The adage ‘never met your heroes’ rang through my mind, along with the sudden recollection of everything I had said regarding INFINITE during the interview. Was I sincere at that time?

   Very.

   Did my sincerity cause a backlash that resulted in me wishing for the earth to swallow me whole?

   Yes.

   But, why was that?

   I let out a low groan; my knees buckled, and I sat on the floor, hands on my temples. I fixed my gaze on my boots, subconsciously counting the yellow stitching.

   “Lia, are you all right?” Joon asked, deeply concerned. The next thing I knew, all seven of them gathered around me and sat down with me.

   “We really should have told her,” I heard one of them whisper. It sounded like Myungsoo. The voice was airy. “When she got hired, we should have disclosed everything.”

   “But we had to keep everything confidential until Lia signed the NDA,” another reasoned out. It was definitely Woohyun. “Sorry, Lia. Was it too much of a shock?”

   “She’s not shocked. She’s embarrassed,” one chimed in, clearly unfazed. Sungyeol. “You’re embarrassed, righ—ow!”

   “Why are you so informal?” Sungjong scolded.

   “I was about to tell Lia not to be embarrassed,” Sungyeol shot back. “We teared up when we heard her speak, and I’m not embarrassed.”

   “Not being embarrassed is different from being shameless—”

   “Did you just call me shameless?”

   “Do you feel sick?” Dongwoo.

   “Why don’t we sit in the meeting room, and we’ll fix you up some tea?” Sunggyu.

   I could only be grateful for their graciousness. With patience, they explained everything to me. The rights to INFINITE’s name, along with the fandom name, will be transferred to them. It was already agreed with Lee Jungyeop, Woollim’s CEO, but the official paperwork won’t materialize until April—just in time for Sunggyu’s birthday.

   Sunggyu set up the company exclusively for their group’s activities. When I asked why, he said there wasn’t anything hindering them from doing just that. He said their resolve strengthened when they heard what I said during the interview. Everything was done with utmost confidentiality; even the company had to be careful with its hiring process. At this stage, they were gathering enough resources to make things work.

   Then, I asked why they opted to hire people from abroad and not locally. Surely there were already many candidates in Seoul alone to choose from.

   “We collectively decided we wanted someone from a different place,” Sunggyu replied. “A pair of fresh eyes. And we got lucky because you’re familiar with our music. Also, don’t you need it, too?”

   I looked at Sunggyu.

   “A change of pace,” he elaborated, his gaze steadily fixed on me. “I may be wrong, but that was the impression I got during your interview with Joon.”

   Dongwoo perked up. “Now that you mention it, Joon hyung sat where Sunggyu hyung’s sitting now.”

   Sungyeol’s cheeks puffed as he stifled a smirk. “It was so late in the evening here, so he just had a sharp suit on, then his pajamas at the bottom.”

   Everyone—including me—burst into laughter. At that time, I somewhat forgot about the time difference. I felt bad for the inconvenience I had caused, but Myungsoo must have picked up on that because he thanked me for giving them another happy memory to look back on.

   The six were practicing, then, but Joon stormed into the room and asked them to quiet down and listen to the interview. That was when they heard everything.

   “So by stakeholder on the job posting, you meant…” I trailed off.

   The group raised their hands. “Us,” they chorused with a smile.

   And just like that, the NDA and contract were signed. I was oriented on the day’s agendas, as well. Joon would be with me to help me process the necessities: getting a sim card, setting up a bank account, and applying for a residence card. Joon had kindly booked an appointment for me on the immigration homepage, and we were meant to go this afternoon. He said everything would be more accessible for me once I get my residence card (which may take a few weeks), but in the meantime, I could make do with the company’s card should I need to purchase things. I held my hand up and said I could still use my bank card, but Joon mentioned the conversion fees. I said I didn’t mind. We reached a compromise, with me promising to keep all the receipts and the company would reimburse everything.

   “But really,” Joon argued. “It would be way cheaper if you just use the company’s card.”

