He is not her first love and (she hopes) he is not the last. People have more than one great loves in their life (so she was told), the problem is he is the first of those for her. 

Before him, nothing had come close to hurting this much. She went on thinking boys were just boys and break ups were just break ups – everything is simple like that in the teenage years of Jung Soojung’s world. Sure, there were nights of chocolate cookie ice cream tubs and Winona and Johnny Depp’s romance films (their failed engagement should have taught her a thing or two about love) but she had fallen asleep to the soundtrack of credit rolling, de-puff her bloodshot eyes the next morning and went on with benign positivity. Although she didn’t mean to, she had the tendency to frown upon her sister’s dramatized breakup (she was what? seventeen? pfft, did she even know what the meaning of ‘love’ was?). Mind you, it was the first of the many break ups with Lee Donghae. There had been approximately twenty-something bucket of tears, ten plus pounds of weight loss, a lot of late night phone calls with whispered heartfelt confessions but even more enraged yelling of passion (not the sweet kind).

She had listened to all thing, through the cracks of the door or the thin walls of their home. After the fifteenth time, she had given up on lingering around Jessica’s bedroom door and learn to shut her own, put headphones over her ear and only occasionally knock at the weeping girl’s door to replace empty Kleenex’s boxes with new ones.

 It would take her years to understand why her sister was never the same again in the aftermath of the ‘Donghae phase’, as they like to refer to (even if they barely do). Some people just have that much hold over you that they leave a permanent human sized hole in the rest of your existence. You walk away with less of yourself.

 (It’s the only thing she cannot blame Jinri for, choosing love over all else.)

The first rule of the post-break up rules it discards of every reminders of your ex-boyfriend – so the love expert that is her sister tells her. She listens intently and nods once in a while to reassures Jessica that yes, she is responsive. Within the first month, she had accumulated a pile of things to throw out (she went by the common sense that if she couldn’t look at an object for more than ten seconds without sobbing, then it had to go). She was on track to recovery – as she likes to call it because she might as well be a part of addicts anonymous (“hi, my name is Jung Soojung AKA Krystal AKA Kim Jongin’s ex-girlfriend and I’m a pain-aholic.”) Then at the last minute; the night before the garbage truck could take those memories and dispose it in Seoul district’s wasteland, she found an empty shoes box and hoarded half and quarter of ‘trash’ (including his unwashed Adidas jumper, all Polaroids she had not rip to shreds, a teddy bear she didn’t want but he insisted on winning over a ‘friendly’ game of shooting ducks with Minho, crumpled up collection post-its he had stuck to the insides of her locker, an ugly yellow dress that Jinri insisted made ‘looks so much thinner’ which she believed and wore to a birthday party where for the first time ever he told her she is ‘beautiful’, a white and blue striped scarf he left on her bedroom floor and never asked to have it back).

She still sleeps with a graveyard of their relationship under her bed.

On nights like these, she considers getting rid of that box and its six years worth of content once and for all. She’s afraid about what it means if she does, so she doesn’t and allows herself with haunted by his ghost.

-

She keeps screwing up the steps of old choreography (or new – it’s down to four so different formations now). She toughs it out during practice with girlish giggles and ‘oopsies’ but comes back at eleven at night to make up for every beat she missed.

(Face it, this is all she has left going on for her.)

A couple of trainee boys are panting outside the studio (pricks). She laughs it off because a) it means she’s still ‘got it’ as a female idol and b) they think she can’t see them but they’re not as discreet as they think they are.

She taps the ‘off’ button with the sole of her tattered sneaker and hums the melody to herself, going over the movements and adjusting her body to the feel of them. They called her a ‘talented’ dancer once, she was almost comparable to Luna. If she tried hard enough – 1 – if she worked at it enough – 2 – if she had the same motivation again – 3 – if she could be that girl again – 4 – then maybe –

“Guys, come on,” someone who tries to sound berating but comes off as doting, “It’s late, come on, time to go home.”

(She’d know that voice if she heard it from anywhere.)

Don’t stop, if she stops spinning, anytime now –

“Why do you do that?” she asks aloud; if he’s not here then this is to no one, “You’re always watching me from afar but you never say anything.”

