AFF Poster / Logo Credit to the best and #1 Yongshin writer:  EmotionalStar

“I’m very sorry,” I repeat, “You’ll have to wait outside.”

Se Young is trying to calm a disconsolate young woman in a tattered black dress. I look around at the assembled group and notice a theme emerging. Every person present, save the manager, is incredibly attractive, young, and dressed up in some kind of punk rock ensemble. Who in the world could they be? My best guess was an off-season Halloween party gone awry.

“Please,” says a man to my right. He was thick set but muscular, with a dark, scruffy face. “Let us go back with him. It’s our fault he got hurt—we should have kept him from trying to stage dive.”

“Stage dive?” I say, incredulously, “What are—? No. Never mind. There’s no time. All of you need to go back to the waiting room right now so that we can go help your friend.”

“Don’t let him die,” wails the beautiful young woman, “He’s like...the next messiah!”

“I’m sure he is,” I tell her, shooing the herd back through the doors.  They shuffle out begrudgingly, shooting mean glances back at Se Young and I.  As the doors snap shut behind them, we turn on our heels and race after the stretcher. I have no idea why there are so many doctors vying for this patient, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we do all we can to help him.

I race around the corner with Se Young hot on my heels and swing into the man’s room. Through the throng of doctors and nurses, I can see that he’s been laid out, and his clothes cut from his body. As I make my way closer, I finally get a good view of the man. My breath catches in my throat as I let my eyes linger on his well defined six pack, the firm panes of his chest, and his massive biceps that tense as he balls up his big fists in pain. My eyes dart up to his face. His hair are sweat soaked, and a thin trail of blood runs down the side of his face, but despite all that, he is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life. His eyes, when they open, are a warm.  His sharp jaw and his lips are full and firm. For the first time in my nursing career, I freeze—stunned by the gorgeous person before me. I didn’t think that men like him existed outside of glossy magazines and, well, Greek mythology.

“Shin Hye!” yells Dr. Choi, snapping me out of my stunned reverie.

“Yes?” I ask, ripping my attention away from that incredible face, that solid body...

“If you’re too star struck to be of any help, then please get out of the way.”

I feel as though I’ve been slapped, and gather myself up. I don’t bother responding to the jab, I simply force my head back into the moment, onto the task at hand. Right now, this man is just my patient. However perfect his body might be, it needs some assistance at the moment.

It becomes clear that he’s had a bad fall. No bones are broken, but he’s bleeding internally. The room is a flurry of activity as he’s prepped for surgery and whisked away. I fall back as the patient disappears from my sight. He’s hurt pretty badly, that’s for sure, but there’s no reason to believe that he won’t be OK. I look over at Se Young and see that she’s practically vibrating with excitement. Not exactly the most professional response for the situation at hand.

“You’re looking awfully chipper,” I say, “I didn’t know you were so fond of internal bleeding.”

She looks at me like I have three heads, at the least. “Shin Hye,” she says, “Are you serious?”

“As a rule,” I tell her.

“Did you honestly not recognize him?” she presses, taking me by the shoulders.

“I think I may have seen him in an art museum somewhere. Those marble statues all sort of blend together, don’t you think?”

“Shin Hye!” Se Young cries, “That was Jung Yong Hwa!”

“OK...” I say. The name doesn’t ring a single bell.

“Good god,” Se Young says, throwing her hands up in the air,

“I forgot that you only listen to Lee Sung Hwan and musical theater soundtracks.”

“What’s wrong with that?” I ask defensively.

“Jung Yong Hwa is the front man of CN BLUE,” Se Young says eagerly, “They’re only the biggest thing that’s happened to rock in the last 4 years.”

“That’s a bold claim,” I laugh.

“I stand by it!” she says adamantly, “They’re absolutely magnificent and famous! I heard that they were playing around here this weekend. Who would have guessed that we’d end up with a real live rock star on our hands?”

“Not me,” I say.

“You don’t seem very impressed,” Se Young says.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I say, “That’s probably the most incredible looking person I’ve seen in real life. And I have you as a coworker. I guess I just don’t really do the whole pop rock music thing.”

“A fact that will forever mystify me,” Se Young says, smiling at my compliment nonetheless. “Haven’t you ever been to a rock concert, Shin Hye?”

“I played the piano and guitar for years since fourth grade,” I tell her flatly, “That’s about extreme as I’ve ever gotten.”

“You’re missing out,” she says, crossing her arms, “The right kind of concert can totally transport you. It’s like magic, and when it’s real good...it puts you in a state of euphoria you can't experience anywhere else.”

I roll my eyes at her hyperbolic fawning and go along my way. "Better than even?" I jab sarcastically, as I walk away to get report from the day shift nurse.

"Way better! Are you kidding?" She yells over my shoulder.

I just shake my head and smile dismissively.

There are other patients to tend to besides this Yong Hwa fellow, after all. I peek out into the waiting room and see the man’s entourage waiting for him. They look like they’re holding some kind of vigil for him. By the look of the group, you’d think that he was some kind of prophet. I frowned, realizing that the guy would probably have a gigantic ego when he came to. Those celebrity types always seem to think they’re god’s gift to the planet. Well, I wasn’t so easily swayed. Rock star or no, I was set on treating Mr. Jung just like any other patient.

As it turns out, he makes it through surgery just fine— the bleeding wasn’t as bad as the doctors had originally thought. As soon as he’s set up in his recovery room, his entourage wants to know whether they can go back and see him. I’m tasked with the unfortunate job of explaining to a bunch of groupies and band mates that visitors aren’t allowed at this time of night, except for family.  And though several attempt to persuade me that “music makes family of us all,” I hold firm. The pack finally disperses, for the time being at least.

In between patients, I check on our in-house celebrity. He’s resting, deep in a morphine sleep. I’m glad that everything went well—not just for his sake, but because god forbid our hospital gets a reputation for bungling the surgeries of celebrities. Not that I think rock stars are imp