Kim Chungha believes that she takes the rain with her wherever she goes. Dark grey clouds and torrential rain seem to follow her, almost as if she is a harbinger of unfavorable weather. Her manager dismisses the phenomenon as merely the rainy season but she thinks that it is too much of a coincidence for it to truly be a coincidence. It has happened so frequently that she has started to imagine herself as a kind of jinx, or an icon for bad luck.

Even though she knows that rain trails after her like a chasing shadow, she never brings an umbrella anyway, choosing to get caught in the shower. She lets the raindrops pelt against her skin—and they create a sort of rhythm; a rhythm she calls her own heartbeat. (It does not matter if it is inconsistent because at the very least, she feels it.)

Then her manager has to rush towards her, holding an open umbrella in one hand while wearing a frantic expression, puddles of water splashing against her manager’s shoes. She always gets chided at for wandering around in the open while it is raining, but she never minds—preparing an umbrella beforehand feels almost unnatural to her, like it is something she should not do. Perhaps it is the temporal nature of the shelter an umbrella provides, or how the rain seems to be inescapable, Chungha thinks of the attempt as futile.

Even now, as she resides in her dressing room, waiting to be called up on stage, the rain is relentlessly colliding against her window—almost as if it is looking for her. The sound of the rain fills the empty room and Chungha is grateful. She would rather hear the rain than vacant silence.

Even though she has been carrying out her solo activities for a while now, she can never really get used to the lack of noise. The IOI members were always so rowdy—and colorful. If she closes her eyes, it is not hard to imagine them playing around, the room bustling with liveliness. (Somi and Kyulkyung’s voice would be the loudest of all. Their voices would definitely be followed by Nayoung’s strict leader voice, telling everyone to try to calm down.) She cannot fathom how the dressing room seems so huge now.

Her days as a soloist are a far cry from her days as a member of IOI.

In retrospect, maybe she should not have let herself gotten too close for comfort, for she knew that IOI had a deadline. But it was difficult not to get close, the IOI members were open, welcoming, accepting, and now she cannot remember how her life was like before IOI. She was supposed to move on. It has been months since IOI officially disbanded. And yet, it always feels like it was just yesterday when all eleven of them were together.

Chungha tries her best to cling on to whatever is left of IOI. She keeps the IOI friendship ring wound around her left index finger, she saves their group photo and uses it as her phone wallpaper, she even has one of their group photos printed out and framed up. Even so, she knows these are mere representations of what once was and it is not truly IOI; Mementos and photos cannot capture the cheerfulness and boisterousness they possess.

The feeling is more than what books and novels usually describe. It feels more than a piece of her missing, it is more than simply incompleteness. Without the other ten members beside her, she feels crippled, dysfunctional, like she cannot get anything right.

And right on cue, a staff knocks on the door and pops her head in, “Chungha-ssi, it’s time for your solo stage. Are you ready?”

She can only wear a small, resigned smile.

“Yes.”

///

The car ride to her salon is quiet. She would usually make some small talk with her manager at least but today in particular, her tongue feels too big for and she does not know what to say. It seems like her manager knows, because he simply flicks on the radio, content with soft ballads filling the silence.

Chungha just stares out the window. It is times like these, when work does not swamp her and she has time to think, that she remembers IOI. She really wishes the other ten did not surface in her mind so much because it just reminds her of how alone she is but she cannot help it. It is hard not to wonder how they are doing; if they are sleeping well or eating well.

She considers shooting them a message in the group chat but decides not to in the end. (She knows she will feel even emptier after receiving their replies.)

Trying to rid her mind of negative thoughts, she adjusts her focus to the scenery outside the vehicle once more. Nightfall and rain seem to have dipped the sky in sheer black paint. It feels like a long while before they finally arrive at their destination, the car stopping noiselessly in front of the entrance.

When Chungha steps into her usual salon, she expects to be greeted by emptiness but instead, there is a terribly cheery voice that almost seems to disturb the silence of the room. It is ten in the evening and her salon would usually be empty. She would not even be here if she did not have a weekly idol filming later near midnight. As she nears the chirpy voice, she soon realizes that the voice originates from a sunbae—the very same sunbae whom she would film weekly idol with later.

Her first instinct is to make a deep bow while greeting her. The Korean entertainment industry is cutthroat and being aware of the hierarchy and respecting sunbaes are very significant. Being in favour with a sunbae (especially the long-standing, famous ones) means possibly obtaining more opportunities and getting a good public image. As she is Canadian, it makes it all the more harder for her to understand the complexities and inner-workings of the industry, which is why she would rather be too formal rather than lax.

