keep in touch
"keep in touch"an: i can't... write angst lmfao does the ang in angst stand for angry? because it sure does to me!
The lights glare down on them. The whole stage is filled with a deafening silence as Park Jinyoung himself brings the mic to his lips for the last announcement that will ever matter to Minho. He only has to hear three words before he’s shutting down, blacking out the rest of that night.
“I’m sorry, Minho.”
He’ll vaguely recall, later, the rest of the members coming up to him with tears in their eyes, trying to hold and comfort him as he robotically answered, “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Although looking back, he’s not sure whether that’s his actual memory, or if Minho only remembers the scenes that Mnet edited onto the screen, the scenes that he’s only been able to watch once in his life before closing the box and filing it away to never be opened again.
The rest of the night, he remembers in pieces and flashes, between excusing himself to go to the bathroom again and again so that he could scrub cold water on his eyes and congratulating Felix for making it out of elimination even though he alone didn’t. Because hey, Felix is young, fresh, and most of all, deserving. Minho’s just a backup dancer; he never could take the front stage, so why did he try, anyway, he wonders.
Even though the others invite him to come out with them for the celebratory dinner, Minho can’t help but decline. “I have some things to take care of, anyway. You guys go out and have fun. I’m so proud of you,” he says, forcing a smile onto his face. After the first elimination, it’s really become too easy, a wide grin sliding onto a face where it doesn’t belong.
Back in the dorm, it’s quiet for the first time in a while. With all of s out, there’s no Seungmin to shout, no Hyunjin to cause a ruckus. But then, Minho realizes. They’re no longer s. It is at that moment that it really all hits him, deep in his core. He’s just lost his chance at debut. His future. His family.
Minho sits there in the room that he shared with Chan and Woojin, the room he’ll never sleep in again. Slowly, he grabs his bundles one by one, packing away his belongings. There’s a sense of deja vu, but the similarity of the scene only helps to highlight the differences — there’s no excitement, no camera following his every move. Minho moves much slower than before until he’s stopped moving altogether.
He sits there, alone in an empty room and an empty house as silent tears drip down his face. At this point, he doesn’t bother to wipe them off, as nobody’s around to see it anyway. The sun sets outside, darkening the room around him while he muses that at least the one good thing to come of this event is that he’ll never have to be fake for a camera, ever again.
Minho isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting there, surrounded by darkness when he hears a knock on the door. Quickly wiping away his tears, he hoarsely says, “Come in,” expecting Chan or Woojin to enter.
“Hyung, what are you doing in the dark?” asks Jisung’s voice, and Minho turns his head, blinking up at Jisung’s small figure when he flicks the lights on. “What is this?” Jisung asks, his voice going from worried to angry in the flash of a second. “Were you trying to leave without even saying goodbye?”
Minho just shakes his head, smiling. Somehow, it’s a little less forced this time. “Of course not, Jisungie,” he says, reaching out his arms. “Come here. I was just packing so I could save time.”
Instinctively, Jisung moves to Minho, allowing himself to be wrapped in Minho’s arms. They both know that this is one of the last times they’ll be this close to each other, but they say nothing. The silence stretches around them once again, but this time it’s not nearly as suffocating as when they were waiting for the final decision. It’s a comfortable lack of sound, punctuated by the whir of the air conditioner above.
After a moment, Jisung asks, “You’re going to still keep in touch, right? And you’ll still debut, so we can stand on stage together someday.”
Even though Minho can’t see Jisung’s face, he can imagine the concerned wrinkle in his brow, the way his nose scrunches up as he holds back tears. “Of course, Jisung. Of course, I will.”
—
March 2021
“Hey, Minho!” Chaerin yells. “I have to take an emergency call, can you just cover table ten for one second? Please?”
Minho sighs, shrugging his apron back on when he had just taken it off for his break. “Fine, but you owe me!” he shouts back over the din of the kitchen, knowing that the “emergency call” excuse is bull for “my boyfriend is texting me”.
He steps outside with a menu, scouring the restaurant and approaching the table in the far corner. There’s just a single customer who’s got his face hidden under a cap pressed close to his head. Minho spies the Gucci on the guy’s shirt and puts on his best fake customer service smile as he walks over. He had better get a good tip from this guy.
“Hi, my name is Minho, I’ll be your server today. How can I help you?” he asks in his happiest, chirpiest voice. When the customer is silent for a beat, Minho looks up from his notepad, asking, “Sir?”
His voice catches in his breath when he makes eye contact with the customer, question faltering away until he’s just standing there, staring at the face he thought he would only ever see on television screens.
“Minho,” Jisung whispers. His eyes are the size of saucers, boring holes into Minho’s head and he can’t help but remember a time when those same eyes looked at him while begging Minho to show him another move, another dance trick. Jisung asks, “What… what are you doing here?”
At that question, some unknown rage, some part of Minho that had been festering for the past three years suddenly snaps. “Well, some of us have to work jobs like this to pay the rent, you know. Or, I guess you wouldn’t, with that superstar life you lead.” Even as his mouth forms the words, Minho wishes he could take them back. He knows it’s not Jisung’s fault the JYP chose the group this way, that it’s not Jisung’s fault every time somebody seems to vaguely recognize him from something three years ago before realizing, and shaking their heads in pity.
Minho expects Jisung to snap like he always did back then. Quick to anger, quick to conclusions and happiness and emotions and even pulling songs out of thin air. But, it seems that time has changed them both. Where Minho has grown bitter, Jisung has matured. Or maybe he’s become better at faking it for the cameras.
But Minho can’t help but believe the sorrow in Jisung’s eyes as he asks, “Why didn’t you keep in touch?”
Minho just shakes his head, ignoring Jisung’s words as he remembers where they are. “That doesn’t matter. Can I get your order, sir?”
Jisung just sighs, not even bothering to look at the menu before he slides it back to Minho’s waiting hands. “I’ll take the featured entree.”
Without another word, Minho turns to leave but stops himself halfway to throw a few last words over his shoulder. “It goes both ways, you know. How was I supposed to keep in touch if none of you ever contacted me.” He doesn’t bother to stay to look at Jisung’s reaction.
Back in the kitchen, Minho hurriedly gestures to Chaerin to continue serving, ripping off his apron in a flurry before heading out the back door.
When he returns, Chaerin is waiting for him with a piece of paper. “It’s from the customer you served,” she says. “It was Han Jisung, from Stray Kids. Did you know that?”
“Give me that,” Minho growls, snatching the paper out of her hands. On the front, it says, “Keep in touch, for real this time.” Minho doesn’t bother checking the back before hurriedly shoving it into his back pocket where it remains for the rest of the shift.
Later that night as he walks home from work, he pulls the piece of paper out of his pocket. He’s tempted to flip it over, but when he looks up at a billboard with the 8 members of Stray Kids painted across it, Minho knows that they live in separate worlds now.
It doesn’t do to linger on the past, he decides as he rips up the paper and scatters it in the air, watching as the rain carries it down the gutter.
—
Somewhere on the other side of Seoul, Jisung waits for a call that’ll never come.
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