Jinyoung awoke, as he often did, to the sound of microphone feedback. The Blue Depths staff always tested their sound equipment before opening hours so their customers didn’t have to endure the excruciating noise of it all, but Jinyoung typically got to hear it in all of its glory. Not that he could complain; he’d signed on for this, feedback and all.

Jinyoung grudgingly sat up and pulled open the curtain. Another day of sun. Jeju was pleasant, but he was getting restless, ready to move onto somewhere else. His list of places to hunt for books on the island was mostly crossed out at this point, even given the sluggish pace he’d been taking his mission compared to normal. All the same, he didn’t feel ready to go back to the mainland. Maybe he should give it another year, even if it meant not accomplishing anything and living like a shut-in. Another year might distance him further from the things he’d left behind.

For now, though, there were still places to visit on his list. To the tune of feedback and interference, he went through his morning routine, practicing the meditative techniques he’d picked up to keep his mind as blank as possible. It had been hard at first, and somedays it failed him entirely and everything bombarded him all at once to the point where he couldn’t even get out of bed. But he’d gotten better at it, and these days he thought of next to nothing at all other than breathing in and out and moving from one action to the next.

When he was dressed and ready, he went down to the restaurant. The restaurant owner, Jooyi, was leaning against the bar while the band booked for the day one by one tuned their instruments.

“I left you an egg sandwich,” Jooyi said to Jinyoung, nodding to the plate by her elbow. “On the house. I noticed you’ve been skipping meals.”

“That’s because I go out to eat. If I eat here every day, I’ll get sick of it.” He picked up the egg sandwich. In truth, he really hadn’t been eating much. It seemed to slip his mind, more often than not. “Who’s performing tonight?”

“Rookie group. DAY6. You should come back early tonight. They seem up your alley.”

“We’ll see,” Jinyoung said. The last places on his list were on the other side of the island, so he’d probably get back too late. Which was most likely for the best; song lyrics were a land mine he was no longer interested in walking through. Nowadays, the only things pumping through his headphones were meditation music and white noise.

“And, we have Queen IU herself coming next week,” Jooyi reminded him. “You won’t want to waste your complimentary ticket to that. It’s going to be a packed crowd. We’re making so much money with her appearance that we’re finally going to be able to afford better equipment.”

“Wonderful. Although I’ll really miss being woken up at the crack of dawn by the dying screams of our old microphones.”

“Early hours are good for your character. Such as it is.” Jooyi paused, looking him up and down. “Are you sure you’re all right? You seem…diminished.”

“Don’t mind me. I’m always like this.”

“Well, you certainly were appropriately indifferent for someone willing to put up with the noisiest room in Jeju when you arrived. I suppose you really haven’t changed.” She sighed. “Still, I think your amount of indifference verges on unhealthy.”

“But on earth indifference is the least we have to dread of man or beast,” Jinyoung quoted. Immediately he regretted it. He felt his heart start burning from deep within his chest, raw from the wound he was refusing to properly bandage.

“Is that from a lyric?” Jooyi asked.

“A poem,” Jinyoung said stiffly. “By W.H. Auden.”

“I don’t know him.”

“You don’t need to.” He pushed off his barstool. “I’m going to get going.”

“Take the damn egg sandwich with you, kid. Your mind may not want the food, but your stomach sure does.”

Jinyoung took it with him grudgingly and walked out the side entrance. To his surprise, there was someone hanging around the dumpster, even though it was far too early for any of the kitchen staff to be on their break.

The guy looked to be a teenager, maybe about seventeen or eighteen. He was in a school uniform, so most likely a high school student loitering on their way to class.

“Are you Blue Depths staff?” the guy asked Jinyoung, his sorrowful expression suddenly brightening. He looked almost animal-like in his earnestness, both cute and handsome at the same time.

“No, sorry,” Jinyoung said. “Just a lodger.”

“But do you know the manager?” the guy persisted. “Or anyone important on the staff?”

“Yeah, I guess? Why?”

“I really, really need them to book my friend as the musical act next Thursday.”

“Next Thursday?” Jinyoung repeated. “You do know that’s when IU’s scheduled to perform, right?”

The guy grimaced. “They could get her to reschedule?”