   “Most of the things I’ll buy will be personal stuff,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to use the company funds to purchase those.”

   “Fair,” he finally said, ending our discussion on the matter.

    The day was a blur, filled with paperwork and trips to different places: the bank, the little stall near the bank which sold sim cards, the Kodak shop several streets away from the office for my passport-sized photo, then back to the bank again—

   I had to focus twice as much considering I was trying to comprehend everything in my third language—if I were even fluent enough to call it that. Listening and reading were easier than speaking and writing, but I still had much to learn. A language acquired had to be practiced for the user to improve their fluency. Where would that statement apply again? Usage-based theory?

   Joon made sure that I was fed and that I had my grocery done before dropping me home. He carried all of the boxes and placed them on the kitchen floor. He checked that the intercom was working before leaving. He came and went like a storm. I quickly unpacked the things we bought, ensuring everything that belonged to the fridge went in there. I stored my noodles in a drawer and arranged the condiments in one of the hanging cupboards. I looked at the row of bottled water I had already arranged, and wondered if it would be worth investing in a water purifier. I made a mental note to look into it before dragging myself to the bathroom to take a well-deserved shower.

   My phone blew up with notifications the moment I turned it on. The messages were mostly from one person: Erid. I would consider him a constant in my life, but not necessarily my best friend. It just so happened that we were in the same place at the same time and never left each other’s respective orbit. That was it—no more, no less.

   We went to the same university, but we did different courses. He majored in Software Development while I studied English. A huge firm quickly hired him post-graduation, and I did some teaching stints here and there, only to yield and join the corporate world, as well. Teaching somehow burned me out, and I didn’t have the level of maturity at that time to understand that mundane days were normal, even in doing the things I was passionate about. I had the choice to commit, but I decided not to. Instead, I quit and applied for an office job. A quick 9-to-5 shift, where my duties ended when I left the office. I didn’t realize Erid was an employee there—not until I received a message from him via my work laptop asking what I was doing there. Like I said, I never knew much about Erid.

   We would arrange to have lunch every now and then, and he would drive me home at times. I never really knew what was happening in his mind, and he didn’t bother asking what was happening in mine. We left it at that.

Lia. Did you quit?

Yes.

Where are you now?

Korea.

Until when?

Indefinitely.

   He had seen the message, but it took him a few minutes to reply.

Are you safe?

Yes.

Erid is typing…

Erid is typing…

Erid is typing…

Erid is typing…

Okay.

Call me if you need anything.

I will.

Liar. Answer me when I call you. If you don’t, I’ll go to Korea myself.

   I exited Instagram without even bothering to respond. I pinched the bridge of my nose and wondered why I didn’t bother informing anyone about my plan. I left, just like that. I asked myself why I found it difficult to say goodbye. Was I born this way, or did I inherit it from somewhere?

   Then, I remembered how I would wake up one day as a child, and my mom wouldn’t be there. I would then find out from my aunt that she had already left for the airport, and that was an indication that I wouldn’t see her again for another two years.

   Maybe that was why.

   I was used to that situation to the point that it became the norm for me, but someone like Erid would most probably question it.

   Thank God he didn’t at that time. Not yet, anyway.

   I came to know him because we lived in the same neighborhood and therefore rode the same bus going to our respective schools. He was three years older than me, and he was tall, with a well-built frame. He had brown eyes and jet-black hair that shimmered in the sun. He had this confident, languid gait, as well. Erid seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face, making him look unapproachable.

   While my mom made me take the usual route of going to school and completing my GCSEs and A Levels, Erid took a vocational course that would be equivalent to what I did. He did so because it gave him more flexibility, considering he worked early shifts and would attend evening classes.

   I shortly learned from my mom that Erid lived alone, but his parents were still in Belfast. It was a foreign concept to me, considering Filipino families usually stay together. All those years of knowing him, and I never had the gall to ask why he lived away from his parents at such a young age. And yet, I itched to know how he did it.