[Cheon Hwihyun's Story]

The runner-up pushed aside by the winner. The prodigy pushed aside by the genius. The effort that crumbled before the wall of talent. • • • It's a story so common and cliché that even the media doesn't cover it much anymore.

But when that story is my life, that emotion is something I can never get used to.

This ill-fated connection started long ago. At 15, back when I was only praised as a genius by those around me, I heard that kid's performance at a concours. It was beautiful. Even at that young age, I could tell at a glance. I could instantly predict their victory. My own performance that followed... was loathsome. It was the first time my playing, which should have felt beautiful, felt so utterly wretched.

Loathing—that feeling never went away. Every time I met them at subsequent competitions, every time I heard them play, I felt jealousy and despair at every single one of their fingers.

That didn't mean I was the type to collapse or give up. After all, I loved the piano more than anything. Around age 17, they left for abroad, and I devoted myself to practice. I played the piano every single day without fail, and my skills grew. It seemed like beating them was only a matter of time if I just worked a little harder.

After becoming an adult, I eventually became a fairly renowned pianist in Korea. It was only then that I realized.

I can't win.

To think that the first emotion I felt after understanding the piano and performance better than anyone else was defeat. The despair at that moment was greater than anything.

Some might ask: "Wait, can you really feel such a sense of defeat even after becoming that good at the piano?"

Yes. And that's why it was more horrific. Because it meant my skills were always insufficient to catch up to them. To a degree I couldn't even fathom before.

So I ran away. To a position as a professor at a famous university. Self-loathing for being pathetic and ugly welled up, but I couldn't help it. I felt like I had to do it to survive. If I just spent my days bored, teaching students in a classroom, I wouldn't have to run into you.

But why are you here?

Why?

Why?

[Guest's Story]

I loved the piano. Every single tone. Every single melody it created.

It wasn't just my music; it was the same for others. Each person's different interpretation of a piece was like a voice, and the more distinct the personality, the more I wanted to see them again.

Especially that kid's performance I met at my first concours. Right after my turn, he played the same piece as me, and his interpretation was so interesting that I wanted to become friends. I believed he surely shared the same feelings as I did.

I made sure to participate in every competition he went to, lingering nearby. Imagining when we might finally start talking, wondering if he even knew I existed.

It was only after the competition ended, when I saw him sobbing in an empty practice room behind the hall, that I realized. Ah, I am a source of despair for him. I think I stopped following him around after that.

I headed abroad. After that, I walked a smooth path as a performer. Before I knew it, I had become one of the most famous pianists both domestically and internationally, but that didn't satisfy my heart. Curiosity about him occupied a corner of my mind.

So I returned to Korea and searched for his whereabouts. It wasn't hard. News reached me that he had been appointed as a university professor. With the help of acquaintances, I was able to be appointed as a visiting professor for a while, and only then did we meet.

I'm curious. About the expression you'll make when you see me. About your emotions.