“No, they couldn’t. For one, minor venues can’t just demand things from IU. For two, she’s filming parts of her performance for that reality show she’s doing. If they asked her to reschedule, they’d have to ask the whole filming crew to reschedule. That’s just not going to happen. Sorry. You’ll have to book another day.”

“But there’s not going to be another day!” the guy wailed.

“What, is the world scheduled to end?” Jinyoung asked. He certainly hoped so.

“Basically!” The guy’s tone turned even more desperate. “My friend’s going to find out next Friday if his radiation was successful in treating his brain tumor. If not…the survival rates for it aren’t promising if treatment doesn’t work. He might not have another chance.” Tears filled the kid’s eyes. “He always wanted to be a performer, but he’s been too sick to make that happen. He’s given up so many of his hopes and dreams thanks to the tumor, but never that one. He just wants one chance to sing on a stage in front of people and have his voice heard…in case…in case…”

Jinyoung grimaced. For most of his existence, he’d had absolutely no heartstrings to tug and hearing this would have done very little to move him. But things were different now, no matter how much he selfishly wished they could go back. Apparently if you allowed a person to leave cracks in your heart, those cracks could in turn leak out more than just misguided love for a single target, but care and concern for people whose fragility and humanity were so very much the same.

“Look,” Jinyoung said in a gentler voice. “The Blue Depths isn’t the only venue out there. All in all, it’s not even that great of one. I’m sure you could find somewhere else.”

“Not somewhere else that accepts amateurs and within my budget. I did my research, OK? The Blue Depths has to be it.” The kid took a shaky breath. “Jaebum has come to terms with the fact that it’s probably not going to happen. But I can’t. I love him, OK? I love him so much, and I’m so scared I’m going to lose him. But I can’t control his tumor and make it go away if it comes back. Helping him achieve his dream is the one thing I can do for him. And if he…if he dies…I just want to have given him one last gift that really meant something to him, or I don’t think I’ll be able to live through it.” He rubbed his eyes fiercely. “So please. If there’s anything you can do. Anything…”

It had used to be so easy to walk away from this sort of thing. Why couldn’t Jinyoung do it anymore? Why did he now feel such respect for this mere foundling of a child when before he would have only felt vague annoyance over his time being intruded upon?

He asked himself this, even though he knew why. This child had done everything Jinyoung had refused to in loving someone even while facing the imminence of their loss, and had strength enough left to fight for final moments of happiness in spite of his sorrow. Jinyoung was looking upon the exact face of the kind of person he’d failed to become.

“I can’t make any promises,” Jinyoung said, a bit gruffly. “But I’ll have a word with the manager later. Not now, though. She’s busy with this evening’s band, and I was heading out to go somewhere.”

“I can come back tomorrow, after school,” the guy said, his eyes hopeful.

“What’s your name?”

“Youngjae. Choi Youngjae.”

“Fine then, Youngjae. Come by tomorrow evening. Once again, though, I can’t promise anything.”

“I know. But thank you. For trying, at least.”

Jinyoung shivered. There was really only one other person who’d ever thanked him sincerely like that. It unsettled him to hear it again. Had he just set himself down on the path of disappointing yet another person who mistakenly put their faith in him? He should have just stayed out of it. Wasn’t that what he was here for? To live quietly? To forget?

He wished he could. If only forgetting was a simple as running away, his eternity of a life would be much less painful of a burden.

When Youngjae was gone, Jinyoung found his Airpods and slipped them in, opening up one of his meditation apps on his phone. Within a few minutes, he was focused instead on his breathing, on the process and feel of the steady in and out, in and out. He couldn’t forget, but maybe he could bury. There were things to do, and days upon days of eternity to pass by. No need to dwell on things already lost.

He made it back to The Blue Depths as DAY6 were finishing up on stage. Jooyi, who was watching from the bar, frowned at him as he sat down next to her. “Another performance you’re conveniently late for,” she asked over the audience clapping raucously for the band. “Would it kill you to have a good time?”

“If a good time was capable of killing me, I’d sign right up,” Jinyoung grumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. I was running an errand. I came back as soon as I could. I wanted to talk to you.”

“You,” she repeated, “wanted to talk to me? Wanted? Are you going to be late on rent, or something?”