She finishes counting at five, feeling the most satisfied with her performance than she has this whole day. She deeps breathe (she doesn’t do enough of that according to physicians), taking in the view of the busy city and its equally busy streets.

(She doesn’t dare to look. She doesn’t know how she will cope this time if he’s not here.)

“I think this is the hardest I’ve seen you practiced,” he sounds distant – literally and figuratively, “Since you came back.”

“I’ve got to pull my weight,” she tells him half of the truth, “There’s one less person to cover the parts now.”

Outside the window, the advertisements switch from one pretty girl to another in time with the neon lights switching its colors. It’s oddly poetic to her how symbolic the urban life is – they’re all so shiny and alluring and replaceable.

(She inhales once more. She doesn’t want the sight of him or the lack of it to knock the wind out of her when she pivots.)

So this is how it is now: he leaves a whole room in between them. She wants to count the floorboards, to get a definite calculation of how out of her reach he has made himself. Is this the ultimate testament – it will never be enough?

“I know, you know,” she’s been gutting herself up for this moment – a whole year, to tell him this one thing, “I can always tell when you’re there…watching, me. I just pretend not to.”

She feels like they’ve spent their whole youth imprinting the image of one another into the underside of their eyelids, so when they fall shut neither of them are truly alone in the darkness. Here, he is – Kim Jongin in the flesh – not any different in her idled daydream, but forever not the same (not in her eyes).

He shakes his head ruefully. “I’m not ready for this.”

(He walks away from her again and she’s still counting.)

-

(She still wears his jumpers to sleep on the coldest of nights. It’s easier to act like she still has something left to call home.)

-

When Jessica gets back, she is all tanned limbs and sun kissed highlights.

She’s sitting on the kitchen table, reading Fyodor Dostoevsky and waiting for the kettle to boil so she can make her tea. She detests Saturday because the way she sees it, it really is just a fake weekend so she doesn’t get to relax (and by that, she means sleep in) until Sunday comes. Why couldn’t have her sister land yesterday? That way, she could have had a peaceful day off.

One minute, she’s rolling a train of Samsonites through the door and the next, she’s bustling out with flyaways unsmoothed.

“Can you turn that down?”

(“No, dear sister, I do not wish to do as you want so excuse me if I don’t. It would be beneficial for your hopeless music taste if you were to listen to some classic Coltrane.”) She puts down her book and ambles over to the record player, twisting the knob and effectively, lowering the volume.

“You listen to old people’s music,” Jessica wrinkles her nose in disgust, packing on that tacky shade of cherry red lipgloss she has taken to sporting.

Blandly, she retorts, “You listen to ty music.”

“Don’t you ever go out?” the older girl asks, switching the subject and waving off her scathing comment, “Do things people your age do?”

Do you? “Too busy. Tired. Would rather sleep.”

She can see her sister rolling her eyes at her through the vanity’s reflection. “When is the tour finished?”

“Twelve days”

“I’ve been thinking…” Throwing the offending cosmetic product into her clutch, Jessica scrutinizes the canvas that is her complexion one last time before glancing over her shoulder, shifting her scrutiny to her instead, “We should go to New York.”

Her hand freezes midway of turning a page. “Why?”

“No reason,” Jessica replies with an air of indifference, “Holidays”

(“You’ve bee on an extended holiday for the past five months. Haven’t you had enough?”)

This preposition paints a nauseous vision of her and her sister, alone together on a ten-plus hour flight then confined in a hotel suite that will never spacious enough to put a satisfactory distance between them. And for how long? She doesn’t think she can stand anything pass the twenty-four hours mark. But Jessica wouldn’t be here sister if she couldn’t instantly tell that her inability to supply an answer implies her disapproval of that particularly ‘wonderful’ idea.

“You deserve a break, Soojung,” Jessica whispers, patting her back like she used to when she was ten, “We can go shopping, go to all the trendy restaurants we didn’t have time to visit last time. You can go to all those galleries you always talk about – all those exhibitions and museums.  We can even go to those jazz bars you like, if you want.”

