A/N:  Think of this AU as Downton Abbey meets the modern world, like Gotham, only with the 1920s, instead of the 1940s.

And I remember your eyes were so bright

When I first I met you, so in love that night

And now I'm kissing your tears goodnight

And I can't take it, you're even perfect when you cry

Beautiful goodbye, 

It's dripping from your eyes  

Your beautiful goodbye  

It's dripping from your eyes 

All the pain you try to hide

Shows through your mascara lines as they stream down from your eyes

And let 'em go, let 'em fly

Holding back won't turn back time

Believe me, I've tried

Looking outside the train’s window, you gazed listlessly at golden brown fields dying in the autumn sun as you slowly rumbled by, an ant inside a belching, narcissistic machine in an oversized world.  You were on your way to a group date with your friends, who had set you up with a man that you had never met, and you felt…

Nothing. 

No, not nothing, you felt the way that you always felt, of late. 

Like an imposter. 

Mindlessly, compulsively, you smoothed the already flawless midnight-blue silk  of the charming little 1940s style number that you had decided to wear. Neatly darted and tucked, ruched, and bias-cut, it looked straight from one of the mid-20th century fashion houses—Balenciaga, Balmain, Schiaperelli.  Only you knew that it was nothing more than a repurposed length of wedding dress silk that you had thrifted and dyed yourself—cut and cunningly sewn. 

Like a halmoni’s fingers over the rosary, your mind worried over your performance tonight.  Your friends were kind-- inviting, generous, and playful—but in reality, you knew that they were out of your league.  With their natural, easy dance from subject to ever loftier subject—from politics, to art, to world events, every bon mot that fell from their mouths drove another nail into the coffin of your feelings of inadequacy. 

You could keep up—oh, no, that was not a problem; you had studied, and practiced, and polished, and perfected until you seemed as glittering and erudite as any of them—but you knew the truth.  Names, thoughts, words, phrases that came to them as easily as sparks flying upward, were the products of years of struggle for you—of nights staying up past midnight, poring over books and articles, watching hours of just the right things to perfect yourself.  What, for them, came from good breeding and privilege, for you came from years of practicing just the right accent, the right posture, the proper thoughts, opinions, and turns of phrase to appear just so.

With your eye, you could tell a real gem from paste, quality silk from mass produced dross, superior, well-tooled designer leather from even the finest imitation.  Through years of an almost craven need for self-improvement, you could speak Japanese, Mandarin, French, and English, as well as your native Korean (but only in the smoothest of native Seoulite tones).  You could sing (only classical), you could play (both the violin and the piano), and at home you ate nothing but steamed leafy greens to guarantee that you stayed a socially desirable 40 kg.

Lasik ensured that you only had to wear glasses when it was fashionable, YouTube taught you how to do your own nails, keep your hair silky straight and sleek, and perfect your—thankfully—already conventionally attractive face with makeup.  Most of any excess income not carefully saved and invested went toward skin care clinics, and the vast array of pharmaceutical bottles on your nightstand—tretinoin to promote collagen and fight blemishes, bimatoprost to lengthen and thicken your lashes, injectable glutathione to ensure that your skin was as pale and poreless as white rice cake.

You were an idol of your own making, perfect and--not just acceptable, but enviable-- accomplished, and connected, and you were terrified.

Ceaselessly.  Relentlessly. Perpetually. 

You lived in constant fear of saying the wrong thing, of making the wrong decision, of failure, of showing your roots.  A never ending ravening horror of being exposed for what you really were—trailer trash from Busan, the product of a tragically beautiful mother, and a rich, married father whose name you didn’t even know.

If the society into which you had inserted yourself—first by gaining a scholarship to Seoul university, then by slowly, unobtrusively modeling yourself after the legacies that littered the campus there, and finally by attaining a well-paid position in a hagwon—ever found out about you, about what you are…

Your mind shuttered.  You couldn’t think about that.  You wouldn’t let yourself. Tonight, you were supposed to sparkle, and you couldn’t afford to ruin the evening due to falling into the voracious maw of neurotic self-doubt. 

A lonely whistle announced the arrival of the train at the station, and you clutched your purse, straightened your spine, and lifted your chin, as you waited for the other patrons to debark.  It wouldn’t do to seem rushed, to be seen as coming out in a crowd with the masses. 

A tap on your window caught your attention, and you turned to see an excited Chanyeol and Baekhyun, waving carelessly at you while Sunah and Jiwon bounced enthusiastically behind them.  Slipping on your practiced smile, you lifted your hand in greeting, before pointing to indicate that you were coming.