She can’t decide what’s worse – catching the same flight with a cohort which will side-eye her between the cracks of their seats or catching the same flight with her sister as per parents’ order.  Let’s consider this - both guarantees an unpleasant plane trip, one is slightly more humiliating than the other but no one has to know “mum said” is factored into her decision-making process.

In the end, sleep wins and she wouldn’t want to have to keep one eye open; who knows when she’ll get stabbed in the back? Her sister certainly didn’t see it coming.

-

She drags a medium sized suitcase down the hotel’s corridor (room service here is definitely not five star like the online reviews suggested), her hair in disarray and the scarf too small to conceal the breakout on her left cheek and too thin to protect her from Tokyo’s winter.

She knocks at the door rapidly, praying that she didn’t get the room number wrong and that’s not some stalker fan (especially fan girls of the men in the company) waiting on the other side. Reaching into her purse, she fumbles for her cell. Not only does know where her phone is, she has also knocked over her luggage with her boney elbow.

Groaning, she squats down to gather the content of her handbag that she has managed to paint the floor with in the process. (Great, now the hotel’s carpeting smells like expensive Balenciaga perfume.) She’s been living out of the same Max Mara for long enough to know it inside and out but here she is, on her knees and squinting down at a black envelope that she does not recollect having ever seen before this.

Flipping it over, a smaller, white piece of paper falls onto her feet. She catches the golden glint of the ‘B&E’ and doesn’t need to look further into who the culprit is. There’s some hastily written note underneath all that business card details, which she overlooks for the invitation etched with her name (a tastefully thick ‘Copperplate’ styled font – Jung Soojung).

The saying out of sight, out of mind may ring true but how come it doesn’t when it’s the other way around?

-

She folds away her sister’s note for the daytime but unfolds it at bedtime.

(Don’t even think of not turning up. I personally called up the gallery to let them know you’re attending for sure.)

Again, Jessica manages to make a mess out of everything.

-

Surely she shows up but with a set of excuses (Jessica gave her no choice, it’s polite to attend, exhibitions are hobbies of hers, maybe just stop by for a couple of minutes – or ten, her sister made her go, Jessica gave her no choice – like none).

Just think of it like fulfilling a schedule, she comforts herself as she straightens the hems of her LBD (an old purchase she totes around with the hope of one day, finding a suitable occasion to dress herself in – guess this is it then.) Too paranoid for her own good, she overestimates Tokyo’s traffic (and its cab drivers) and wounds up at the reception, half an hour earlier than what she had in mind.

She suspects she had been at stand still for much too long (watching him or avoiding him – she is not entirely sure with herself) because the receptionist is straining with that large smile of hers.

“Uh…I’m just here for the…uh…” she knows she’s not making any grammatical sense and decides to let the invite speaks for itself, “Yeah…the exhibition.”

“Of course,” the lady gives her automatic response, “The exhibition will commence in thirty minute time.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she nods hurriedly, “I know I’m early.”

“Tell you what, here’s what we can do,” she hums, putting down the pen she’s been twirling around her fingers and picks up the phone, “Since you are down on the list as a ‘personal’ invite, how about I let him know you have already arrived? I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine,” she assures in frantic, “Really, it’s okay, it’s really not necessary.”

Too late – the woman was already holding up a hand for ‘hold on, please’ and asking whoever is on the line to inform Mister Choi that there’s a ‘Miss Jung Soojung’ waiting for him at the reception (“Yes, yes, outside gallery one, just next to the recital hall.”) And that woman has the decency to look her in the face and smile?

.

Easy like that, asked and answered. He’s coming towards her like a slowed down shotgun (appropriate analogy because watching him enter the room and approaching closer by the minute is comparable to what she’d think a slow death would feel like). He doesn’t spot her first like he usually does, this time it’s her that’s peering at him from afar – in a dark navy blazer and plain black trousers, a steaming cup in hand and a puffer jacket hanging off his arm.

Not knowing (or questioning) what had possessed her to do so, she meets him halfway and mid pace. Then clears so she could find a voice to squeeze out, “Hi”

He swivels around too quickly and almost knocked what looks like black coffee onto both of them. Taken by surprise, she lets out an inaudible ‘oh’ as the jacket drops to the floor but is relieved to see that there is no coffee stain on neither of them.

