“I’m Jongin,” he greets, hands outstretched for a handshake.

The woman looks at his fingers—dust-covered and caked with dried flour, wrinkled skin and bony flesh. She shakes her head and walks away.

And Jongin shrugs, as usual, picking at the loose strings of his apron and fiddling with sweaty clumps of his hazelnut hair.

He closes up shop early today, because there are no customers (besides the occasional snide woman, of course) and because it is a clear night.

Jongin sweeps away the dirt and grime off his clothes as he heads out with his old umbrella for support. There is a limp in his gait now, inevitable from the hours he used spend dancing with injured knees, ankles, muscles.

It is the rare moment of full moon and silent night—frisky clouds and heavy air. Jongin lights a cigarette under the scathing cold; the ambience of murky air runs deep with the remains of winter chatter, Christmas carols, every word, every exhale, every laugh.

And Jongin can’t help but wonder why he is thirty-eight and running down empty streets on a Christmas night—soulless, loveless, lifeless.

He finds it sad that nobody remembers—nobody remembers the glitter outfits and precise choreography that he had spent reckless hours perfecting, the frizzled members after an endless night of concerts and interviews and promotions, the loud cheers, the bright lights, the twelve boys who eventually grew up.

Maybe they were never really brothers, just scripted hosts bound together by words of a contract and a business dream (reality). Maybe promises at the time were merely rehearsed practices of every idol—“we’re brothers till the end”, “we’ll support each other forever”, “we will never stop dreaming”.

Oh, how untrue. Jongin stopped the nonsense of dreaming a long time ago—when EXO disbanded and became a mere memory at the distance.

Jongin laughs at how inept they were at keeping promises and remembering each other, how easy it was for everyone to lie their way into each other’s hearts, and how they all really knew. They knew there was no more than company brand named EXO and a fellow acquaintanceship. And yet, Jongin had somewhat hoped for a form of communication, any form of communication with any member. Maybe a brisk ‘hello’ or an insincere ‘how are you doing?’ Anything to keep him from forgetting his once youthful antics spent under the SM roof.

With no ties whatsoever, Jongin can’t help but to wonder if the other members are doing fine. If Luhan had continued his soccer trainings back at Beijing. If Xiumin was eating well again. If Baekhyun and Chanyeol, in all their silly craziness, ever became famous actors in America.

If Kyungsoo ever got better.

Jongin stops in his tracks when he reaches the end of a beaten-down street corner. He stands by one of those dusty walls—the ones where they roll paper adverts over. And his fingers skim over long lines and tiles of cheap gaudy posters for barely-known artists.

And buried under piles of graffiti and worn-out papers, he finally finds the one marked with all their signatures (nobody referred to them as autographs anymore). Faded and colours smudged away with time, scratch marks, corners tucking in, strips torn off, but still there.

And Jongin smiles because it is still there.

The twelve faces, no smiles because the photographers thought they were uncool, extravagant outfits to match their flawless faces, touched up by the best make-up artists the company could afford, the colourful hairstyles with matching leather jackets—EXO.

And the little girl walking down the streets may not understand, the group of drunken teens making their way past him may not understand, the man leaning on his motorcycle nearby may not understand, but Jongin does. He knows what these posters were once for and he is staring at them so intently. With precise focus that burns down every single detail he can find—a twinkle in someone’s eyes, a smirk in someone’s smile, a laugh in someone’s lips.

And Jongin thinks, maybe the day they parted ways on a cold Christmas night ten years ago—maybe that day was the best day of their lives. And though he misses his time with EXO, there is something almost magical about it having to end. Because in photos and memories, they will always be the same—twelve pristine boys who never grew up. In those moments, they will never age and Jongin thinks, maybe that’s cool.

Maybe it’s cool that time had to pass and dreams had to end.

Maybe it’s cool that his brothers found new dreams and new memories to hold.

Jongin looks up at the full moon and wonders if somewhere, someone is looking up at that moon too.