You had me at hello; you killed me at goodbye.

Seungri dies and the whole world stops for a long time. When Big Bang falls apart like shattered glass, people say, it must be the worst for Jiyong, because he’s lost his baby. Both of them.

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But then the world starts moving again, inevitably, and time ticks on. The members of Big Bang are back to their careers in less than a year, although their solo works, Seunghyun’s acting, and the songs that Jiyong composes for other artists, are laced with grief and hurting and not much else.

Yet the fans eat it up and who says you can’t profit from pain?

The four see each other regularly, and they occasionally collaborate, but the group is dead without Seungri, without their maknae, without the panda-eyed boy who barely made it in the first place but pushed his way into everybody’s heart and turned their quartet into a quintet, and they all know it.

To say that they feel hollow inside would be an understatement, but there’s something about Jiyong, something the others can’t place, a twitchiness that suggests he might know something that nobody else knows, that just isn’t right. Looking at him, there’s clear twisted despair on his face, the kind that matches the expressions of all who loved Seungri, but his movements and his aura, they seem to hint that there might be electricity dancing in the farthest corner of his gut. (Is he hiding something?)

But behind the sadness, his music reveals nothing.

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See, the thing is, Jiyong has always been good at keeping secrets.

With the hardest secrets, the tears come defensively, and people don’t ask.

He cries so hard that nobody forces him to go to Seungri’s funeral.

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In May of 2012, months before Seungri is gone, the credit card statement of Kwon Jiyong reads:

04/06/12 – Incheon Int’l-JFK Int’l

Which is not unusual because Jiyong went to New York that day, but his ticket was bought by the company, not with his own money, and the amount placed on his credit card a month later was much cheaper than a ticket purchased on the very day of the flight could ever possibly be.

So.

So.

What does that mean?

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On quiet nights in August, Seungri practices his English with Jiyong.

“I wish I was fluent,” he says. “Or at least as good as you.”

“Me?” Jiyong says, surprised, and he laughs. The door is closed shut but the window is open a crack, and outside, the cicadas are chirping their last farewells to summer. “Makane, Bae’s English is better than mine. You should be asking him for help.”

“But I like you better,” Seungri says with a pout.

Jiyong’s heart skips a beat but he smiles as if he wouldn’t do anything and everything to make Seungri happy.  It’s a lie. But it doesn’t hurt to pretend. “I like you better,” he says in English. “Say it, maknae.”

Carefully, Seungri repeats it, and every syllable is on par.

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In September, Kwon Jiyong withdraws 3 million won from his bank account, in small amounts.

He puts it all in a silver locked case, the kind you see in movies.

Then he buys fake papers.

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“You know, hyung, sometimes I just want to die.”

Early January, before airplane ticket, before the English lessons, before the money, before it all, the words are a wake-up call to Jiyong, who is just about to drift off. Eyes fluttering open, he pushes himself upright on his elbows. “What?” He says, staring at the man lying beside him.

“I’m tired of this life, hyung.” Seungri’s lips are pressed into a tight, flat line. “I’m unhappy.”

And this makes Jiyong’s mind spin in circles because how can Seungri, so cut out for show business, be unhappy with the fame game he loves to play?

“You’re kidding,” says Jiyong.

“I wish,” says Seungri.

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Seungri dies in November. The body is so badly burned it isn’t recognizable.

The coroner is a big fan of G-Dragon.

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Another time they’re lying in bed together in late winter, the sheets rumpled and the pillows indented with the shapes of their heads, Seungri says, “I want to move to Japan. Start over. Make a new identity.”

Jiyong knows Seungri picks Japan because he’s fluent in Japanese, but Jiyong, calculating genius Jiyong, sees the flaws in that plan. “Not Japan,” he says, like he’s taking all of this seriously. Maybe he is. Maybe, all this time, he’s always taken Seungri seriously. “We’re popular in Japan.”

Seungri shifts, rolls over until his breath is cool on the smooth hard line of Jiyong’s jaw and he smiles. Seungri sleeps well with Jiyong beside him, but lately, he hasn’t slept at all. “Then where, hyung?”

“I don’t know.” The worst part of all of this is knowing that he isn’t enough. “America?”

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When Lee Seunghyun first tries for a part of Big Bang, Jiyong doesn’t like him. He calls him Little Seunghyun and that’s all he is—little, insignificant, teary-eyed and easily breakable.

But then he breaks him for good, and Little Seunghyun becomes stronger. Little Seunghyun becomes Victory. And although victorious, he is never quite as happy as he was before.

Jiyong only wants him to be happy again.

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That fateful night in November, they have everything planned and the whispers of goodbye are carried away by a frightened, loud breeze. Everything is screaming tonight.

But as Jiyong blinks back the wetness in his eyes and Seungri and his backpack are swallowed by the shadows, the darkness is the quietest it’s ever been.

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New Year’s Day, 2013, Jiyong is having dinner with Seunghyun and Daesung and Youngbae. Between the taps of chopsticks against bowls and the clanking of dishes being moved around, the ghost rises.

“Do you ever miss him, Jiyong?”

He doesn’t notice who asks the question, whether the inquirer is a singer or a rapper or a dancer. He doesn’t notice that they ask him in particular. He just answers. “I never stopped.”

Yet nobody really knows. Nobody knows but Jiyong, and the dead man.

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In ten years, a rising American businessman will make a visit to Korea for the first time in a decade. He will spot someone waiting for him at the gates and begin to cry.

Until then, on the quiet nights, Jiyong waits for a call from New York.