Saturday afternoon and I have the apartment all to myself for the weekend.

Huiryong is visiting her parents and Ayeon is away for an out of the city work thing. At least that’s what it says on the messages they sent to my phone this morning before they left. I woke up a little after noon to an unnaturally quiet space. Metaphorical space. Huiryong and Ayeon would play music in the mornings, if not that then someone would be watching something on their computers, or they’d be talking to each other and banging loudly at furniture as they went about. Lately, there’s been more of silence. And it was beginning to get too loud.

I’m trying to work on my songs, but I keep drifting back to last night. Why are the worst nights of your life always broadcast at a 24-hour delay? What benefit could there possibly be to reliving yesterday’s worst moments today?

Granted, this isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. However, Ayeon is one of the best things that’s ever happened to my life, and I couldn’t risk letting her down. But it seems, that’s all I’ve ever been. A disappointment.

This time last year, I would be on my way to Catharsis to set up for the night’s DJing gig. For about a year, I worked three nights a week, taking any job I could get booked for, but Saturday nights at Catharsis were the best. It’s where Kitty Kat really took off and instead of begging floor managers to let me spin, promoters began coming to me. Huiryong and Ayeon helped me set up my press kit, and Joonyoung introduced me to all the club managers and promoters he knew. I wasn't just writing and mixing music because I liked doing it, or playing for college parties for exposure. After my first night at Catharsis, I’ve gotten a substantial following which is more than I could have ever imagined.

I had an audience who came to see me play, clients interested in booking me for events, and a big summer festival invitation to perform. But this came with people expecting things from my shows and questioning the creative directions I took. Some would trash me on social media, saying my style had changed too much in such a short course of time, that I’ve become too fluffy and too mainstream. That I used to be good, but have since lost the magic.

“Get over yourself,” Joonyoung would say, crawling into the curb outside the convenience store with me at three in the morning and taking my phone away. “You don’t owe anyone anything. You should stay away from social media. It’s bad for your health.”

“They’re saying my songs have become formulaic. And flat. That I should probably find a mentor because my days as an overrated kid with a laptop are over.”

“You’ll still be a kid with a laptop tomorrow.”

“Maybe I really am a one-hit wonder. What if my best work is already behind me?”

“I just said you’re still a kid with a laptop. You’re barely legal. You have six more decades to figure out what you want to do with your music.”

“They said tonight’s set was underperformed and unoriginal.”

“Life itself is underperformed and unoriginal.”

In a manner of speaking, Joonyoung was right, though I was reluctant to believe him. At the time, I felt that if I didn’t get to do everything at that moment, then I’d lose whatever it is people saw in my music. I thought I was finally being heard, that I was finally loud enough for people to pay attention. It’s ironic. I finally get the attention I crave, and it’s exactly the disaster I didn’t need or want.

You’re going to save music, someone once commented on my page. I tried not to let it get to my head. Music saved me, after all. I knew even then that in the grand scale of things, I was nobody. I may have allowed myself to think that I was on the way to becoming somebody, but Joonyoung kept me grounded. He didn’t even have to do anything. I’d just look at him, remind myself that he’s so much better than I am, and if anyone deserves the attention, it’s Joonyoung.

On nights like these, after a gig or sometimes just out of the blue, Joonyoung and I would stay up late just talking about his music—I was as in love with his music as I was with him. I loved hearing his dark basso cantante.  It was more than enough to distract me from obsessing over the criticism and the pressure to do well in class. Joonyoung would just show up, steal me away from my composing or my studying, and we’d listen to each other knowing we’d never grow tired of talking about the same things over and over again.

Or anyway, that’s what I thought at the time.

I’m sorry about last night, I start to write in a message for Ayeon. I’ll end up saving this as a draft to go over and over again before actually sending it. If I even send it at all.

I’m just not ready yet. I wasn’t ready, I didn’t even have proper material with me.

It all sounds like an excuse.

I delete the message and turn off my phone screen.

I turn off all the lights. Close all the drapes. Check if the door is locked.

I sit back on my desk. Check my phone. Pull up a new message. Type a word. Delete.

I open up my digital audio workstation. Close it again.

I check if the door is locked.

Shut down my computer.

Switch off my phone.

I climb into bed and lay face down on the covers.

The Best of My Worst begins in 3…2…1…

***

“Did you finish our song yet?”

Our song. Siren. Wonpil wrote the lyrics and composed the melody. My job is to arrange and transform the song into a solid demo. We’re doing this outside of class now, writing together just because. We’re (as in myself, Wonpil, and Dowoon) somewhere in the quad because Wonpil likes it outside. I asked if we could meet at the studio instead, but he was adamant that getting enough sunshine would be good for my health. You need fresh air, he said. Debatable, in my opinion, but what’s the point in arguing with Wonpil?

“I’m still working on it,” I say, conscious of Dowoon’s presence. Siren is a song about summer, something about the sand and the waves, something about you and me. Wonpil recorded the demo vocals, but we both agree that it might sound better with a female voice. Usually, I get Ayeon to sing for me, but we haven’t really spoken about the other night yet. She’s been her usual self towards me, but I still didn’t feel right.

“I really want a guitar riff at the start and then a solo somewhere before the bridge. But I can’t guitar,” I say.

“I know someone who can help you with that.”

“It’s okay, I have a someone I can consult.” I’ll ask Jae. Better to ask Jae than meet any one of Wonpil’s many friends and acquaintances.

“But I really think you’d get along with this guy.”

I shake my head and turn to watch a couple of guys—I think Jackson might be one of them—play frisbee on the grass. “This isn’t your roommate, is it?”

“Yes. I really think you’ll like him.”

“I’m really starting to think there’s this propaganda to get me to meet people. What do you get out of this?”

Wonpil has the audacity to look offended. “You need more friends. Meet new people.”

“I really don’t.”

Dowoon nods, as if he knows exactly what I’m going through. Wonpil has been dragging him around everywhere like his shiny new toy. I want to feel bad for him, but sometimes when Dowoon thinks no one is looking, I see him smiling to himself. I thought I imagined it when we recorded the drums for our demo last week, but it’s been consistent for the past four times we’ve seen each other.

“Have you been meeting new people?” I ask Dowoon.

Surprised, Dowoon looks up. “Not on purpose.”

“See?” I say to Wonpil, “you can’t just drag people around and force them to meet new people.”

“Why not?” Wonpil whines. He thinks this works on everybody. It probably does, but again that’s not the point. Wonpil is the kind of person who comes into your life unannounced and stays there, and you’re just going to have to accept it. I’ve come to terms with my losses, but I still really need to work. “We should all be friends anyway. There’s enough room for everyone. What are you doing this weekend?”

“Homework.”

“That’s no fun. Come see our band practice? Maybe give us an unbiased third-party objective opinion?”

Dowoon is just looking back and forth at us, eyes bouncing like a tennis ball.

“I really need to work on my demos.”

“It’ll be fun.” Wonpil gives me his winning smile. “Please?”

I look down at my watch. I have songwriting in two minutes. I am ten minutes away from the lecture room. “I’m gonna be late for class.”

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