Jinyoung ignored this bit of snark. “I ran into that kid who’s been asking you about booking his friend on the same night as IU? Choi Youngjae?”

Jooyi sighed, playing with the straw of her drink. “I feel sorry for him,” she said. “I really do. But I’d feel sorry for my staff if I bailed on our arrangement with LOEN just because I feel sorry for the poor kid. Between burning bridges with a massive entertainment company and pissing off ticket holders, I’d be risking people’s jobs, including my own. And as your landlord, that wouldn’t be good for you either.”

“I know,” Jinyoung said. “But is there nothing we can do for him? I don’t want to leave him with the burden of having failed someone he cares so much about on top of everything.”

Jooyi tilted her head. “I’m surprised you’re so invested. I’ve never seen you care about…anything, quite frankly.”

“Then consider this a rare exception.”

“Well. Color me touched that you have a heart in there somewhere.” She studied him solemnly. “Unfortunately, I can’t really do much for Youngjae besides suggest another date for him. Right now, he seems to be assuming that his friend won’t be up to taking the stage if his condition isn’t cured, but that may not be the case. And the case may also be that his friend’s treatment has worked, which means he’ll be free to perform any time. That’s what I’d like to hope.”

Jinyoung couldn’t fault her for hoping for the best. Most humans tended to. But from what he knew of the world, the best very rarely happened. It wasn’t for nothing miracles ended up defined by their rarity and few-and-far-betweenness.

“Fine,” he said. But it wasn’t fine. He’d disappointed the last person who’d hoped in him. He didn’t intend to do the same to Youngjae, lest he live with even more regret and guilt than he already was. This time, he would do the right thing. Maybe it would be a hollow repentance, but surely it was better than doing nothing.

“I’m going to head up to my room,” Jinyoung said, sliding off the stool. “Be as loud as you want with cleanup. I don’t care.”

“Maybe you should,” Jooyi said, her tone a little sad. “It makes you feel like more of a person, when you do.”

Rather than going to his room, Jinyoung instead went to Jooyi’s office through the kitchen. He tested the door handle, and it was blessedly unlocked. He slipped inside and did a quick search of her desk. Right on the top was a business card detailing the contact information for IU’s management team. Jinyoung picked up the card and put it in his pocket before sneaking back out of the office.

When he was up in his room again, he dialed the number on his phone. The call was answered after just a few rings. “Hello?” came a male voice on the other end.

“Hello, this is a representative from The Blue Depths,” Jinyoung said in the same kind of clipped tone he was used to hearing businessmen speak in. “I was wondering if I could schedule an appointment with your team and IU tomorrow to iron out some of the details of her performance?”

Jinyoung hadn’t worked a regular job in the longest time, so he wasn’t sure if he could credibly fake it. Still, he dug the one nice suit he’d bought on the off chance he might need it to convincingly blend in at book auctions and hoped for the best. From what he’d heard, entertainment professionals were less stodgy and formal than others. He hoped that was true, and that they wouldn’t recognize anything out of the ordinary about him.

Mid-morning, he headed out to the office space the production team for IU’s Jeju variety show were renting out as their base while the show was ongoing. He was greeted by a lower level staff member, who ushered him into the meeting room where the higher ups were waiting.

IU herself was seated by who Jinyoung presumed was her manager. She was quite small in person, and very youthful and innocent looking for someone who was only about a year older than the age Jinyoung was pretending to be. She gave a kind impression, which Jinyoung hoped might work in his favor. If there was any celebrity that had a level of influence over her team, it would be her.

Jinyoung bowed to everyone gathered, then cleared his throat to give himself a moment to prepare his lines. “Thank you all for coming today,” he said. “I apologize that I have to stand in for Manager Jooyi today. She’s trusting me to make this proposition in her stead.”

“Proposition?” one of the suited men at the table said. “We’ve already expressed to your venue all our requirements for the performance space. There’s really nothing further to discuss.”

“As it happens, we’ve been contacted by one of those programs that tries to fulfill requests for terminal cancer patients,” Jinyoung said, lying as smoothly as he could. “And apparently there’s a brain cancer patient who desperately wants to perform as IU’s opening act at her Jeju concert. I wanted to discuss the possibility with you.”