“That was close,” she mumbles underneath a nervous chuckle before taking the cup away from him, “Here, I’ll hold onto that.”

She can’t imagine that this is how they’re meeting after all these months – he is unusually clumsy and she is typically skittish. Oddly enough, it makes her feel less small next to him and that, is definitely not of the ordinary.

He groans as he hunches over to retrieve the piece of clothing and drapes it over her shoulders. “This worked out a lot better in my head.”

She stiffens but is daring enough to gaze up as him as he adjusts the sleeves that are adamant on riding up her elbows. This isn’t because he’s slightly touching her (the other night, their hands have brushed enough times under the table for her to find solace in it), it’s actually because how self-conscious he seems to be with his fingers hooked around the lapels as he pulls the jacket closed around her frame.

“That’s for you,” he nods at the coffee, “I thought you might be cold.”

With a slight shake of the head and a smile, she says, “I’m not cold but thanks.”

To show her appreciation, she takes a sip of the Americano anyway (even if the boiling liquid nearly burnt her tongue off – smooth).

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have turned up so early,” she grimaces, “And oh, Jessica couldn’t make it –“

“Your sister?” He quirks a brow then suddenly, his confusion evaporates into a look of mortification, “I didn’t invite her. I thought you knew.”

(Oh great, now that’s just convenient isn’t it? Not only did her sister sends her solo into the lion’s den – a bit of exaggeration, he’s harmless and the perfect gentleman – she also, conveniently forget to tell her that she couldn’t have come even if she wanted to herself, because oh you know, she’s not invited.)

“You didn’t?” She swallows with difficulty, “Why not?”

It didn’t occur to her how incredibly naïve that question was until she had asked it aloud. Already, she can think of several reasons why he chose to not invite her sister; a deplorable, sly fox ex-member of the biggest girl group in their industry.

“Hmm…well, they’re personal invites,” he frowns, leading them down the hallway and away from prying eyes (more like ears), “Don’t you only send those to a small group of people that you want to be here the most?”

Stunned, she can only sputter, “O – of course”

They walk through the gallery (déjà vu much?) until he stops at the door with the ‘staff only’ sign hanging off its knob.  He moves aside for her to enter the room first then follow suit, an inaudible ‘click’ coming from behind him.

“Is it alright with you if we stay in here until the exhibition starts?” He asks, shrugging off his blazer, “The security here is tight but there’s still a chance that there are press waiting around outside.”

She agrees, she can’t afford to take any risk. “No, I think that’s a good idea.”

He busies himself with adjusting the heating and she takes this moment of distraction to wriggle out of the jacket, folding it over her lap.

“You look nice.”

She glances down at her already crinkled dress then back up at him. “Thanks, I didn’t know what to wear so…”

“You looked nice the last time and all the times before that too. But that dress…” he motions at her get up with his hand, his gaze averted to the floor for a second and everything about him is almost...shy, “It suits you. I’ve never seen you in a dress before, you should wear them more often.”

(She lets the silence answer that one because she shouldn’t be flattered – not to that extent anyway.)

He sits down and this time, it’s not across from her but next to her. The couch is too small for any personal space, so she tries not to freak out at his kneecap knocking against her own.

“I…” he trails off but there’s a slight smile as he toys with the clasp hands between his legs, “Honestly, I feel embarrass.” 

Still withdrawn, she asks, “How come?”

“This is all a bit much, don’t you think? I still feel weird, seeing that many photograph of myself hung up all over this place.”

And you know, what’s even weirder? Seeing someone as charismatic like him on stage, just to find out for herself that not unlike her, he too can be uncertain and ambivalent.

“I still remember what you said in New York,” she blurts out, “I really hope you got to do everything you had in mind. Everything you described to me that night – it’s not embarrassing at all, I thought it was kind of brilliant actually.”

He’s quiet (she swears she spoke too fast for him to get any of that), absorbing this information as she fidgets away at her freshly manicured nails.

“I make a lot of funny faces like I promised you I would,” he peers over at her, smiling cheekily, “So I think you’ll enjoy that, at least.”

