The First Time in A Long Time I’m Not in Korea 

“Thunder,” I answer the phone with a huff. I’ve just landed, and out of spite, I’ve gone back to American roots in my dialect. I need some serious time away from Korea.

“Did you get in okay? Have your bags? Know where you’re going?”

“Dude, this is New Orleans, not Paris. Calm your nerves, I’ve been here before.” I notice, my voice is deeper, my tone snarkier.

“Okay. I love you. Be careful.” He doesn’t sound bothered.

“Bye.”

He hears what I don’t—can’t, say.

It took Cheondung twenty minutes of persuasion when I called Rain to get him to consent. I’m allowed a month here, and although it isn’t home, it isn’t South Korea, either.

I didn’t go back for my stuff; I went shopping. I told him I didn’t want to step foot in the apartment for a while, and he gave me ₩109,000 to buy a few (very cheap) outfits. He gave me about the equivalent of $900,000 in won and rented me a condo.

I promised him I would pay him back three times over when I debuted.

It took forever to get here, and the other members are aware, but none have my cell phone number and therefore have not contacted me. Isn’t it strange; I lived with them for three months yet none of them had my number—and the only reason Cheondung does is because he threatened to come to America with me if I didn’t give it to him.

Regardless, I’m happy about the lack of communication now.

For a second I just stand there, in the cold airport air, and feel the world around me move at a speed I’m unable to keep up with.

I wonder about Sora. That’s all I’ve done for the past 27 hours since I left. Even in my dreams, I pictured her every time I slept. She was always different, sometimes blonde, sometimes short haired, other times she had black hair that hung to the small of her back. One time she looked like BoA.

Someone shoves me from the side, and I look over to see a rushing guy, in his late thirties in a business suit, glance back and say, “Excuse me.”

Guess that’s my cue.

I weave my way through the people, and contemplate stopping in a couple of the stores, but finally decide against it.

I catch a cab, slipping the man, on his Bluetooth, the address of my hotel before sitting back and resting.

For sitting on a plane for 27 hours, I’m exhausted. My body is seriously jetlagged, but I’m ignoring it. I’m sick of dreaming about her.

It takes almost an hour to reach the condo, but I discovered that that’s because it’s pretty far. However, the driver doesn’t seem to mind and continues on with his conversation with his (very pissed off, apparently) wife.

He tells his wife to hold on while he gets out and helps me with my suitcase. I hand him the money, tipping generously. He smiles big, and says,“Have a good one, ma’am.”

I’ll try.

I smile, thank him, and walk a few flights of stairs to find my place.

It’s bigger than the dorm, which actually doesn’t surprise me. It’s nice than the dorm, and it has better furniture. The temperature feels like it is set to 50 degress (Fahrenheit) though, because I’m freezing my off the second I walk in.

I fumble around, evaluating. When you walk in, you’re faced with a hallway. To the right there is a kitchen and living room, and a door to the right which I’m assuming leads to the master bedroom, and big French doors leading out to a pool in the middle of all the condos. Turning to the left, you walk straight for a bit then take a right to another hall, where there are two doors on the right—the second bedroom and bathroom—and big closets on the left. All the way at the end of the hall is a big sliding glass door, leading out to a balcony.

I would’ve been happy with a motel that didn’t have roaches, sheesh.

As if he can hear me disagreeing with the extremely special treatment, Sunbae calls. “Yo,” I answer.

He’s speaking in Korean, commanding. “You may be in America, but don’t forget where you call home now. Try that again.”

He’s right. I don’t need to be an . “Sorry, Sunbae. I will answer correctly next time. Is everything okay?”

He sighs. “Isn’t that what I should be asking you? You haven’t told me anything. What’s going on, Lucy?”

My turn to sigh. “I can’t talk about it. I just need to get over it. Any luck on finding another girl?”

Despite being dissed, he answers, “No. I’m flying out to California in a few weeks, so maybe I’ll get lucky then.”

“Good luck,” I say, ending the call after small goodbyes.

I sigh, lean my forehead against the glass window. What am I doing with my life, really? Trying to become a pop star, falling in love with Lee Joon, practicing a million hours a day, and then running away from all this because I made a mistake?

I’ve become my mother.

Well, that .

But then I walk out to the balcony and lean against the railing. The city is loud and the air smells weird, people are playing loud music and in the distance I can see some teenagers skateboarding around a Capital One. And instead of feeling alienated by these things so foreign, I smile and embrace them, knowing that’s pretty much what I have to do with my life from now on.