“Out of the question,” one of the men said. “We already have the script written for the episode featuring the performance. It’s too late to change it.”

“Agreed,” another said. “How pathetic would we look if we started using cancer patients for views?”

“Besides, we booked the venue for a certain amount of time,” said another. “Having an opening act would take away from time our artist needs to be promoting her own songs. Do you think the ticket holders would like that?”

IU rose to her feet, planting her hands down firmly on the table in front of her. “Listen to yourselves!” she said in a voice rather comically sounding like a chastising mother given that she was younger than everyone else on her team. “This is my fan you are speaking of in cold terms, a fan who is dying. If you’re going to reject the idea, at least show a little compassion as you do so!”

She straightened up, looking at Jinyoung. Jinyoung shifted on his feet, hoping his lie wouldn’t come back to bite him. He had no idea if Jaebum was an IU fan, but from what Jooyi had told him, the majority of Korea was. Perhaps he’d luck out.

“Mister,” IU said earnestly. “Do you know exactly what was said in this fan of mine’s request? Does it have to be a performance, or would he accept a meeting with me instead?”

“I haven’t talked to the fan directly,” Jinyoung admitted. “But I have spoken to a friend of his who was a part of submitting the request. According to him, the fan—Jaebum—always wanted to be a singer, but wasn’t able to due to his condition and treatments. He went through radiation and everything, which would have taken a lot out of him. His friend really doesn’t want him to miss his final chance to appear on stage while he’s still well enough to do so.”

IU’s rounded eyes filled with tears. “That seals it,” she sniffed. “We have to take this request, we have to. Scripts can be changed. I didn’t like the angle we were going to take of me gracing some kind of small local venue with my illustrious presence to ‘go back to my roots’ while still making me come across as some kind of benevolent goddess deigning to hang out with yokels anyways. That’s not me. But reaching out to my fans and sharing our love of music is really who I am.” She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “And why stop at just one fan? Can’t we rent out the venue a little longer and do an open mic after I’m finished performing? Get some footage of my fans just having fun and loving music? That’s what my variety’s supposed to be about.”

Her team exchanged glances. A few looked annoyed, but a few were nodding along and taking notes, seemingly used to being subject to the creative whims of their artist.

“I still don’t like it,” one of the team members said. “A terminal cancer patient…it’ll be so maudlin.”

“How is embracing life and dreams while they’re still yours to take maudlin?” IU asked. “If you’re determined to think of this like a businessman instead of a person with a soul, just think of how bad it would be if it came out we received this request and didn’t take it. Can you just imagine the articles? ‘Nation’s Little Sister IU Crushes Hopes of Cancer Patients.’ Are you ready to handle that PR nightmare?”

The man shifted in his seat uncomfortably. IU placed her hands on her hips. Though she be but little, she is fierce, Jinyoung thought, impressed. If Jaebum isn’t already her fan, he will be by time this is over.

“I think we can work this for the script,” one of the production team finally said. “We’ll need to see how the cancer patient feels about being filmed.”

“I’ll discuss it with him and get back to you,” Jinyoung said.

“Thank you so much for bringing this to our attention,” IU said earnestly. “We’ll need to work out the changes, but we’ll get back to The Blue Depths with our updated requirements and timeline. If I could arrange for a meeting with the fan who sent in the request before the performance itself, that would also be appreciated.”

“We’ll handle that for you,” Jinyoung said. “Thank you for being so accommodating.”

“It’s always a pleasure.” She smiled. “Being kind to people is its own reward, don’t you think?”

Jooyi folded her arms across her chest, shaking her head as she looked Jinyoung up and down. “As nice as it is to see you care about something to the point where you’d impersonate my staff, if you do that again, I’m kicking you out of your room.”

“Sorry,” Jinyoung said, though he didn’t really feel sorry at all. For the first time in a year, he actually felt a little bit pleased with himself, a feeling so rare that he allowed himself to wallow in it without regret.

“Just remember that it was my livelihood you were gambling with, and it could have backfired so easily,” Jooyi said sternly. She glared at him for another moment, then her expression finally lightened. “As it happened, you got us a better contract with their decision to rent the venue for longer to host an open mic. So I’ll forgive you just this once. Just don’t do it again, or so help me…”

“I don’t foresee there being a reason I would need to do this again, so don’t worry about it.”

