Usually the docile tones of a keytar paired with the sultry voice of Benjamin Orr was comforting to you as it wafted down the steps and into your kitchen. Your mind would preoccupy itself with imaginary music video scenes as your feet carried you around the island in an uncoordinated fashion. Usually the soft lyrics would be mumbled into your stirring spoon microphone and your reflection in the hanging pots and pans would mock that of a camera’s lense, filming your makeshift stage. Then again, on a usual occurrence the same song wasn’t blasted thirty times in a row from your boyfriend’s sound system.

“You can’t go on.”

    It’s not to say that “The Cars” aren’t one of your favorite groups of the 1980’s, but the same song so many times in a row? That even seemed excessive to a groupie like you. You wondered if Jiyong had fallen asleep at his desk, the album left on repeat to lull him to sleep. Your partner didn’t get too many chances to rest these days and, had it not been for your increasingly busy hands, the endless repetition of such a slow song would’ve had you ready to face plant into the boiling stew resting on your stove top.

“Thinking nothing’s wrong.”

    The thought of him relaxing just beyond the closed door of his office relieved you, brought a smile to your face despite the monotony of having to hear the same few verses over and over again. In retrospect, “Drive” was not only one of the slower songs the new wave group had produced, but also one of the saddest. Speaking of moments when comfort is needed the most, and asking in echo who would be there for you when times are tough. You remember visiting the song throughout your life, whenever the weight of life seemed to be far too heavy for your body to bear, You smile sadly at the memories of when you’d lock yourself in your room, crying your eyes out and blaring this very same song...on repeat.

    Realization dawns on you as if a bolt of lightning has crashed through your system. Your stirring spoon has been lost to the bottom of your scorching saucepan, and your feet move you up the stairs with more grace and momentum then your body had expressed in years. Your heart is now offbeat with the metallic sounds seeping through the cracks in the door frame and the loud bang of the doorknob against the wall in the barren hallway startles a distraught Kwon Jiyong out of his stupor. Your eyes meet that of tearstained auburn, shaking hands clasped around an ever buzzing iPhone, and a sea of crumpled papers lining the otherwise hardwood floors.

He’s quick to wipe at his reddened cheeks and turn away from your figure, choosing to stare at a blank computer screen rather then show you a moment of weakness. It’s clear to you, however, that the pressures of his life had crept up on him and crippled his incredible ability to create. His phone bubbling up with pressures from YG himself and attention starved VIPs, his body wracked with sobs at the feeling of letting those who matter most to him down, and his mind a torrent of unrelenting questions in a vulnerable time. He’s a man  who carries the world on his shoulders, and at this moment in time it's all falling down around him.

Nimble feet sweep through mounds of wrinkled notebook paper and gentle hands caress flush cheeks.

Desperate arms reach out to circle your waist and tears soak through the soft material of your t shirt.

Bangs are pushed away from damp eyes and soft kisses are planted to the crown of his head with tender whispers as the chorus to the song resounds from the loudspeakers one last time.

“Who’s gonna drive you home, tonight?”

    “Baby? Pull over. Let me drive for awhile.”