She waits for Jessica to say something enthusiastic like “It will be fun!” except all she does is send a half-hearted smile her way and click-clacks out the door.

Suppose she could do with some time away.

-

Suddenly, a range of people insists that she absolutely cannot leave. (Amber ‘coincidentally’ have no friends left in town, they all just happen to go back to their home country all at the same time. Jonghyun can’t choose which batch of songs to put on his new album so it’s “you have to help me, Soojung, you have the best taste!” She’ll excuse Junmyeon oppa’s incessant texting because this isn’t anything out of the usual and also, because she still feels guilty for having had abuse the privilege of his affections – at least now she learnt the hard way that jealously schemes do not work.)

Well, she has to leave! She’s already done research on cinemas that show French films and Cannes nominated pictures. There are Monet works waiting to be explored at MoMa and she’s already worked out the dates and time for the exhibitions showing at Met museum. Too much work has been put into those plans for her to cancel them at the last minute.

(She’s not going to spend time with her sister. This is not what it’s about – she’s going this for herself.)

She puts on the Jung’s badge of honor; masking half her face with those brand name eyewear her sister designs and enters the airport.

-

Morning report:

f(x) Krystal’s dramatic weight gain (They’re right, she stresses then she bloats. Maintain a healthier diet – got it.)

Suspicion of f(x) Krystal’s leaving SM; did not appear for the encore stage (Sorry, she didn’t want to stand around and have a nice chit-chat about how the ‘traitor’s new fashion line is going. Maybe she can get all her other eight ‘sisters’ to promote her brand on their world tour. Cute.)

f(x)’s Sulli shows a grown up image in her new photo shoot (She’s in a bikini, covered up by a robe and walking around in the sand bare feet  - shocker)

She clicks out of the page; throws away the chocolate chip muffin and trades it for well, nothing.

-

Her sister is a flake (with a highly logical reason that she spent “her childhood and teenage years” not being one). She cancels their dinner because she promised a ‘friend’ they would go out for drinks. Sure, fine, alright – she utters all those three words at three different occasions within the ten minutes duration of that phone call.

Jessica’s gone the next morning (she would say she didn’t return from the night before but there was a post-it next to room service ordered breakfast). This isn’t a surprise or hurtful (that sentiment such a familiar ache that she can’t differentiate it from how she normally feels). She nibbles at a buttered-up piece of toast and pushes the scrambled egg around her plate until she’s sufficiently bored (no, that’s not her stomach grumbling).

She puts a great deal of thought into her outfit – a white tee, an oversized brown-checkered blazer and black skinny jeans (creative, really). She doesn’t bother brushing her hair but puts in effort in running her hands through them when in the elevator. She’s in one of those moods today, so she swipes on a few coat of mascara and sloppily paints her pout with a colored lipstick when the taxi is stuck for a few minutes too long in the big apple’s traffic.

She goes record shopping in Brooklyn (a Stevie Wonder one and two of Joao Gilberto), stumbles upon a five dollar second hand copy of a Sofia Coppola’s photography book, orders a disgustingly sugary drink from Starbucks that she couldn’t finish and people watch in central park.

Everything goes to plan and her day ends at the Claude Monet’s exhibition.

She’s standing in between two paintings of different vases of flower, admiring harmony of the color palette – the contrast between the yellow of the sunflowers and white and pink of chrysanthemum. The contradiction of this set-up is rather clever and not to mention, morbid.

A figure appears next to her, reminding her that she’s been rooted at this exact spot for over fifteen minutes now. She should probably go overanalyze some other pieces anyway –

“Oh,” my god, “H – hi…hello”

She doesn’t blame him for always looking at her funny whenever they meet. They keep running into each other at the most unexpected place – even extending to a foreign country now so it seems.

Unlike last time, he doesn’t seem to mirror her perplexed expression but a fond one. “I thought that was you.”

(She wishes she could say the same.)

“What are you doing in NYC?”

“Work,” he tells her, very vaguely as she takes in the two artworks positioned in front of them, “Although, I somehow ended up taking the whole day off so that’s a lie.”

She gives him a curious, assessing look. “Wouldn’t you get in trouble for that?”