She laughs and it’s not forced, not for a show or to divert the attention from her pain but a real laugh – one where you hear and know she means every second of it.

Feeling playful, she teases, “Am I supposed to report back which pictures I think you’re posing for performance’s sake and which ones are candid?”

“It’s not a guessing game for you,” he says sincerely, “You’d be able to tell.”

(And she’d like to believe that.)

-

She thinks to herself that she’ll tell him later (probably won’t) how much she adores the first portrait (the big, yellow one of him with his back turned towards them and staring into the unknown a.k.a the future). She doesn’t know why she is but she is proud – this is him, this must be because every inch of this exhibition he can declare to be ‘his’. It’s not some PR crafted show or a holiday season photo op where the only acceptable pose is with a well-practiced smiley face.

She’s happy for him, but sad for herself.

-

It’s not until she’s back in Seoul, on the road and dying to be in her own bed that she hauls his photo book from underneath the rolls of sock and scarf she hoards in her carry-on. (she must have not been as careful as she initially thought because the receptionist from earlier that afternoon had managed to stop her at the door before shoving a ‘gift from Mister Choi’ into her arm.)

Like a naughty schoolgirl, she shoves the book inside of her coat and flips through it. Careful not to wake up Luna from her slumber besides her (that girl would have a heart attack if she was to find out – if there’s anything to find out, that is), she’s left with no choice but to put her phone on flashlight mode and shove it between her armpit for low quality vision.

She comes close to turning the New York section of the photo collection when her phone drops onto the page, shining LED light on the Sharpie-written phone number.

She doesn’t make room for him on her contact list. (No, she rips off that offending section into a neat rectangle and sticks it into a random slot of her wallet.)

-

Surprisingly enough, in the aftermath of all this, the person she finds hardest to talk to is Taemin. Which is ironic because if you think about it, they’re in the same boat – heart broken, lost and alone.

She likes to think it’s not because they no longer feel as connected as they used to but it’s the circumstances that are to blame. Theoretically speaking, it makes sense – her ex-boyfriend is his best friend and his ex-girlfriend is her best friend (she would never admit it to Jinri’s face but she still kind of is), naturally the love life part of the conversation is done for – except the matter of fact is that every part of their conversation is done for.

She puts in the most effort she has in a year time and comes bearing packet of chips, chocopies and cans of soft drinks. It feels like old times, even though he was the one doing all the sneaking back then.

“Hey,” she turns up unannounced at the studio’s door, “You busy?”

Icy blonde fringe hanging over his eyes, patches of sweat all over his tee and a boyish smile that never seems to change with age, that’s the Taemin she knows and loves.

“Nope,” he says between ragged breath, sliding down against the mirror and onto the wood floor, “Anyone that brings food is welcomed.”

“Lucky for me then,” she jokes weakly, scampering over to him and setting down the armful of snacks, “Potato chips or…uh…sweet potato chips?”

He chuckles, picking up one of the green packet and tearing it open. “This is just sad.”

“The vending machines here aren’t anything to write home about, you should know that by now.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he mutters, rolling his eyes, “It’s been a while since we’ve hung out like this.”

Sadly, she can only nod in agreement. “Yeah, I know. How are things?”

“I’m good, I guess,” he shrugs apathetically, popping a sweet potato chip into his mouth, “What about you?”

“Better,” she admits and it’s the most truthful she’s been with him in months (and more than he’s ever been to her), “What about you? Have you spoken to Jinri lately? She still calls every once in a while – not that I pick up or anything.”

“No, Sulli hasn’t tried calling me,” he tells her distantly, nudging the chips over to her, “So no I haven’t spoken to her.”

At first, she assumed that Taemin had by accident, referred to Jinri by her stage name because she’s no longer of any personal significance to him. But with every flinch that comes with the mention of her friend’s name, she realizes that Taemin’s feelings for Jinri has now become too private and too painful to be exposed to the world.

-

For a week, she obsessively scrolls through Pinterest boards and tears enough pages from high fashion and art magazines to make a decent collage of a timeline for the nineties.

Her room has been turned upside down – there are bits of paper cut outs scattered everywhere, she sleeps with glue sticks next to her pillow and computer’s screen blinking close in time with her eyelids.  