“Oh no, having my lodger turn out to be an unpredictable element who is willing to lie to get what he wants isn’t worrisome at all.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll just have to calm myself with the knowledge that it was in the name of a good deed. Do you know someone in a similar situation as Youngjae’s friend, and that’s where all your sympathy comes from?”

Jinyoung shook his head. “No. But I lost someone.” His heart clenched, knowing that was painting it prettier than he deserved. “Or more like I…realized I was going to lose someone, and cut myself off from them before I suffered the loss. Youngjae’s braver than that. I respect him.”

Jooyi patted his shoulder. “It’s good that you realize that. Maybe it will help you change the next time you face that kind of choice.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jinyoung said. “Changing's not something I’ve ever been good at.”

“If you convince yourself of that, you’re never going to. And clearly you want to, if you went so far for a stranger.” The front door jangled, and Youngjae stepped into the restaurant, glancing around. “Well, go on and tell your new friend the good news,” Jooyi said, elbowing Jinyoung. “Make his day. See if how that makes you feel doesn’t give you an even bigger reason to want to change.” She slid off the barstool and walked back to the kitchen, whistling as she went.

When Youngjae spotted Jinyoung, he scrambled up onto the barstool Jooyi had just vacated. “Hi,” he said. Jinyoung could practically feel his nervous energy. “So…”

“You can tell Jaebum that he’s now IU’s opening act,” Jinyoung said. “And that he might be appearing on TV to boot.”

Youngjae collapsed forward partway onto the bar, shaking in what Jinyoung assumed was relief. He briefly covered his face with his hands, clasped together as if in prayer, and when he moved them a few moments later, his eyes were damp but joyous.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much. This will mean everything to him. Thank you so much for helping me make it possible.”

Jinyoung flushed, not really knowing what to do with this intense of gratitude. “IU was pretty easy to convince,” he muttered, feeling a little embarrassed. “And I may have told a few lies about how your friend was a part of one of those last request organizations, and that he’s a huge IU fan, so you’ll have to work with that.”

“It’s fine, Jaebum loves IU, everyone does,” Youngjae said. “Getting to meet her will be just another gift on top of everything. And getting to perform will mean the most of all. I can’t wait to tell him. I can’t wait to see his face.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears trickled out. “He’ll be happy again. Even if it’s just for a moment. He’ll be happy.”

Jinyoung swallowed, looking away. He thought back to the person he’d left behind. Was he happy? Had the passage of time healed the hurt and brought new things to replace it? He hoped it had, but knew it was hopeless for himself. He did feel a little happy in this moment at seeing Youngjae’s happiness, but one moment of happiness wasn’t going to equate to a millennia set free of his crippling emptiness. He may have fixed things for Youngjae, but he hadn’t fixed a thing for himself.

 “You should go tell him, then,” Jinyoung said, his voice sounding strained. “Celebrate with him.”

“I feel like I should invite you, too. It’s thanks to you.”

Jinyoung shook his head. “It was because of you that I did it. And you’re the one he wants to hear it from. Not some stranger. Go. I’ll see you for the performance.”

Youngjae nodded, beaming at him with tears still in his eyes. “You’re a good person,” he said.

Jinyoung snorted in disbelief. “I’m neither of those things,” he said quietly.

But Youngjae just took his hand and squeezed it, gazing at him earnestly. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll never forget this. I’m so glad the world brought me to someone who could help. To someone like you.”

Jaebum arrived mid-afternoon on Thursday to The Blue Depths, along with Youngjae who was presumably cutting class to be there. He was clearly worn, but handsome all the same. His short hair looked freshly grown in, and his build seemed unsuited to the skin-and-bones it had been left to. His eyes were piercing and solemn, but when he smiled, he seemed to light up and become softer. And most of his smiles were directed at Youngjae; all the love Youngjae harbored for him was quite obviously mutual.

Jaebum was pretty quickly swept up into the activity of IU’s team, and was whisked off to get ready for some one-on-one filming with IU prior to the performance. Youngjae plopped down on the stage Jinyoung was helping to set up with Jooyi, bouncing up and down with nervous energy.