“Good evening, sunbaenim!”

What immediately follows is an all too feminine giggle that Chungha struggles not to cringe at. As she lifts her head, she notices how the sunbae has on what seems to be a friendly smile, her head tilted to one side, straight jet-black hair gathering and falling past her left shoulder elegantly. The blatant red lipstick she has on is so glaring juxtaposed to her pale white skin, Chungha finds it difficult to tear her eyes away from the sunbae’s lips.

“You must be Chungha,” the sunbae guesses before introducing herself. “I’m Sunmi. It’s really nice to be able to meet you.”

Chungha bows again, “No, the honour is all mine, sunbaenim.”

Sunmi, with her pretty eyes and pretty smile, beckons Chungha over, tapping the seat next to her eagerly. Chungha wishes she can reject; she is not really in the mood for conversation this late into the night. She would really rather save the conversation for later during the filming than talk now but she tries a small smile, hoping it would not come across as a wince.

When she was with IOI, she was more inclined to conversations. She was open and vulnerable, but it was okay because she had ten other friends with her—they could console her, protect her. (And now, she has no one.)

The loneliness that engulfs her even when she isn’t alone is a stinging reminder that she really is all alone.

As she tries her best to feel comfortable and at ease with the current situation, Sunmi leans in, effectively intruding her personal space. Her first instinct is to jerk away and she does exactly that, only to inhale sharply when she realizes that the action might have seemed impolite.

“I’m sorry, sunbaenim! You surprised me,” she apologizes profusely.

Sunmi laughs it off, “No, I was too eager. It happens a lot.”

Sunmi laughs a lot, Chungha notices, often tossing her hair to one side and covering with a single hand daintily as she does so. Even the tone of her laughter is high-pitched and girly—everything about her just spells femininity. Chungha would not be surprised if the sunbae had tons of male suitors trying to court her. This sunbae could even be dating now—she does give off the aura of a girl in love with how giggly she acts.

Chungha shakes her head adamantly, “It’s not your fault.”

“You’re too tensed, Chungha-yah!” she exclaims, placing a gentle hand on Chungha’s shoulder. “Relax. Don’t be too nervous around me.”

Somehow, the hand on her shoulder feels more unnerving than comforting and she tries to refrain from shrugging the hand off. She knows that Sunmi only has good intentions. Her eyes are kind and bright with a kind of feminine innocence, almost to the point of naivete. But Chungha cannot suppress this feeling of reluctance and aversion that is steadily growing in her chest. She wonders why she cannot seem to control her own emotions because this sunbae is so accepting and unguarded, there is no reason why she should be feeling like this.

She presses her lips together and forces herself to smile, “I’ll try, sunbaenim.”

The conversation soon dies down when Sunmi mentions how tired she is due to comeback preparation and wants to get some shuteye. Sunmi closes her eyes and soon drifts off to sleep. She is so motionless that if not for the steady rise and fall of her chest, Chungha might have mistaken her to be dead. It nearly scares Chungha, how someone so bubbly and full of life can be so still and silent. Now, Sunmi looks like art—so beautiful, but static. Her heart jumps and she has to clench her fist to resist the urge to wake Sunmi up.

Chungha isn’t sure why her emotions are in a flurry and she can hardly keep them in check. She is repulsed by Sunmi’s optimism but she also does not want that life in her to die.

The makeup artist continues her work using a brush, the tips of it gently grazing against the tip of Sunmi’s nose. Chungha just stares at the girl as her own stylist paints her lips a natural pink. Sunmi’s makeup artist seems to have noticed Chungha’s eyes on Sunmi, for she chuckles lowly.

“She is very pretty, isn’t she?” the makeup artist asks, wearing an amused smile.

The sudden question flusters Chungha, “A-Ah. Right. Yes, she is.”

The makeup artist shakes her head fondly at Sunmi, “Pretty, but she’s a handful sometimes.”

“She’s lively,” Chungha tries a neutral comment.

A laugh. “It might be a bit much at first but… it’s also what makes her so lovable, you know? She’s a real sunshine.”

As she nods, her eyes wander to the window and the scenery outside. The rain is letting up but it’s still just as dark as before. Her vision is filled with blackness and she briefly wonders how the city would look like if it was caressed by sunshine.

///

It is not the first time she has been to the Weekly Idol studio but somehow, the backdrop feels whiter and paler than the last time she was here. Hyungdon sunbae and Defconn sunbae are very accommodating people. They joke around a lot but Chungha feels like the comedic face they put on is meant to put her at ease during the filming. It is heartwarming and Chungha feels herself lightening up as filming proceeds smoothly.

Throughout the shoot, Sun