I leave the dorm early that day, really early. It’s only about 2:00am when I finally push open the door to my split bedroom with Yixing, after half an hour of just being curled up on my bed and trying to remember this feeling. But when I step out, eyes red from the tears I never realized I’d shed, the members are already in the living room.

Chanyeol stands up: “We’re coming to see you off!” His voice is unusually loud, even for him. I smile the kind of smile that fans call “Wu Yifan’s Gums,” but it hurts more than a little inside. I pull my backpack tighter onto my shoulder and shift my grasp on the suitcase’s handle.

“Thanks, guys.”

Joonmyeon keeps giving me things as Minseok drives the van, all twelve of us fitting into the three rather narrow rows of seats. First he passes me a bottle of water from the messenger bag he brought along: “Here, the water on the airplane probably isn’t good.” Then he hands me a plastic bag of chips and crackers: “Here, the food on the airplane probably isn’t much better than the water.” A few minutes later he gives me a packet of vitamins: “Don’t get sick.”

I put everything into my own bag, swallowing around the lump in my throat: “I’m not that weak.” Then I look out the window, closing up my lips tightly and trying not to cry. The expression on my face must be horrifying.

“Don’t you know how bad your fever was that time? You almost fainted at the airport, and two staff members that weren’t even from SM had to carry you to our van…your face was burning red, and all you kept saying was be careful, check the weather before you go out, be careful, don’t fall, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Then he’s  quiet for a little while, and makes to emptying his entire bag onto my lap: “Bandages for your ankles because the shoes SM gives you are always too small so they blister your feet, wristbands to cover your wrists because the shirts SM gives you always have sleeves that stop too soon, medicine for your throat because the key you have to rap in is always too low, those basketball shoes you’ve always wanted…I was going to give you those for your birthday, but…and I’m giving you my makeup remover, because yours and doesn’t even work that well.”

Then he just stares at the empty messenger bag in his hands, and I finally dissolve into a huge mess of tears, making choked sounds and cracked sobs. Jongdae reaches across Joonmyeon and takes my hand in both of his, rubbing small, uneven circles onto the space between my thumb and index circle. For once, he doesn’t laugh at the way I cry.

I can see the back of Zitao’s body, wracked with sobs. He’s in the second row, so I can’t see him, but I’m guessing he has a hand clasped over his mouth, trying to block the sound of his crying. He’s always like that. I want to reach out and smooth down the ruffles in his hair, but I can’t move.

We walk into the airport and wait for the P.A. system to announce my flight. They watch me from a few meters away as I get my passport checked and raise my suitcase onto the conveyor belt, and then we go to sit down on the rows and rows of empty chairs. There are very few people walking around, all middle-aged men in suits and holding briefcases; I’m glad. At least I can say goodbye without a bunch of fangirls taking photos and filming fancams and then posting them online to analyze everything I do.

Before I can settle into one of the chairs, Baekhyun flings himself at me. He’s surprisingly cold, so I put my arms around him and pat his back. There’s a wet spot forming where his eyes are pressed to my shoulder blade, and that’s how I know he’s crying. As usual, his hair just smells like strawberries. But on him, I smell Seoul too. I smell SM. I smell our dorm. I smell EXO.

I remember something and pull away from him, ping my bag and pulling out a slightly crumpled jersey. It’s my black one with white rings around the arm openings and yellow dragons curving over the front and back, passing over from the sides. I fit it over Baekhyun’s lowered head and on top of his black T-shirt.

“Here you go. You’re always trying to wear it whenever I’m not watching.” 

I turn around and there’s Luhan, a sad smile that goes more to his eyes than his lips. He holds out his hand and I shake it. Luhan swallows with difficulty: “一路顺风啊，兄弟。好好照顾自己，哥不能再给你。。。买零食了。。。(Have a smooth ride, brother. Take care of yourself, ge can’t…buy food for you anymore...)” I don’t let go of his hand, because his tears are falling now, and they’re burning my fingers; I don’t want them to burn his, too.  

“谢了，兄弟。(Thanks, brother.)”

Zitao is sobbing too hard to say anything, but he keeps looking up at me like he wants me to go over to him, so I kneel down in front of his seat. He’s holding Eureurong tightly in his hands, the stuffed wolf we each got one of that time we were filming the seventh episode of EXO Showtime.

He pushes it into my arms, wiping furiously at his own tears and trying not to get it on the stuffed animal’s smooth gray fur: “Here’s…your wolf – I – think…it’ll miss you…if – if you don’t take it with you…” I look into the shiny black button eyes of the stuffed wolf, and see everything.

I lift up Eureurong to press a kiss to Zitao’s tear-stained cheek: “哭成这样还记得说韩语啊？你可好好的，我走了你就没人可对着撒娇了。(You remember to speak Korean even when you’re crying so hard? You behave yourself, there’s no one for you to do your aegyo to once I leave.)”

Yixing isn’t crying, but his eyes are red: “到了广州好好吃饭，看你瘦的跟什么似的，丑死了。(Eat properly when you get to Guangzhou, look how skinny you are, it’s so ugly.)” I straighten up and so does he: “你还敢说我啊。多上QQ，听见没？省得我想你想得买张机票再飞回来偷你零食吃。。。(You’re telling me to eat properly? Look at yourself. Be on QQ often, hear me? Don’t make me miss you so much that I have to fly back here and live off of your potato chips.)”

Sehun’s eyes are b with tears: “Hyung.” That’s all he gets to saying before he breaks into a round of strangled sobs. I gather him into my arms: “Yah, why is our maknae crying? Oh Sehun is the best maknae there ever was…even though he never calls his bandmates hyung…even though he sasses the camera so much…he’s the best anyway…”

Chanyeol is the last one I get to give a full goodbye to. I go up to him, and he’s already standing, readjusting his snapback and smoothing back his hair when he puts it back on, blowing out a stream of air and blinking away the tears that are reddening his eyes: “Ayo, waddup Kris?”

I pull him into my arms, because he looks too vulnerable standing there by himself with no one for him to be able to hold onto: “Goin’ home, Yeol.”

The P.A. system comes over then, announcing the arrival of my flight. Minseok, Jongdae, Jongin and Kyungsoo give me steady hugs with the warmth and strength I never knew they had in their arms. They don’t cry, just tell me to watch their concerts and pretend I’m there too, make sure to see the gap they leave for me. I tell them that of course I’ll be watching, and they’d better do well; don’t get too tired and please get enough sleep.

I’m lining up to get my ticket checked and cut, lining up to the clear plastic tube that leads to the interior of the plane, lining up to a path I might not ever turn back from, when I hear a choked whisper of my name and I turn around to look.

And there they are, messes of dark eye circles and unstyled hair, disasters of tears and unmade-up faces, looking like the best things that’s ever happened to me.

---Come home soon, Kris.

---I will.

---Chicken still won’t be your style.

---Yeah.

---You’ll always be our cold city guy.

---Of course.

---EXO?

---We are one.

---And don't you forget it.

The only time I turn on my computer at all when I’m in Guangzhou is to watch EXO’s concert, and even then I don’t dare to scroll through the comments. On stage is an EXO without me. I don’t know if I’m the only one who catches how broken they look behind their too-bright beams and the way Chanyeol holds out two thumbs when they shout out: “We are one!”

But it makes me cry.

Goodbyes don't hurt, but flashbacks do.