“My boss knows I don’t do anything I don’t want to,” he leans over to whisper, making her feel like he is revealing to her a secret, “I’m actually here secret project so it’s just me on my own.”

She lets the silence stretch a beat too long and give her to opportunity to ponder the extent of his freewill. She’d like that – to make her own decisions, do whatever she wants and not feel guilty for it.

“Are you a fan of Monet?”

“No,” he admits, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t consider him talented.”

She snorts a laugh. (Definitely getting too comfortable)

“Do you?” he returns the question to her, accompanied with a small chuckle of his own.

“Yeah,” she smiles bashfully, “I think he has a beautiful way of capturing nature with his work.”

He arches an eyebrow slightly. “Not dull?”

“Can’t beauty be dull?” she counters, “His landscape paintings are simple at first glance but the meticulous care of his brush gives the overall image depth and delicacy. I guess it is dull, he is using the same subject for his paintings but I feel some sort of melancholia in watching things change and evolve.”

(Oh god, she’s rambling and to him, no less. It’s not like he can consider him a stranger and forget about this incident ever taking place. How many award shows is she going to run into him backstage and at the after parties – – parties – because her sister’s newly adopted wild party girl lifestyle is really going make not seeing him ever again that much easier. He probably thinks she sounds like some pretentious you find at some government-funded art school. She should have just – shut the up –)

He smiles down at her, warm and friendly, “What else do you have to say about the rest of his portfolio?”

-

She doesn’t tell Jessica why she can’t make it to dinner because she’s not entitled to an explanation.

(Not because her running into Seunghyun at a Monet exhibition is a anything worth hiding.)

-

Three days into her ‘break’, Taemin phones her

(They’re comfortable but uncomfortable all the same. The reason being he (still) is one of her closer friends but he is best friend with Jongin and she is the ex-girlfriend.)

“He asked about you yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

Radio silence. “I think he misses you more than he lets on.”

She laughs. “What’s the point of that?”

She hangs up then for the first time in a long time, she cries.

-

Jessica turns off her phone and does the same with hers.

They wear matching sunglasses and coats (except hers is grey and her sister’s black), link arms and roam the streets of New York.

They stop window-shopping once they reach fifth avenue and decides that from here on, it’s appropriate to max out credit cards. She buys more of the same things but in different colors and pretends to not hear Jessica at her for it, but lets her sister buys her a curve hugging little black dress (“you’ll have the boys drooling”). She’ll never wear it but it doesn’t hurt to have a classic in the back of your closet for you know, emergencies.

They buy a slice of pepperoni pizza that’s the size of her entire face, taking bites out of it as Jessica shows her pictures of new designs and asks for her opinions.

For seven hours of that Tuesday afternoon, her life reverts back to normal.

-

She chooses Thursday to stay in – she has a set up ready on the coffee table, mango yogurt, a thick blanket and cable TV. Jessica has other plans for them.

(“We’re going out” “Where?” “To a party” “You can, I’m not.” “You’re coming.” “No –“ “Yes, now get ready, wear that dress I bought you the other day.” “That black one?” “Yes” “No, not happening.” “We’ll see about that.”)

An hour later and she’s standing in a badly lit corner of to a mid-town restaurant, giving her sister dirty looks from a far distant and sipping sourly on her Pinot noir.

(To think, she could have been comfortable on the couch, watching the latest episodes of ‘True Detective’. Instead, she’s here watching the latest episode of ‘networking’ starring Jessica Jung and her shareholder boyfriend, Tyler Kwon.)

Out of the blue, the room breaks into not-so-hushed whispers that continue to grow even louder as a huddled up group of three enters the room. She pays them no mind but you’d have to be blind to not notice that flashy, in-your-face approach to dressing. Her sister along with her “partner” makes a beeline to greet them (Seungri is rowdy per usual as a part of his loud personality, Jiyoung is charming and chill – two things older women seem to just adore and Seunghyun, he’s just him – that’s the only way she can describe it.)

