March 25, 2016,

05:16 PM,

Paris, France.

      To be fair, subconsciously, he knows what he’s about to do is going to be a huge mistake. On the other hand, his consciousness couldn’t have cared less.

      The taxi he had grabbed from his hotel halts on an empty, luxurious road. On one of the beige buildings, a big black sign says ‘Elle’ in bold. He arrived at the right place, and his breath hitches in his throat. Somewhere in there, is Audrie.

      Inhale.

      This was it.

      It’s now or never.

      Exhale.

      “Monsieur,” the driver snaps him out of whatever he was in. He adjusts his sunglasses and scarf around his neck, looking back at the soft eyed man. He continues speaking in heavily accented English. “Are you sure this is the location?”

      “Yes,” he smiles politely, although it still wasn’t seen behind his neck scarf. “Thank you.”

      “D’accord.” The man nods slowly, clamping his hands together. Not wasting any moment, he fishes out more notes than needed and hands it to the old man, not bothering to collect back his change. It zooms away the moment he gets out of the car, and he is left there, staring up at the headquarters.

      Walking up to the main entrance, Jiyong notices a few paparazzi lurking around the place. He pulls his cap down and covers his lower face with the oversized scarf as he ignores the calls of the camera men. He wouldn’t risk being found out by the media. When he gets in, and after confirming his ID with the familiar security guard, he is sent upstairs to the photoshoot area.

      He knew this place like the back of his hand. During all of his fashion week trips to the capital, he would always be requested for a couple of magazine cover shoots. Luckily for him, his ex-girlfriend happened to be in the city.

      The thought of her hangs a cloud over his head, and it depresses him how he found out her whereabouts from the tabloids.

      Months ago, he used to be the first to know everything.

      When he reaches the pent house, people are running around everywhere. Clothes racks are moved from one side to another, lights are being placed strategically, sets are being prepared in order and managers are yelling in obnoxious French. Putting his hands in his hoody’s pockets, Jiyong tries his best to blend in with his surroundings – whether that worked or not, everyone was busy enough to ignore his presence.

      He makes his way to the dressing rooms, and seeing one door with a very familiar names squeezes his heart in his chest like a grip of steel. His breath hitches. Again, he reminds himself to breathe: Inhale. Exhale.

      Kiko Mizuhara – Model.

      The last time they had seen each other, it had ended in bad terms. The image was still fresh in his memory – it was painful for him to get back to it, for many reasons. Not even six months later, his hiatus news went viral. Did she know? Did she still care enough to look up news on him?

      Probably not, but he liked to trick himself into believing it.

      Right before he knocks the door, a moan comes from inside. A very familiar one at that, which made his eyes grow wide and his fist to fall back like all the weight in the world was placed inside. It comes again, and his hands start shaking as his mind goes blank. He didn’t know what came over him, but he stayed there, listening to his ex having shameless in her dressing room.

      Whereas in his case, he couldn’t even entertain the idea of meeting up with another woman.

      ing idiot.

      He scoffs to himself, tightening his fist till his slightly grown nails dig into his palm. It was foolish of him to think she would still be hung up on him. Seems like the tabloids were right about her dating news. Was that younger actor even her boyfriend?

      “Excuse me,” a woman taps him on the shoulder, breaking him free of his thoughts about the woman on the other side of the door. He turns around, and it’s a main manager. “Are you one of the new interns?”

      He stares down at her for a second, still not grasping the situation. When it starts dawning on him, he rolls his eyes. He is such an idiot, coming here. What did he even think was going to happen? They’d talk everything out and maybe patch things up for him to find a reason to get back to Seoul.

      That was what he thought, and he feels like snapping his own head off his neck. “I’m sorry,” he mutters to the lady, covering himself even more. “This was a mistake.”

      With that, he picks his legs up and heads to the exit, not once looking back at the dressing room, or the photoshoot set or the obvious fact that his ex had moved on. Him coming here was a mistake. , he curses himself. How much more of an idiot could he make himself look like?

      Not ready to deal with the tornado of emotions in him, he gets into any taxi and instructs him to the nearest bar. Who says alcohol couldn’t be a person’s best friend? Right now, he practically has no one else. He doesn’t want anyone else.

      this messed up life he’s got.

April 2, 2016,

10:47 PM,

Paris, France.

      Four days from now, Chaerin will be leaving France.