She doesn’t need to create a masterpiece. She just wants something to call her own.

-

It’s the combination of watching her two weeks worth of (hard) work come to live on set and the racks of clothing she had chosen all by hand being rolled out before her that deludes her into thinking it’s okay to call him.

It’s not that he doesn’t pick up; he does. She finds a secluded corner behind all the umbrella lights and holds her breath for the rest of the impregnable silence that if goes on any longer, will (literally) suffocates her to death.

“Soojung,” and she can’t recall the last time he said her name without an air of deflection, “Are you there?”

“Y – yeah, I am,” she gives a startled laugh because she can hardly believe he didn’t ignore her call, “You’re probably wondering why I called and uh…I’m on set, for a photo shoot.”

He murmurs something far enough away from the phone so that she wouldn’t hear one word no matter how hard she had tried. “For which one?”

“Dazed magazine,” she says a beat too quickly, “They actually let me decide on all of the details. I’m really excited but also, nervous – like really nervous.”

“I know you are, but you’ve never not been great at anything you put your mind to,” he sounds too sure of himself that she doesn’t think to question it.

But then she hears his soft exhale, a breath full of rejection and bitterness, as if this call has been too torturous than he’d like to admit.

“It’s a big opportunity, Soojung,” he tells her carefully, “You shouldn’t be talking to me on the phone.”

“Why?”

(Because he’s not her boyfriend anymore, because he can’t stand to look her in the eyes after what she’s become, because he doesn’t have time to deal with her issues, because it’s complicated.)

“You should go get ready for your shoot,” he ends it at that, “Good luck”

-

“What happened to your eyeliner?” The makeup artist asked, appalled as she rummages through her kit for a cotton bud, “Sit down –“

“Krystal-shii,” is a call of worship that comes from behind her, straightening in the chair, she swivels her head around to be met by a beaming look from the contributing editor, “We were all just talking about how much we love the whole concept of this shoot. The nineties aesthetic is exactly what we need for our magazine – it’s fresh and it’s on trend.”

“Thank you –“

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she pipes up, clasping her hands together in excitement, “We are so, so impressed by your mood board for the shoot.  I have to admit, I was worried that with your schedule and idol life, you wouldn’t be able to put this together on time but you really did the work to make this come together as beautifully as it did.”

She can feel the approval rolling off the older woman as she squeezes her shoulder. There is no false motive or flattery, only commendations she deserves and for that she smiles wider in the vanity. (It’s not at the reflection of the woman besides her but at herself, she has done something worthy of the potential she wasn’t, until now, sure she possessed.)

“Can we leave the eye makeup on like this?”

The makeup artist looks incredulous. “Uh…if you’d like to, yes, I guess we can.”

She looks unpolished – too ordinary for an idol. With her fore finger, she smudges the precise edges of the lipstick and the same with the kohl liner. She tousles her strands, ditches the hairspray and is okay with who she is.

-

It’s not a big deal but she still feels like celebrating.

She invites the girls over to an empty house after a long day of on and off dance practice (with disruptions of Amber doing the finish touches to her already finished recordings and Luna’s musical rehearsals). Qian comes bearing home-cooked Chinese food that they all love (and miss dearly) and thus, why the four of them wound up standing around the kitchen.

While cleaning up the dining table and dumping a stack of dirty dishes into the sink, it dawns on her that this has been the most at peace they’ve been since Jinri left.

-

She was leaving the building when it happens and she counts her blessings that she wasn’t alone. (Luna had been telling her all about this new exercise routine that was “absolutely killing her back” and she had been opening the door for them). All in all, it had to happen sooner or later but she likes to tell herself she can keep putting it back until the end of time.

Three of them stand before her, jaws slack and speechless. (What could they have said? “Hi, how have you been? Sorry for unceremoniously firing your sister from the group she's been a part of for seven ing years.” Didn’t think so.)

To everyone’s shock, it’s Tiffany that is the first to speak.

She doesn’t let her. She pushes pass them and out the doo she goes; she doesn’t bow because screw seniority when they spend favorite hobby is playing high school. And they won’t have one bad thing to say – if they had any common sense at all, they’d know she owes them nothing and she sure as hell doesn’t have any respect left to spare.

