Weekend finally came, so I spent the first day holding a workshop with a few other crew members and the second practicing independently. During the second day, I spent the day sitting in the studio comfortably listening to music, brainstorming some new choreography, and free-styling to just relax and relieve the stress that I had managed to accumulate exponentially during the week.

After my brainstorming session, OneRepublic's “Counting Stars” came on through the speaker system in the studio. To that I free-styled a hip-hop routine. The beginning of the song started off as a slow acoustic rhythm, to which I sang lyrics and made accompanying motions with my hands while standing in place. As the tempo of the song picked and drums began sounding, I administered a series of fast, complicated steps and shuffles. Those transformed into clapping in place and finally back to shuffling and turning. I paid no attention to anything surrounding me and only focused on my steps. With every step and turn, another muscle in me untangled and another ounce of stress evaporated. I danced right up to the last beat of the song that brought back so many childhood dreams and fantasies.

Then, Justin Timberlake’s “y Back” came on. I smirked smugly and pulled one of the chairs from the back wall of the studio to the center. I sat with my back parallel to the floor and my head dangled freely between my knees. I powerfully straightened up at the sound of the first snap after the first line and began a provocative chair dance routine with a few popping moves. At points I was on the chair and at points I was standing next to it, popping every body part and swaying to the beat of the music. The song ended and I concluded with one last turn onto the chair and sat squarely on it.

The next song that began to play was one that I haven’t heard in years. I didn’t want to count the exact number of years because I would just remind myself of how many years I’ve been hurt and broken. No. I couldn’t let myself do that. But as I listened to the lyrics of this song, our favorite song, the song that I danced to, the song that we danced to, all my walls came crashing down.

…But now I know that love made me blind, so I couldn’t see.

Love made me blind. Love made us blind. It was all that mattered to me during that last year of high school. It should have never mattered so much or have had such a heavy weight on my life, but it subconsciously became the bulk of my life. I guess if I hadn’t relied on him so much, it would have been much easier to let go.

Now I was just vulnerably exposed for a pool of regret to swallow and consume. There was no going back and wishing that the events that unraveled differently. There was dreaming that he had never left.

But now all I remembered was how we used to dance to this song. I still remembered – perhaps subconsciously and unwilling, because we loved this dance memory – the jazz routine that we choreographed together – and song so much that we practiced it a hundred times and it became branded into my. I remembered how my skin radiated when your hands were on me – holding me, turning me, dipping me, lifting me, and tightly embracing me. I remembered how lovingly and passionately we became lost in each other's dark brown orbs every time the song ended. I remembered-

No! I shouldn’t be remembering any of this. Not this dance, not this song, not you. But before the second verse of Jason Derulo’s “Blind” began, I subconsciously shuffled back to my feet and moved my body to each word, each snapping beat, each piano tone. I stretched my arms out and turned, but no, this was so wrong, because you were supposed to be before me, meeting your hands with my outstretched ones. I turned and crouched down halfway, hooking my arms around my own ribcage, but no, that was wrong, too. Because you were supposed to be right behind me, also embracing me. I stepped back with each “go,” and turned, but again, you were the missing component. With you, it would have been perfect. But you’re no longer here, and you’ll probably never be back. Tears that reminded me of how much I missed you trailed down my flushed face. Aches that reminded me of how much we loved each other attacked my furiously pumping heart. But this felt so wrong.

So when the bridge began, I translated our original simple Latin couple stepping into an independent statement.

“Why?!” I cried out to the open space of the studio and backed into the back wall.  Clutching the fabric that was failing at protecting my heaving chest and heart, I slid down the wall and rested my head upon my tired knees. With my forearms crossed above the back of my head and one hand freeing my hair from the destroyed, imperfect ponytail, I also freed my emotions for the first time in years. Just like my ponytail, I was broken and way too imperfect. “You left me, so why do you still haunt me? Why!” With each word, a new wave of hurt washed over me and a fresh, raw tear escaped my moist eyes.

I cried and sobbed pathetically, “Stop coming back! Stop…” It hurt. It hurt so ing badly. I was so disappointed in and mad at myself for still letting our past break me. I had to forget. I just had to. Now.

So when Beyonce’s “Drunk in Love” began to play, I pried myself off the cold, discomforting floor and began a slow, fragile routine that translated into a powerful, y hip hop freestyle. Yes, I was drunk in love. Maybe if I couldn’t forget, I could simply embrace our past and mark it as simply another chapter in my book – the chapter where I was drunk in love. But I would be no longer.

I cursed a string of profanities as I lost my balance and tumbled to the floor, bending my right ankle outwards during the process. Yeah, well it was a dumb idea to let my thoughts trail off while dancing. “You dumb , Jen!” With that, I became infuriated at the memory of Jongin but more so at myself for letting him still affect me to the point that I injured myself. “Dammit!” I repeatedly cursed as I sent my half empty water bottle flying toward the opposite wall and hitting it with an audible thud and crinkle.

I heard a deep yet squeaking voice and forced myself to decipher incoherent phrases. “Uh-you-um-are you okay?” I looked up to find a pale-skinned male with calming hazel brown hair looking down at me. There was glint of concern in his eyes but he generally remained indifferent. What the heck? Was he bipolar or just faking his concern? Moreover, who the heck was he?

“Yeah,” I managed to groan. “Who are you? How’d you get in here?”

His reply was curt and nonchalant. “Sehun.”

“Who?”

“Oh Sehun,” he repeated.

I scoffed in disbelief. “Yeah, I get it. Your name is Sehun. But who are you to be able to get in here?”

“Who are you to be able to practice here?” he retorted with a smug grin.

“What-I-I da-dance here. I’m part of the crew,” I stammered as my cheeks began to heat up in complete embarrassment. Gosh, was I a complete idiot. But I had no reason to be flustered. So why was I? Perhaps it was the embarrassment resulting from the possibility that he may have witnessed my meltdown.

He kept his poker face while walking towards me. “Nice to know,” he commented. “Well, my brother owns this place, so I guess, naturally, I’m entitled to come. But I also just joined the crew, for your information. So I’m allowed to be here,” he finished with a sly smirk plastered on his flawless face. His figure was towering over my tense figure by the time he finished his statement.

“Oh.”

“So, you okay?” he repeated his original question.

“Yeah,” I said with wince as he helped me up from the floor. Then, it hit me. “Wa-wait. When have you been here since?”

He tilted his head in abstraction before shrugging and replying, “Uh…‘Counting Stars’?”

Oh, Counting Sta-He’s been here since the beginning?! “What?! Goddammit!” I cursed as I hurriedly gathered my belongings and rushed away from him. I remembered my tear stained face and scurried to hastily cover it with my frizzy hair. “Why did he not make even a sound? That was so embarrassing!” I muttered to myself in spite as I limped away from the studio and took the bus home since I was in no state to drive. 

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