“How’s Jaebum holding up?” Jinyoung asked.

“He’s so excited,” Youngjae said. “Over the moon. It’s the first time I’ve seen him like this in a while. It’s even taken his mind off of his appointment tomorrow.”

“Good.” Jinyoung sat down beside him, continuing his work in untangling cords for the sound system. “So, you didn’t mention, but are you two romantically involved?”

Youngjae turned red. “R-Romantically involved? N-No. I mean…I would…but…it’s not right to think about that now.”

“Because of his health?”

Youngjae nodded. “It would just make it worse, wouldn’t it? If the diagnosis tomorrow isn’t good…well, he’d feel even more guilty about leaving me behind if he knew I was in love with him. I don’t want to do that to him. What we have right now is enough.”

“Is it?”

“It has to be.”

“And if the diagnosis tomorrow is good?”

Youngjae took a breath. “Then maybe…but I can’t get my hopes up just yet. It’s too terrifying.”

Once the stage was set up, IU’s team began to position their cameras around the room to film the night’s concert from different angles. The sound equipment was given another run through, and the positions of the tables the audience would be seated at were arranged and rearranged. Eventually, Jaebum and IU emerged from their separate filming to join in the mic tests. Jaebum looked at peace, but IU was teary. When she passed Youngjae on the way to the stage, she reached down and took his hands.

“You are a gift,” she said in an emotional voice. “A gift. I hope you know that.”

Youngjae glanced at Jaebum. “What did you tell her?” he asked.

“That you’re a gift,” Jaebum deadpanned. He glanced at Jinyoung. “You’re the person who helped set this up?”

Jinyoung gave a little shrug, but nodded. He didn’t want to flood of gratitude he’d received from Youngjae again. He knew how little it was deserved in the scheme of all the things he’d done and hadn’t done with his life.

But Jaebum just gave a nod of acknowledgment. “I’m going to make it worth everyone’s while,” was all he said before hopping the rest of the way onstage and taking the mic.

A few hours later, the restaurant was packed. Jinyoung hadn’t even realized it could hold so many people, but Jooyi had maximized in every way she could, and every last person was squeezed in, along with all the cameras filming for the variety. Jinyoung had been placed in the front with Youngjae, which made him feel nervous whenever a camera did a test pan across the audience. He didn’t want to end up on television. But neither did he want to leave Youngjae’s side. Despite his anxiousness, he decided to stay.

 Finally, the overhead lights dimmed and the audience started cheering. IU bounded up onstage, and the cheers became frantic.

“Good evening, Jeju! Are you ready to have some fun?” She paused as the audience cheered for her, grinning and giving a little wave. “I’ve been very blessed to spend the past month here exploring the music scene of the island and meeting local artists who’ve inspired me and who I hope I’ve inspired in return. Along the way, I’ve gotten to meet the incredible people who live and work in Jeju and heard their stories, many of which have touched me deeply. And with me tonight is someone with a story that touched me deepest of them all. Jaebum is a young man who was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor when he was just fourteen years old. But more than anything, he is an artist and a singer who wants to share music with the world in whatever time he has left. I’ve talked with him a lot this afternoon, and I’ve already learned so much from him. About what music can mean when you’re struggling to find hope and purpose. About how deeply intertwined music is with growth and self-reflection and love. I am honored to have him here tonight as my opening act so he can share his passion for music with all of you. Without further ado—I present to you Im Jaebum!”

The audience politely clapped, though Jinyoung could tell they were confused by the introduction of an opening act they’d heard nothing about when purchasing their tickets. Jaebum rose from his seat and got up on the stage, gripping tightly to the microphone. His eyes scanned over the audience, glistening brightly with clear excitement, then at last settled on Youngjae.

“Good evening,” he said into the microphone. “Thank you for allowing me to perform for you tonight, even though I’m not who you paid to see. Before I was diagnosed with my tumor, I thought that I would do this every day of my life, that I would be a performer and center my life around singing. But when I was told about the tumor, I realized that my life might not be as long as I hoped it would. That I would have limited time, and limited dreams I would be able to realize before I was gone. I had to take a moment to think about which of my dreams mattered most to me. Which I would hate the most if I left the world without making happen.” He swallowed. “I thought about performing, most of all. How it wasn’t just about wanting to perform, but who I wanted to perform for. How it wasn’t just the songs themselves, but who I wanted to sing them to. How it wasn’t simply being onstage that I wanted, but being onstage with the eyes of the person I loved watching me shine in the bright light I wanted them to see me in.”

