I Used My Secret Korean Lesson To Confess To My Bandmate

The air in the studio was the same—cool, dry, and smelling faintly of electronics and stale coffee—but it felt foreign. Felix had only been in Australia for a few weeks, but reentry into the relentless pace of Seoul, of their life, was like plunging into icy water. The jet lag clung to him, a heavy shroud that dulled his senses and slowed his thoughts. He sat at the production desk between Chan and Changbin, trying to anchor himself in the familiar rhythm of their work.

It wasn't working.

Chan and Changbin were a whirlwind of creative energy, their Korean flying back and forth so quickly it was a blur of sound. They were dissecting a new beat, arguing playfully over a synth progression, their words sharp and precise. Felix understood the individual words, but the speed, the slang, the sheer momentum of the conversation left him grasping at fragments. It was like listening to a song with every other beat missing. He felt a familiar, sinking feeling in his stomach—the static in his head growing louder than their voices.

He needed to contribute, to prove he hadn't lost his place while he was gone. He leaned forward, trying to catch the thread of their discussion. They were talking about the bridge, about making it more impactful. An idea sparked, a memory of a sound he’d heard on a local Sydney radio station.

“What if we strip it back there?” Felix offered, his own voice sounding thick and slow to his ears. “Just a simple piano melody, really sparse. Let the vocals carry it.”

The rapid-fire conversation stopped. Dead.

The silence that followed was immense, echoing in the soundproofed room. Felix’s skin prickled with heat. Chan turned to him, his expression patient but slightly confused. “The vocals? Lix, we were just talking about adding a heavier bass drop after the second verse.”

Oh. He’d completely misread the direction of the conversation. He’d jumped in two steps behind everyone else. The heat in his cheeks intensified, a painful burn that he was sure was visible to them both. He could feel Changbin’s eyes on him from his other side, a quiet, assessing gaze that made him want to shrink into his hoodie.

“Ah, right. Sorry,” Felix mumbled, pulling his sleeves over his hands and staring down at the mixing board. He didn't dare look at either of them. The silence stretched for another beat before Chan, ever the leader, cleared his throat and seamlessly picked the conversation back up, steering it back on course. The words flowed around Felix again, but now he didn't even try to follow. He just sat there, encased in his own awkward quiet, the static in his head roaring.

Hours later, the sting of his earlier misstep had faded to a dull ache, but the anxiety remained, coiled tight in his stomach. It followed him into the recording booth, the enclosed space suddenly feeling suffocating. Through the glass, he could see the producer at the main console, his expression already strained. The other members were scattered on the couch behind him, offering encouraging smiles that felt a million miles away.

“Alright, Felix. From the top of the verse,” the producer’s voice crackled in his headphones, impersonal and clipped.

Felix took a breath, trying to steady himself. The lyrics were on the stand in front of him, but he knew them by heart. The problem wasn’t memory; it was his mouth, his tongue, which felt thick and uncooperative. He started the line, his voice smooth until he reached the phrase. It was a string of complex consonants and nuanced vowels that required a specific flow he just couldn't find. The words came out clunky, the rhythm broken.

“Again,” the producer said instantly, cutting him off.

Felix clenched his jaw and tried again. The same result. The sounds were wrong, mangled. He could feel the frustration building into a hot pressure behind his eyes.

“You’re rushing it. And the pronunciation is off. Again.”

On the third try, his voice cracked with frustration. On the fourth, he stumbled so badly he just stopped, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. A wave of humiliation washed over him. He was a professional. He’d recorded hundreds of songs. Why did it suddenly feel like his first day as a trainee?

“Felix, we don’t have all night,” the producer sighed, the impatience sharp and clear even through the headphones.

Felix’s throat felt tight. He looked through the glass, his gaze sweeping past the others, past the producer, and landing on Changbin. Changbin had been sitting quietly in the corner, but now he leaned forward, pushing the talk-back button on the console in front of him.