“,” she curses, trembling outside in the cold without a coat and again, louder this time, “, , ”

(It’s too late, she’s lost too many people for apologies to mean anything – she hopes Tiffany knows that.)

-

It’s not until she gets into a cab that she comes to the conclusion that she has nowhere to go.

(“Miss, where to? Miss, hey, miss – did you hear me? Miss!”)

In a spur of the moment, she pries her wallet from the back pocket of her jeans and fumbles through the many cards for that one piece of paper. Buying her time with the driver, (“I promise I am going somewhere.”) she squints at the digits and types them onto her phone.

She feels like throwing up here and there on the backseat of the taxi when the call goes through on the fourth ring, but suspects she would have done it for real if it didn’t.

“Hi, it’s Soojung,” she says urgently, “I know it’s late and,” she takes a deep breath to ready herself for what she’s about to ask of him, “I know I shouldn’t bother you like this but I – this is it,” she scoffs at how pathetic this whole situation is, “I have no one else I can turn to. You’re the only one left.”

This is his cue to hang up or worse, reprimands her with a pause that will make her mind wander to the depth of her despair.

He doesn’t.

“Where are you?”

She’s almost too shocked to answer him. “I’m in a cab, outside SM’s headquarter.”

“Let me speak to the driver.”

She mumbles a broken ‘okay’ and does as he asks. Too absorbed in her own distress, the only voice she registers is the one in her head, sounding something like an old lullaby Jongin used to hum, the one that is supposed to pacify her but only makes everything spin.

The driver shouts loud enough for her to care to respond.

Sympathetically, he places the cell back in her palm and instinctively; she puts it to her ear. 

“Stay on the phone with me.”

Seunghyun asks her a favor but it’s more like him that’s doing her one.

-

She has no idea where she is but she sees a tall figure, face hidden away in a hooded parka jacket and a face mask (like he told her, she would) when the car pulls up before an alleyway.

She’s got cash ready in hand with a generous additional tip for the driver’s patience when Seunghyun knocks at his window. He abides, eagerly accepting the fee and a little extra – if he had recognized her from the rear view mirror, he doesn’t now. As she steps out, a gush of cold wind drains all the body heat she had gathered in the past half an hour of the ride that took to get here.

Wordlessly, he unlocks the door and together, they walk through it to be enveloped by total darkness. A minute later, the room lights up to reveal that it’s an empty restaurant kitchen that they’re standing in.

Immediately, she makes a move to voice her gratitude but he beats her to it. “Jesus, you’re shaking.”

Seunghyun wraps her up in the parka he’s been wearing and it’s more or less a sadder repeat of the last time they met. Absentmindedly, she wonders if this is how it’s going to be with them – him doing this sort of stuff because she can’t even do these simple things herself.

“Don’t you have a coat with you?”

“I left it behind,” she explains, taking her tangled tresses out of the collar, “This is going to sound weird, but I ran out of the SM building on a whim and couldn’t go back in.”

He fixes her with an unbelieving look that inspires her to ramble on, “I could, have technically gone back in but I didn’t want to and avoided it at all cost.”

He looks amused (more worried, but still amused) but doesn’t press her any further while they’re on this topic.

Feeling unnerved by his closeness, she rushes out in one hurried breath. “How do you take your coffee?”

Seunghyun’s eyebrows kit together. “Black, no sugar. Why are you asking?”

“I can do that,” she thinks she can anyway but nevertheless, is grateful that he went with one of the easier options, “Or am I not allowed to use the kitchen?

He confirms with a shake of the head, still looking confused with where she is going with this. “This place is closed for the night. We’re the only ones in here. But wait, what are you planning on doing?”

She plays it off casual – at least she think she succeeds at it. “Making you coffee”

“Why are you making me coffee?” He laughs and she’s unsure of what that throaty sound indicates, “I feel like we should be finding something to eat.”

 “I…” she purses her lips, “I can cook for you, I guess, but I don’t think it will be any good. So the least I can do to thank you for everything,” she scans her surroundings, taking in the sheer size of the kitchen – she can’t begin to imagine how extravagance the rest of this venue is, “Is make you an easy to swallow cup of Americano.”