He spots her from across the room and she feels like they’ve only seen each other this morning when it’s a day short of it being one week since. She hasn’t even made up her mind whether it would appease her if they were to interact, and he is already making his way over to her. It’s a thrill but a sickening one; where she can’t decide if she wants to sprint far, far away from him or to him before anyone else could snatch this impending moment away. (Finally! Someone here that she wouldn’t mind keeping company!)

She feels a tap on her shoulder and nearly whacks whoever it is in the face when she whirls around. “Seungri oppa?”

He grins a tooth grin, pulling her into a too tight hug. “Soojung-ah! When was the last time we saw each other? Too long – definitely too long!”

Seungri moves them around so she’s under the superficial light; “to get a better look at her,” he jokes (except not really). His speech about how much she’s changed (in a good way, she hopes) and how he almost couldn’t tell it was her when he first laid eyes on her is too fast paced for her to conjure up an adequate response, all she can contribute to this exchange is a few dazed looks and nods in between. In contrary to his newfound perception of her, Seungri is exactly the same as she remembers him to be – funny in a loud way, lively and filled to the brim with enthusiasm. It’s still odd to her that he’s the ‘oppa’ out of the two of them.

“You had the coolest concept for your last comeback!” He shouts over the music (even if it’s unnecessary to do so in this case), “The half face makeup thing was badass.”

“Thank you,” she replies meekly.

 “Let me…” he trails off, craning his neck over her shoulder, “Where are the waiters? I can’t let you drink alone – nope, can’t let you have all the fun.”

She swallows a larger sip of the wine than she intended but she probably needs it to get through the rest of this conversation. She’s about ready to force out a convincing laugh when what looks like a soju shot is ed in Seungri’s waving hand.

As if on cue, Seunghyun appears at his shoulder, “You said you wanted a drink, here’s one.”

“Hyung,” Seungri whines but downs the alcohol in one go, “I was going to order one of those fancy drinks you keep bringing to dinner.”

“But you hate wine,” he says, half-teasing, half serious.

He is discreet in sliding over closer to her side. She doubts Seungri noticed that Seunghyun had even budge from his original spot from behind him.

Seungri pouts, clueless to her discompure as he pulls her into him. “Oh yeah, can you believe this? Soojung’s here! When was the last time we saw her face to face?”

For him, almost a week ago.

Seunghyun doesn’t so much as glance her way. “It’s been a while.”

His lie (not entirely) unnerves her but at the same time, it soothes her to know that he hasn’t told anyone about their run-in(s). It’s nice to know they’re on the same page when it comes to private matters (and that evening, strolling through the gallery, just talking should classify as one.)

“Ah !” Seungri curses, although he doesn’t look nearly as irritated as he leads them both to believe, “Friends – models – yeah, those, they’re always calling after me. It’s rude to keep them waiting, I better go. Catch you later, Soojung,  we’ll go out for drinks soon. I’ll call you.”

Seunghyun grumbles something under his breath, which she misses completely.

“Pardon?”

“You didn’t give him your number, did you?”

“No,” she blinks at him. “Why would I?”

He gives her a wry look, equal parts unimpressed and amused. “Smart girl”

-

(After a brief questionnaire, he orders a bottle of wine that makes her taste buds sings and tongue loose. She doesn’t stop herself before she speaks – there is no rehearsal in her head, the words string itself together and passes from her to him without restraint. They barely account for anything more than a couple of acquaintances – you know, a friend of a friend – that sort of relation, but she is pass building up walls and making him knock them down. What has he done but be kind to her? Why should he have to work for her tenderness? They finish the bottle but he doesn’t let her finish – his off-beat humor keeps her seated, his knowledge on art makes her stay, his interest in her interests of all things vintage stops her from thinking about what is the wrong and right. Even so, it doesn’t feel wrong to trust and laugh and smile and be understood.)

-

Jessica doesn’t ask.

She doesn’t say.

(He adds to the long list of things they don’t talk about.)