His voice, when it came through Felix’s headphones, was the opposite of the producer’s. It was low and calm. “Yongbok-ah,” he said softly, using his Korean name. “Relax your jaw. You’re too tense. For the word ‘seuchyeoganeun,’ don’t hit the ‘s’ so hard. Let it breathe. Think of it less like a sharp sound and more like air passing through.” He demonstrated, the word flowing from him with an easy, fluid grace that made it sound simple.

Felix let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes and focusing only on the memory of Changbin’s voice. Let it breathe. He nodded once, a signal he was ready. He took a deep, centering breath, pictured the sound, and sang the line.

It was perfect. The phrase rolled off his tongue effortlessly, the inflection and emotion finally clicking into place.

“Fine. That’s it,” the producer grunted, already cueing up the next section.

The relief that flooded Felix was so potent it made him feel light-headed. He looked up, his eyes immediately finding Changbin’s. The producer was focused on the screen and the other members were chattering amongst themselves, but Changbin was looking right at him. He offered a small, private smile, one that was just for Felix. It was a quiet acknowledgement, a simple gesture of reassurance that said, I see you. You got this. It landed in Felix’s chest like a warm, settling weight, chasing away the last of the icy humiliation. He held Changbin’s gaze for a second longer, the noise of the studio fading away until it was just the two of them, connected by that small, significant smile.

By the time the last of the members had packed up and drifted out, their cheerful goodbyes echoing down the hall, Felix was running on fumes. The energy from nailing the line had long since dissipated, leaving behind the familiar, heavy exhaustion of jet lag mixed with a sharp-edged sense of inadequacy. He couldn’t bring himself to leave yet. The thought of going back to the dorm, of facing the quiet of his room where his own thoughts would be too loud, was unbearable.

He found himself in one of the smaller dance practice rooms, the ones with floor-to-ceiling mirrors on two walls. The lights were on, stark and unforgiving, reflecting a version of himself he didn't recognize—shoulders slumped, hoodie pulled up, face pale with fatigue. He stood in the center of the vast, empty floor, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos that had filled his day.

Facing his own reflection, he began to practice. Not dance moves, but words. He watched his mouth in the mirror, trying to force it into the correct shapes.

“Seuchyeoganeun,” he whispered, the sound barely disturbing the air. It was better than it had been in the booth, but it still lacked the effortless flow Changbin had demonstrated. He tried again, focusing on relaxing his jaw, on letting the sound breathe. The word came out slightly better, but still felt foreign on his tongue. He moved on to other words, phrases he’d missed in the meeting, his voice a low, frustrated murmur. He watched the stranger in the mirror struggle, a flicker of self-loathing twisting in his gut.

He was so absorbed in his silent, punishing recitation that he didn’t hear the door push open.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Felix flinched, his head snapping toward the sound. Changbin stood in the doorway, his gym bag slung over one shoulder. He wasn’t smiling, and his expression held no trace of pity. His gaze was steady, direct, taking in the scene without judgment.

A hot flush of embarrassment crept up Felix’s neck. He was caught. Caught in his most vulnerable, insecure moment. “Oh. Hey, hyung. Just… running through some things.” He tried for a casual tone, but his voice was thin.

Changbin walked into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft click. The sound seemed to seal them inside, separating them from the rest of the world. He stopped a few feet away, his presence filling the space.

“Your pronunciation is fine, Yongbok,” Changbin said, his voice even. It wasn’t a platitude; it was a statement of fact. “It’s your confidence that’s shaky. You’re overthinking it.”

Felix dropped his gaze to the floor, unable to argue.

“The studios are all empty now,” Changbin continued, his tone practical, as if he were suggesting a new beat arrangement. “My studio is quiet. No producers, no one else listening. No pressure. We can just… go over things. If you want.”

Felix’s head came up. He searched Changbin’s face for any sign that this was a chore, a burden. He found none. There was only a quiet sincerity, a straightforward offer of help that had nothing to do with making him feel small. The idea of it—a quiet room, just Changbin’s patient voice, the freedom to fail without an audience—was a lifeline.

He swallowed, the tightness in his throat finally beginning to ease. “Okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Okay.”