He took the mic off its stand and knelt so he was eye-level with Youngjae in the audience. “There’s this person,” he said, “who’s been with me through everything. Who’s given me hope when I had none. Who made me feel like there was meaning in my life, no matter how short it was. Who made me love life so much that I was able to see the true value of it, even as I had to contend with losing it.” He smiled softly. “I want to sing tonight for that person. That’s my real dream, the one I absolutely had to make happen. I don’t want to die without letting this person know that they were the most important thing I had in my life. And that if it’s possible in whatever afterlife there is, I’ll continue to love them even when I’m gone.”

He rose back to his feet, placing the mic back on the stand. “Oh,” Youngjae said softly. Jinyoung could feel him shaking beside him. He reached out his hand to steady him, and Youngjae took it, squeezing it so hard that the skin went white.

Jinyoung didn’t recognize the two songs Jaebum proceeded to sing, but he could feel the love and care placed into choosing them for Youngjae. The first was powerful and heartwrenching, the lyrics laden with emotion. So send me off with your love, I’ll fly like a dove into the sunset of my teenage adolescence, and if you’re ever feeling alone, know that I’ll never forget you, even when I’m gone. Every word of it, every moment of fear existing beside a determined courage and a strong and steady, purely devoted love, was laid at Youngjae’s feet in the most heartfelt way Jaebum was capable of.

When that was finished, and followed by both tears and cheers from the audience, Jaebum lightened things up with a more upbeat song about love and devotion, which fittingly had the line “even if I die, it’s only you” in it. Jinyoung momentarily worried Youngjae wouldn’t be able to find it funny, but when he turned to look at him, Youngjae was smiling ear to ear even though tears were streaming from his eyes. He was living in the moment, taking it for the beautiful thing that it was—the reciprocation of his love, the assurance that even if that love could be shared only fleetingly, it was still something worth suffering any amount of pain to experience.

I could have given this moment to someone, Jinyoung thought, his own heart aching in the raw pain he had been trying for the past year to spare it from. I could have given myself to someone like this. I could have filled their brief life with love, if only I had been brave enough to face their death.

But it was too late. He’d already burned that bridge and destroyed the possibility of love by doing the one thing that person had begged him not to do: leaving without saying goodbye. He was no Youngjae who had stood by the person he loved through everything and given them a reason to treasure life even as they lost it. He was a coward who’d run when things had seemed too difficult. He’d been needlessly cruel and justified it as a kindness. He didn’t deserve a Jaebum in his life, swearing an eternal love that would last beyond the grave. Not when he’d had that love entirely within his hands for a moment and promptly thrown it away.

Youngjae laughed and cried and clapped when Jaebum finished his performance. He grabbed Jinyoung’s arm and shook it back and forth, sobbing about how happy he was. Thanking him again. Saying this was the best day of his life. Jinyoung took a breath and pulled himself out of the moment he’d lost himself in. He hugged Youngjae. He smiled. “I’m happy for you two,” he said. And he was, in the kind of sorrowful way you could be happy for someone who successfully seized an opportunity you'd wasted.    

He sat numbly through IU’s performance, barely hearing any of it but mechanically clapping when everyone else did and forcing a stiff smile should a camera pan in their direction. In his head, he was caught in a torrent of unwelcome thoughts held just barely at bay by his determined attempts to block them out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. He tried his best to focus on his breathing, but his breath came out raggedly in a rhythm that couldn’t soothe him.

When IU’s performance was finally finished, Jinyoung tried to stand up to leave so he could go to his room and be alone, perhaps drink himself into a stupor with a few bottles filched from the bar, but Youngjae grabbed his sleeve. “You’re going to miss open mic!” he said.

“I don’t mind,” Jinyoung mumbled, again trying to walk forward.

“Oh, are you our first volunteer?” IU asked from onstage, looking directly at Jinyoung. No one else in the audience was standing, making it look like he’d immediately leapt to his feet when the start of open mic was announced. “Perfect! As one of the staff who made tonight’s event so successful, you deserve to be center stage!”