      She still hasn’t found herself a fixed sponsor, although she had gotten multiple replies from hotels and hostels that would be willing to consider her. Nothing is confirmed until now, so she might as well not have a roof above her head after her leaving the capital.

      Hitting refresh one more time on her inbox, she sighs.

      0 New Messages.

      Today was supposed to be her departure date from Paris, but she has already delayed her trip to her next destination as her accommodation is still not complete. The French capital has been draining her bank account, and if she doesn’t get an offer within the next few days, her trip would be cancelled.

      Whatever.

      She can do nothing but wait, so she shouldn’t wait in vain.

      Rubbing her bare face with her palms, she picks up her camera from the sofa and connects it with her laptop. Within minutes, her photographs from the past couple of days in Paris come up on screen. Opening up a new blog post, she starts writing up her draft.

      The clichés are the things she starts with – the Eiffel Tower, The Louvre, The arch of triumph and the list goes on. Even if these tourist attractions were busy and stuffy and all in all annoying to be at, being in France wouldn’t feel like so without visiting them.

      Sometimes, she likes to blame the tourists for making such beautiful monuments tagged as ‘over rated’. In all honesty, nothing is overrated. The excessive attention a certain group of people give to magnify the relativeness of a place gets tiring. And no one can blame the authorities when they profit from such grand scheme of things.

      To let out her frustrations, she ends up writing that in her draft. Before she publishes it though, it will be taken out.

      As much as people root for the truth, no one wants to hear it.

      She’s about to move on to her ‘adventures’ in discovering a much underrated park overlooked by Napoleon himself, only to be interrupted with her ringing phone. Was it one of the hotels? With that thought, she leaps from under her covers and picks up her phone thrown away on her cabinet.

      A number she never saw before. It could really be a hotel. Her heart beats fast and she retrains herself from overthinking this. With a cough, she shakily accepts the call. “Lee Chaerin from ‘CieL on the Road’ speaking, who is it?”

      “Chaerin,” A familiar voice utters her name in a drunk manner and she freezes, all traces of a smile gone. “Chaerin-ah.”

      “How did you get this number?” She whispers, her brain taking her back a year ago and she shivers. She promised herself she wouldn’t go back to that.

      “Baby,” he tuts from the other side, and her eyes burn. “I miss you.”

      She shakes her head, willing herself not to cry. She was over it. She is over it. “I told you to leave me alone,” she hisses angrily, her hands shaking. “How did you get this number?”

      “I’m so sorry…” he starts sobbing, and she bites down on her lip, darkness starting to hover above her. How dare he apologize? “I didn’t mean to-”

      “No, just stop it.” She snaps at him, her voice thickening with unresolved tears and pain. “Don’t you ever call me again. I don’t want to hear from you. Do you understand, Soo Jun?”

      “Chaerin, listen to-”

      Not ready to hear any more of this, she hangs up and shuts her eyes. Her head feels light weight as she rests it on the wall, taking deep breathes. She is okay. She is not hurt anymore. She is over everything. She forgot, but she doesn’t think she’ll ever forgive.

      Taking the phone close to her chest, her eyes trail to the small pocket in her luggage bag. The temptation to open it was strong, too strong, but she willed herself not to. The thought of changing her phone number again was fleeting – if she did, all those hotels can never contact her. But now that he’s gotten it, he wouldn’t stop just because she told him to.

      Her phone vibrates in her hands before it rings again. At first, she wasn’t going to pick up. Hell, the fear of it being him again wasn’t even letting her glance at the caller ID or number. After the third ring however, curiosity took place. It was a different number. She wasn’t too sure, but it could be a hotel this time. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and answers faintly.

      “Lee Chaerin speaking, who is it?”

      To her relief, a French man picks up. Sadly, it wasn’t a hotel management. “Mademoiselle, I’m sorry to disturb you at such an hour. Do you perhaps happen to know a Jiyong Kwon?”

      She furrows her brows. Jiyong Kwon? Do they mean… “Why?”

      “Mademoiselle, this is an emergency.” He sighs, and she sniffs, regaining herself. “Do you know someone by this name?”

      “Um,” She shakes her head, a million things going through her mind. “Yes, I kind of do. What’s going on?”

      “This is Etienne, from Le Baron Club. Mister Kwon had a little too much to drink and is passed out right here. His phone is locked and the only number I found on him is your business card.”

      “What?”

      “I would like you to come and collect him. His presence is collecting a lot of attention.”

      “Okay,” She gulps, nodding her head automatically. Worry starts bubbling up in her. “Just send me the address. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

      “Merci.”