Seunghyun looks right at her (she thinks it might be the first time for them too) and she waits for that twinge of discomfort to arrive but it never did. It’s that grin, she thinks, it’s one she’s never seen on him before – a sunny smile that leaves his eyes crinkled in the corners and boasts those dimples that somehow managed to pass her by all this time. 

She gets to work and the coffee is done eventually, though it would have been made much quicker if she could only stop herself from glancing over at him every other second.

-

As bad as it sounds, she wishes it was Jongin she called and she wishes it was Jongin she could turn to.

(He’s lost to you. When are you going to get that through your head, you stupid girl?)

-

He finds some French biscuits in one of the cabinets, which are probably the least expensive thing in this place and not something anyone would miss too badly. They settle in the bar area, drinking two cups of bitter but warm coffee.

“Would it be too much to ask you about what happened?”

She thinks of this as their crossroad – she can either trust him with everything or nothing at all. (But you see, the more she tries to piece things back together, the more they break her.) He’s made it clear that she doesn’t owe him anything for ‘coming to her rescue’ (as she’d romanticized if her life was a fairytale – it’s not), she doesn’t have to confide in him any of her, deep, dark secrets but she could if she wanted. He had plenty of chances to turn her away but he’s still here, isn’t he?

 “Why did you come?” she asks haltingly, “You barely even know me. You could have easily leave me to be someone else’s problem.”

She waits patiently, but he doesn’t say anything between those long sips of coffee. She’s starting to think he can’t come up with any compelling reasons why they’re here or what this whole night was for. (, why did she make him question everything?)

“I don’t want you to scare you off,” he begins with an unwarranted warning, “It’s like you said; I barely know you, Soojung so I don’t know how what I’m about to say next is going sound,” he looks as nervous as she is waiting for him to continue. “I didn’t like the thought of you being upset and alone. I know what that feels like and I…” his gaze flits to hers for a silver of a second but return to the ground just as quickly as she can take them leaving a mark on her, “I wanted you to know someone cares.”

It’s irrational and incredibly naive but she lets him in, completely.

-

She starts from the beginning and doesn’t let herself stop until she gets to the end. It would take hours because last year had been a lengthy one – not in the sense that it drained her physically but rather, mentally. (To be more specific: a couple of people took the time to ruin her life and there was nothing she could do but watch as it all went to hell.)  You’d think a new year would mean rising from the ashes but she can’t move anywhere. She’s exactly where she was months ago; trapped under the debris of the apocalyptic storm that followed everywhere in her wake.

“I want to scream, all the time,” she scoffs at that ridiculous notion, “I think to myself, ‘this is it – today I’m going to finally tell them how I feel, I’m really going to do it’ but I never could go through with it. It’s like I – I get scared about what might happen after I say everything that’s been bothering me, so in the end, I don’t say anything at all and…I hide.”

(Yup, that sounds about right. ‘Hiding’: the correct term for her good, old favorite toxic cycle.)

Seunghyun appraises her with tenderness; a look she’s been deprived of for how long, she can’t seem to recall. “Do you think you’ll feel better once you tell them?”

“Do you?”

He seems to be consider his answer carefully, then, “That depends on you,” he says at last, “I don’t think anyone can decide on that but you, Soojung.”

She breaks the habit of holding back. (She doesn’t need to with him, it’s a bit too late for that now.) “If I don’t, do you think it will ever go away?”

He blinks. “What will go away?”

“This,” she knows she’s not making much sense like this, waving her hands in the air at nothing, “All these changes that are happening.”

Seunghyun sits back, his face unreadable. On one hand, she is convinced that the obscure clarification of her ‘first world’ problems has puzzled him but then on another, she feels that he is simply studying her (he may or may not have been doing this for the past two hours.)

 “I keep thinking things will go back to normal if I wait long enough,” she confesses, holding his gaze for too long that it makes her mind spin, “That’s dumb, isn’t it?”

“Maybe it is,” his honesty is like a stab to the chest but his sheepish smile softens the blow, “If you think about it is, thinking changes can be reversed is like thinking we can go back in time. I hope you don’t take this the wrong way…” Seunghyun trails off to steal a glance at her, as if to make sure she has not taken any offense, “It’s better to let it all out before things become too complicated to fix. But,” he hesitates yet, “I think you’re setting yourself up for disappointment if you think doing that means the consequences of everything that transpired in the last few years of your life will be corrected.”