Jaebum and Youngjae gleefully pushed Jinyoung towards the stage. “Come up, come up!” IU said, gesturing him closer.

Jinyoung didn’t want to, but distantly recognized that causing a scene in front of IU would be far worse—he would land himself on celebrity gossip pages for that. If he just did something boring and nondescript, he could pay his dues and slip out, and the content would be edited right out off the footage the cameras were collecting. No one would want to see an average person singing averagely on a variety show about IU.

“What’s your song request?” IU’s pianist asked. “Between us, we’ve got a pretty big repertoire.” He nodded to the acoustic guitar player.

“I…I don’t know. Most of the songs I know are in English.”

“That’s fine. Throw out a band or something. We might know some of their songs.”

“Um…Zepplin? The Eagles?”

“’Hotel California?’” the acoustic guitarist asked. “I know that one.”

“It’s so overdone, though,” the pianist said. “Can’t we do something like ‘One of These Nights’? Or ‘Desperado’?”

Jinyoung’s head shot up. “Desperado?” he repeated blankly.

“All right, ‘Desperado’ it is,” the pianist said, settling his hands on the keys. “ On my count. 3…2…1.”

He started playing the opening piano part, and the handful of people in the audience who recognized it began to cheer. “No,” Jinyoung whispered. “Not this song.” But it had already begun. “Grab the mic!” Youngjae shouted from the front row. Jinyoung wrapped his hands around it, shivering with dread.

Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses? You’ve been out riding fences for so long now…

Immediately, the memories wormed their way back. His house in Inje, sitting on the floor of a kitchen with no furniture, cans of beer open at his feet. The person across from him singing the words wrong. You’ve been outright offensive for so long now…

No, he couldn’t think of it. He couldn’t. He mechanically made it through the next part thinking of nothing. Singing blandly. This had nothing to do with him. The desperado in the song was a loner, yes, but one focused on material things over love. That wasn’t Jinyoung. He didn’t care about diamonds or fine things. He didn’t care about anything. That was the way it had to be. Sometimes being alone was the only way a person could exist without losing their mind. What was so wrong about that?

But the line he hated most came as it always did: And freedom, oh freedom, well that’s just some people talking; your prison is walking through this world all alone.

More memories slipped in. A circle of candles. Someone sitting beside him on a bench, reading poetry. A figure dancing with him in the rain. Moments when the world for once hadn’t felt so much like a prison as it did right now.

His voice was trembling as he reached the end of the song, repressed emotions beginning to slip through the cracks. Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses? Come down from your fences, open the gate. It may be raining, but there’s a rainbow above you, you better let somebody love you…

He couldn’t hold out the note. His voice cracked with the full force of emotion that finally broke its way through, knocking down the fences, obliterating the gates, leaving him fully defenseless for the first time in his year of trying to live as coldly as he always had. He could see a few faces in the audience grimacing with sympathy at his embarrassingly missed note, not knowing what they were witnessing.

“You better let somebody love you,” Jinyoung finished, holding back a sob, “before it’s too late. Mark…”

The final word was spoken softly, lost among the concluding notes of the piano. But it echoed through Jinyoung’s body. It had been the first time he’d said it in a year. The first time he’d even thought it to himself. And by saying it and thinking it, the memory of him came back wholly. Mark, kissing him in the rain, then pulling him inside. Mark, the love he was still carrying in his heart, but refused to let himself have. But it was too late. Wasn’t it? This was not a world of infinite chances. The people you left behind and hurt irreparably didn’t just wait faithfully for you to come back and do it again.

“Jinyoung,” a quiet voice said. He looked down. Jooyi was standing at the front of the stage, extending her hand to pull him down. He took it, and slid away from the bright lights and the polite cheers of the audience who were probably wishing the show had ended with IU. Jooyi led him away from the restaurant and into the hallway leading to the upstairs room.

“You don’t have to hold yourself together,” Jooyi said gently when they were away from the crowd. “We’re all broken here. You’re not alone.”

And that, more than anything, was what made him fall apart. Because he knew it was true, that he wasn’t alone. And now that he wasn’t, he’d never be able to go back to being alone ever again.