      “Oh, and,” she interrupts, her mind picking up on the attention the bartender had mentioned. “Can you keep him away from people, somewhere private maybe? He… doesn’t like people piling up around him.”

      “C’est bien, mademoiselle.”

      It takes her a while to get into a taxi and reach the designated address. From afar, it was a narrow dim alleyway like any other. When she gets close, the stagnant smell of perfumes and the rowdy chatter of night goers proves the location's prominence. She sighs, concern over the said man taking over her previous disturbance from the unexpected call.

      Crunching her nose to block out the distasteful odors, she pushes aside her rumbling stomach and makes her way to the back door. She takes out the piece of paper she had written the password given to her by the bartender, and hands it to the bouncer at the door. She feels nauseous, and when he opens the door for her, she tries an intake of fresh air, only to hold back a cough.

      The sounds and the lights in there were a nuisance. How did he manage to get himself in such a dumpster? Five days ago, when he said he had visited every bar and club in Marseille, she hadn't believed him. Now, she is astonished.

      "I'm here for Jiyong Kwon," she yells over the music to one of the bar tenders. He gives her a fleeting glance, then ignores her completely, going back to whatever drink he’s shaking and flirting with club goers. She scoffs. "Hey, you. I'm talking to you."

      "What?" He sighs, a scowl on his face. "I'm busy. I'll be with you in a while. Touristes."

      "I don't want any ing drink," she yells back, the smell of alcohol sneaking in through her outbursts, and the loud bass music annoying her. "I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gotten a call from some Etienne or whatever. So-"

      "You're here for Etienne?" Realization dawns on his face before she manages to glare his way. "He's at the farthest booth with that man. Are you the one he called?"

      "Didn't I just tell you that?" She snaps at him, and he shakes his head, contouring his facial features. Without any other word, he points at the direction.

      "Salope." He says under his breath, and she rolls her eyes. She recognizes that word – .

      "Ta Gueule." She throws back: Shut the up. She doesn’t waste a minute and heads to the direction he had pointed at, and a mob of girls in shreds of clothing is a sight that welcomes her. That, and a very frantic bartender.

      They talk in excited whispers, each raising her phone to take a picture of the man huddled around the booth table. The bartender keeps on blocking them, his face flustered and panicked as he keeps on looking around. She furrows her brows and steps up to him through the overly excited mob of girls.

      “Are you Etienne?”

      Relief takes over his face. “Chaerin Lee?” She nods and peak behind him, her chest swelling in concern for the passed out man. “Thank God, these ladies wouldn’t stop. They keep on saying g-dra-something. Je ne sais pas!”

      As if on queue, one of the skimpily dressed teenage looking girls squeals. “He is G-Dragon, I’m telling you. Look at his tattoos. I can’t believe this!”

      “Did you get him drinking on tape? Oh my, he looked so hot. I can’t wait to upload that on Instagram!”

      She sighs and rolls her eyes. Can’t someone have some privacy, even three oceans apart? She turns to them, her brow raised, and her hands on her waist. She hoped she could intimidate her. “What’s going on here? Is there some kind of freak show I’m missing?”

      “This is G-Dragon right there,” one girl points out, much to the excitement of the others. “He’s an idol in Korea!”

      “I don’t see any dragon in here.” She snaps at them.

      “Of course you won’t. That’s just his stage name!”

      “The only stage name this idiot here has . And I know that because he’s my brother.” She lies smoothly to cover up for the drunken mess of a man.

      “You’re not Oppa’s sister, his sister is Dami!”

      How do they even know this? She takes a deep breath. The ability of these girls to counter all her attempts at making them scatter getting on her already thin nerves. “Well, my name is not Dami, so I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong guy. Now leave.”

      “But we’re sure it’s him, he has the same smiley tattoo on his hand!”

      She raises her brow at the bunch of girls. “So now smiley tattoos are exclusive to one person? There are eight billion people in the world. I don’t care who has it or not.”

      “But-”

      “I could you sue you for privacy infringement right now,” She cuts them off, glaring at every one of the. This manages in shutting them up, so Chaerin puffs up her chest in authority, riding the wave of her lies. “We are normal civilians, yet my brother is being pestered by a bunch underage girls in a drunken state. They filmed him, both video and still pictures, to be published on the internet. What will you have to say for yourselves to the authorities, huh?”

      They deflate, and she bites back a smile. “He isn’t-?”

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