“Jongin…earth to Jongin!” I hear a faint voice calling for me. I slowly open my eyes and see my manager/best friend’s face come into focus. I remove one of my earbuds and look at him expectantly, “Yes, hyung?”

He shakes his head, “Today is a big day! You have been in the hair & make-up chair for a whole five minutes and are already out cold. Try to look alive, would ya? You nodding off could make things harder for the coordis, and potential drool lines…”

I scoff. “Awake now, awake later...can’t have it both ways, hyung.”

We fall into a comfortable silence as I continue to space out, awake this time, and the coordis finish their magic on my haven’t-slept-more-than-three-hours-a-night-in-over-10-years eye bags and dyed-one-too-many-times hair. My friend motions for me to join him on the couch after I rise from the make-up chair.

“You don’t seem excited about your party tonight,” he comments.

I shrug, “I have a lot on my mind.”

He stares at me with a crease in his forehead, “You mean you have been thinking about Mi—“

“Keep up that frowning and the crease will become permanent.” I hiss, trying to dodge the subject. He doesn’t bite.

“You are not going to avoid talking to me about this, Jongin—not today. I know you know that her team is running this shindig tonight, and I would be suspicious if you weren’t at least a little shaken up about it,” he an eyebrow, “Am I wrong?”

Annoyed, I respond, “You got me. I’m nervous as hell. Now how is this helping?” I pray that my sarcasm masks the anxiety that is building up in my chest, but knowing him, my attempts are futile.

Shooting me a skeptical look, he checks his watch, “Go put on your suit, we need to go soon, lover boy.”

I slip into the borrowed Armani and smooth my collar before picking up my lucky charm, an old, heart-shaped locket, and slipping it into the jacket’s inside pocket. My face is touched up on my way to the car, and my friend follows close behind. The drive to the venue is short, but not short enough that he doesn’t try to breach the forbidden topic again.

“Kai,” he addresses me. Crap; he has his manager hat on.

“I don’t need a pep talk.” I mutter under my breath.

Of course, he squeezes my knee and continues anyway, “Tonight will be hard for you, I know that. But don’t forget that this is a celebration; a party for everyone to congratulate you on your hard work and achievements. Try to keep it together, yeah? We can break down about it later.”

I give a non-committal grunt as we pull up to the red carpet. Despite the many years of experience, my heart still starts pounding and my breathing becomes short and uneven. I retrieve the locket and give it one more kiss before replacing it and fastening one button on my jacket. My watch shows 2 minutes ‘til; I take one last deep breath, and plaster on a winning smile before I push the car door open and am greeted with a flurry of screams and shutter clicks.

The next 158 minutes pass by in a blur, with me spewing the same canned responses to answer the same canned questions, and shaking hands with countless people I don’t care to remember. Finally, though, it seems that everyone begins to feel they have put in sufficient face time with me, and they either abandon me for the dance floor or leave the party entirely.

I retreat to the bar, letting out a sigh of relief. I survived. Solitude is a luxury I am afforded for all of 2.75 seconds before my manager sidles up alongside me and gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“You did great out there, as usual, kid,” he compliments.

I scoff. “Thanks. Too bad it still doesn’t matter.”

He arches an eyebrow, looking unimpressed, “Are you done throwing yourself a damn pity party? Take a look around you. You have been working for over 10 years, and you have achieved something that other artists cannot even dream of. Are you ing kidding me? You achieved ing diamond and you can’t even celebrate with an honest smile on your face?” He orders me a shot of Jamison; not my favorite, but my drink of choice when I am thinking about her.

My eyes ghost up to the second floor, where I can faintly see her silhouette facing me.

He earns himself a glare, “What. Difference. Does. It. Make. Yeah, so I sold 10 million albums. I have a bajillion dollars. You think I should be 100% happy? 99% of the people here don’t give a damn about what who I am as a person or what my dreams are. They are here to show their faces, have their photograph taken, and hope that I will be willing to help them make a million dollars of their own. Meanwhile, the one person besides you that I want to have by my side on a night like tonight is hiding upstairs, celebrating alone behind tinted glass. She promised me we would meet again when we've both made it, yet here I am. Still alone. Still without her. I would rather have her and nothing else. Take away diamond, take away 10 million albums, take away this pretentious party; if I had her right next to me, holding my hand, I would be 10 million times happier than I am now.”

My manager’s gaze drifts up towards the shadowy silhouette, “I know we’ve talked about this too many times before, but even after these last ten years, all of the success you’ve had…you still don’t feel like that sacrifice has been worth it?”

I raise my glass to where I know she is watching and salute. “No. Absolutely not.” I down the shot.