She can chalk up some bull about not wanting just that – how she only wants to make amends and face her demons head on but the fact is, she had never once opened up her mind (or heart) to the prospect of dealing with circumstances as they are – volatile and cruel.

 Somehow, this is what she’s been waiting for – a wake up call.

-

(Nothing is ever in tune with her body – her mind screams to say but asks to leave. A part of her had hope that this night extends into the morning but he doesn’t, which is the right thing to do. However, he does insist on having his driver drop her home and she accepts but doesn’t ask why he’s not coming along, which is the right thing to do. Neither of them asks when they’ll see each other again, which is the right thing to do.)

She’s rubbing the fog off her bedroom window with the sleeves of her pajamas and mulling over texting him (a lackluster ‘thank you’ message will do) when her phone notifies her that she now put that thought to rest.

(One unread message: Did you get home safely?)

-

She knows she should have called in advance but picking up the phone had brought on the classic case of a meltdown, so she settles for a half an hour mental hypnosis (“it’s going to be fine, you can do it, just get it over and done with, you need to do this”) in the car and an extra five minutes after she’s parked outside.

She walks up to the door, her hands balled up in a fist and ready to knock thrice.

She doesn’t. Not for a while – for a while, she is frozen when she is suddenly reminded of how often she used to come over on weekends. The front yard matches up to her photographic memory; the bushes neatly trimmed and vegetable patch ready to be picked.

(Their friendship is a thing of melancholy)

“Soojung?” it sounds like the voice of a liar, “Soojungie – oh my god, that is really you!”

She thought she was done being angry because for Christ sake, it’s been over a year already. She’s over the whole ‘my best friend left me to fend for myself’ thing (hurt – yes, still but that’s justifiable), she swear to god she is but –

“How could you just leave?”

She feels a surge of anger leaves her and doesn’t bother to stop it. A couple of feet away from her is a girl she accepts to be Jinri but at the same time, she’s anything but. Her crimson hair, her doe eyes, her long limbs – that’s her best friend, all right. So why is everything so wrong and ugly from where she’s standing? But them meeting after all this time, it shouldn’t be like this. She isn’t supposed to hate her like this.

“You can’t even look me in the eyes,” she whispers hotly, “So are you going to answer me or not?”

“I’m sorry,” is not an answer, “I am so, so sorry for leaving, you, Luna, Amber, Qian unni, Taemin –“

“We know you’re sorry,” she interrupts her savagely, “Now I want to know how easy it was for you to get up and go. I’ve thought about it, so many times,” she speaks and every word is punctured with heavy resignation, “And I don’t get it. One day you’re right next to me, taking stage directions and prepping for radio interviews. Then the next day, I come back from filming and your room is empty, there are boxes everywhere, no one would tell me anything about what was happening or where you were going and you – you didn’t even say goodbye – god, you could have said something, Jinri, anything and I would have – ”

“You wouldn’t have let me go,” Jinri finishes for her, because they both know full well she couldn’t have, “You would have said, “you and I, we’re going to get through this together.” And I would have believed you. But I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Why not? Like a child, she wants to throw a tantrum – yell at Jinri until all this frustration drains out of her system and leaves her with nothing but a numbing stupor.

Jinri sees right through her, she always has.

“I really tried ‘til the very end,” she says with a watery smile, taking a step forward.

I know, she can’t own up to that one but she’s ready to with this one, “Everything went to after you left. My sister got kicked out, Taemin is acting weird, Jongin dumped me and I've been trying to fix it, nothing works - nothing seems to work anymore."

She doesn’t know what did it, how solemnly Jinri is gazing at her or wishing so much that there is someone to depend on. The unexpected feeling of losing everyone and everything returns to her like a ghost she never shook off in the first place, possessing with such fright that it knocks the air right out of her lungs. It could have been yesterday, it could have been a month ago, it could have been a decade ago – does it really matter? People leave, whenever they want and come back, whenever they want.

“You should have tried harder.”

(Jinri has always been the stronger one out of the two of them.)