This is it. Screams echo through your ear canals, pierce your eardrums, and electrify your quivering body. Adrenaline courses through you like never before, with each surge your skin tingles and your senses tangle with your emotions. You take a moment to scan your busy surroundings, struggling to see over a towering wall of raised shoulders, a sea of outstretched arms.  You study hundreds of animated faces; envy the lucky fan girls close enough to barely be restrained from the walkway.

They scream, chant, and lean into the opening so desperately you wonder whether all their combined weight could break the thick rope holding them back. Urgency dots their faces; some even look tortured or on the verge of tears. You are beyond the point of excitement yourself. In fact, you imagine yourself as an artist about to behold a breathtaking landscape; a child about to look through a telescope for the first time. Undoubtedly when those metal doors are open, you will feel vastly insignificant in comparison to the glowing idol that will step out. You ridicule yourself for succumbing to this foolish obsession, blindly joining in with the squeals of admiration erupting from the crowd.

After what seems like an eternity, the telltale creak of door hinges leads everyone to jerk their heads, sending a shiver down your spine. The screams are almost deafening now, and hundreds of cameras emerge in unison. And, there he is. The studded designer jacket, loud jeans, and statement shoes make his identity unmistakable. Over all the noise you hear someone shriek “Jiyong, Oppa!” and echoes of praise follow. You find yourself gaping at his flawless complexion framed by perfect strands of fire-engine-red hair, because he looks exactly as how you pictured him.

He pauses for a moment in the doorway and poses slightly, allowing each fan to fully drink in his breathtaking aura. This only tempts you to shove your way through the crowd and leap over the rope, all the while questioning why the stupid thing was placed there in the first place. However, you fight the urge and instead try to meet his gaze. And then the impossible happens. Perhaps he was looking at something else, but suddenly those striking eyes meet yours and send a shockwave through your whole body.  Never before have you felt so small, so insignificant to this suave superstar that is piercing through your every sensible thought and making you feel dizzy.

But then, a new kind of emotion flashes across his face in stark contrast to the coolness and confidence displayed to the demanding world. This look is different—one of loneliness and fear—and makes you believe that you are the only one that’s beholding it. It’s as if the flicker of hopelessness that morphs his painted face for a fraction of a second is a distress call, a reflection of the true inner workings of an idol. A twang of guilt wracks your pounding chest, and you suddenly realize that the life of a celebrity isn’t what the media wants you to believe. A stolen childhood, given-up hopes and dreams, and a fear of losing a future register in those pale blue eyes, and sadness overtakes you as you sink back down, now hiding from the very face you previously would have died to see. You want to cower behind the unsuspecting bodies, wallow in shame for not being able to recognize this personal side of G-Dragon, only naively expecting him to be a perfect object, a thing that only radiates confidence and delivers pleasure.

He then proceeds to walk towards the waiting limo, putting on a dashing smile for the audience as they claw their way closer to him. He winks, waves, and in a matter of seconds he disappears into the car, and immediately disappointment fills the hearts of the fans, who shortly after prepare to leave. But, as the crowd thins and excitement dies down, you remain firmly planted on the concrete. And there you stand, appalled by this awakening—distanced from these oblivious admirers— alone in the crowd.