-

She goes back to ‘work’ and everything becomes a routine. (nine onwards – classes, four PM to a quarter past six – vocal lessons, seven PM until whatever time her legs give in – dance practice)

She doesn’t talk to anyone (she admittedly but privately loathes majority of the dutiful workers of this company. She lugs duffle bag through the door and jog up the stairs, seeks out an empty studio and locks herself in for the entirety of her evening. She doesn’t want to be found, she doesn’t need to be admired, she doesn’t take to praises (mostly because she doesn’t believe them to be true) and she especially doesn’t want to communicate with they all who made her an outsider.

Weeks fly by and there’s a little less of her (literally and figuratively) as time ticks by. Her stomach is more toned, flattered (rumbles a little more often), her face is gaunt, cheeks are hollowed and eyes are duller.

She is beautiful and fading fast.

-

After enough time has passed, she feels she is about ready to face Sehun again. (Because Jongin and him? They’re different people, they might be close friends but they are not the one and the same – one hurt her and one didn’t – There! That’s a difference!).

She waits backstage for their rehearsal to conclude, clenching and unclenching her firsts as she watches him hits every beat with such precision that it puts her to shame. Although it can’t be denied that there are others out there who could carry a tune better than he could ever hope to, and perhaps, Taemin will always be the better dancer out of the two of them but him – he is a performer. Every cell of his body is contaminated by passion and it shows. She’d know best – she was the only other thing apart from the stage he had had an undying desire for. He gets her (he doesn’t know how completely he has her) and the rest of the crowd. The show goes on, which means so does he but she is left at the curtain call to shine on her own (except she doesn’t, she dissolves under the camera’s lens and cowers in the face of synthetic smiles). Fame is supposed to change people and most of the time it does – not Jongin though, he remains a constant brilliance. He was born to be a star. (So what the is she again?)

A long string of  “hey”, “what’s up?”, “nice to see you,” “how have you been?” swamps her. She picks her response from a limited list of options a) an awkward smile, b) a half-assed high five or c) a lukewarm greeting. They’re all too exhausted to notice anyway.

Those two trail behind, joking about something only they would crack a laugh over. She has to dig her heels into the ground to keep herself from walking the other way. Almost like hypnosis, she has to rewind the tape titled: ‘Sehun did NOT break your heart’ over in her head.

By the look of that boyish grin blooming on his face, she thinks it’s safe to say she made the right decision to drop by.

“What the hell,” Sehun laughs, ecstatic as he pulls her into a tight hug, “Not complaining that you’re here or anything but do you even have time for this?”

“Who cares? This is my break anyway,” She pats his back, smiling into his sweaty tee (gross). “You smell disgusting.”

“Many girls would be happy to smell by BO,” Sehun boasts as he pulls away, “How was New York?”

“Good, I guess.” She shrugs indifferently, “Congrats on the comeback, even if the song is bad.”

Sehun rolls his eye at this rather dull respond. “Let’s go get lunch. Maybe then you’ll have nicer things to say about the rest of the album. Did you even listen to it?”

“You never said anything about the album,” she protests, but allows him to drag her out of the room by the arm. “Where are you taking me? Ever thought I didn’t come here just to see your ugly face?”

And although she knew what would be awaiting her once she looks beyond Sehun’s shoulder, she does anyway. It has become like this for her – she’d rather sneak a peak than be completely deprived of her fill. His hair was mussed, parts of the banging hanging over his eyes (for that, she is grateful) and face covered in a thin layer of sweat. A towel is carefully placed to mask the vulnerability that may or may not plague his facial expression. She couldn’t say for sure but she could have sworn there is a smile somewhere.

-

It’s another typical day in life for her – the manager calls about a photo shoot (magazine, fashion, aesthetic). She hums ‘okay’ to anything and everything because that is her job.

She’s already started on the calculation of how many days she need to fast to meet the goal weight when he informs her of the ‘minor details’  (“Oh, Dazed said that you are more than welcome to decide on the concept for the shoot and the wardrobe, but only if you feel up for it.”)

She says ‘okay’ to this one too, only this time with more enthusiasm and more uncertainty than ever.

(Everything seems to have shifted back into place – almost everything anyway.)

-

It hits her on a Friday afternoon.

She’s got two weeks left to sort her existential crisis issue – Is she walking into that interview as Jung Soojung or f(x)’s Krystal? At this point she may as well have a split personality.