glass.
No one could see me.
No one could hear my shallow breath when the chorus hit.
No one knew how my hands shook when you whispered the final line:

"I'd kiss you in every lifetime, even if you never stayed."

⸻

The song was unfairly gentle.
Your voice — hoarse and honeyed — poured like syrup over a wound that would never close.

I knew I shouldn't be jealous.
I had no right.

I was just the manager.
My job was to arrange your schedule,
make sure you showed up on time,
monitor the quality of your music.

Not to be the one you wrote music for.

And yet, in the exact moment you whispered the end of that chorus,
something burst in my throat.
Not a sob.
Not a tear.
But a tightness —
as if thorns had begun blooming in my chest.

I stood up, staggering to the restroom.
Each step felt like nails underfoot.

I leaned over the sink and coughed.
First — air.
Then — blood.
And then... a petal.

Thin.
Purple.
A carnation.

It wasn't soaked in blood like a horror story.
It was dry, clean, and strangely beautiful.
As if it had been there for a long time —
just waiting for you to sing with enough sorrow to finally bloom.

It lay still in my palm,
like a secret finally revealed,
and I no longer knew where to hide it.

⸻

I had read about Hanahaki disease in fictional articles.
They said it was a curse for the unrequited.
Love that never found a home would turn into flowers,
root itself in your lungs,
breathe through your blood,
and die in silence.

I used to think that was ridiculous.
If you love, you love.
If not, move on.
Why would anyone let themselves die just because they weren't loved back?

But when I saw that petal trembling in my hand —
I understood.

It wasn't that I wanted to die.
I just didn't know how to live without loving you.

⸻

For a second, I thought about seeing a doctor.
But then... I washed the sink.
Pressed the petal into the first page of my notebook.
Closed it.

Pressed it the way people press memories into their hearts —
quietly,
reverently,
with no label, no annotation, no name.

Because if this love could never be returned,
at least I could archive every ache in my chest
the same way you archived every fleeting love in song.

I was still your manager.
Still fixing your schedule,
still prepping your mic,
still ordering takeout the way you liked.

Still walking beside you, day after day,
as if the person who had just coughed up physical proof of loving you too much to survive...
wasn't me.

⸻

Someone once asked,

"When did you fall in love with Gawin?"

I didn't have an answer.

Maybe it was the first time you smiled and called me dear friend.
Maybe it was when you held someone else's hand right in front of me,
and still turned to ask,

"Do you think he suits me?"

Maybe it was the first time I heard you sing —
a song for someone else,
but one I pretended was written for me.

⸻

I imagined you in the studio —
headphones on,
guitar in hand,
scribbling lyrics after a night of crying over someone who didn't love you anymore.

I listened to that demo twelve times that night.
And each time,
I stopped at the same line.

⸻

[Lyric Excerpt — "Midnight Wine"]
If I met you again in another sky,
Would you still taste like midnight wine?
I'd kiss you in every lifetime,
Even if you never stayed.

I don't need your forever—
Just the breath between two goodbyes.

⸻

I don't know who you wrote it for.
But I know one thing for sure—
you never wrote it for me.

⸻