“We could just walk down the street and get some meat,” Seungri suggests but already chewing his rice. “My treat.”

“No, thanks,” I make a face. The thought of getting another food than what’s available in YG cafeteria while the hyungs are busy, of course, had entered my mind before he even mentioned it but going down the street during lunch time to the restaurant he owns would be a trip to ten-thousand-cameras which I prefer to not having. Seungri enjoys the attention while I need to remind myself to not running as fast as possible whenever I catch someone aiming their camera on me. That’s how you could tell us apart if we ever be twins.

You’d think that after all these times, I wouldn’t squirm under the flash, my stomach wouldn’t be knotted in the crowd of our fans. Truth is that years of BIGBANG and successful solo career along with rounds of tours only added to my nervousness than easing it. The more I sing, the more I question myself at night, is this how it supposed to be?

It’s not about the fans, never at all. I love their attention, I hold onto their support, and as strange as it sounds, I like their screams. The flashing of their glowsticks as the light went dim during my performance becoming something I cling desperately onto when things got harder. They were what I constantly thought about for a week after your official departure. The following week, I didn’t have time to mourn anymore because I already had a complete set of tour I had to finish. The fans were what brought us this far, after all.

But stage after stage, it became harder to ignore the doubt in my mind. Did I smile for them, for myself, or for the sake of you? Did I do this all because I wanted to make them happy or to keep myself in a path that may somehow crossed again with yours? Did I sing to forget you or because that’s what I could do to bring you back? Was I lying to myself, to us all?

“He’ll be alright.”

I look up to see Seungri finishing his meal and is eyeing my plate. “Who?”

“Seunghyun–hyung,” he frowns. “You’re not hungry?”

“Not really,” I put down my spoon, the rice seem sad in the bowl. “Are you done?”