Sighing, I pressed ‘confirm’ on the page where I had been updating my credentials, before looking at my other monitor, where an open Google document was waiting, the blinking cursor reminding me of work I had to do.
I’d admitted to Becka that I didn’t want to write this one, but my editor had insisted I was the only one on the team that he wanted to tackle it, because of my previous employment at ENT. Because I was now a salaried writer forThe Loop, I didn’t get as much freedom in my choice of articles. So, when James had come to me and asked me to cover the military enlistment schedule of GVibes, I couldn’t say no.
While I was strictly following the mandate, I had chosen to centre the article about military enlistment as to how it affects K-Pop performers in general, using GVibes as the springboard into a broader conversation.
I’d reached out to the PR team at ENT, but they’d refused – as I’d expected – to provide me their enlistment dates, so I could only provide general dates around the potential periods they’d be enlisted.
I’d worked to the brief, including just enough GVibes specific information to bait Vibers to our page, but keeping it general enough for my own peace.
I was healed enough to admit that I wasn’t healed enough for a deep dive.
What I hadn’t known though, was that the group had decided to enlist together. While not unheard of, it was unusual enough to be a big deal. Most groups staggered their enlistments to allow for the individual group members to do solo projects out from the shadow of the group.
Even though I had tried to stay away from much information about them over the past ten months, it was hard not to be at least peripherally aware of their activities.
I knew, for instance, that Woojin had collaborated with several US rappers, and that Ace had acted in a K-Drama. Minjae and Sungmin had released a mini album.
I knew thathisalbum had been an enormous success since its release in January, and it was only because I’d faked a bout of covid that I’d managed to get out of writing a biographical on him – K-Pop’s golden boy.
It had made me laugh, even as I’d cried – just a little – at just who they had unknowingly asked to write the piece.
I was finding my peace, day by day. Even if some of those days were spent purposefully avoiding his name.
When he’d released his album, finally titled –Be:Coming– it had been hard. My social media algorithm was so trained to highlight news like that, that even without the constant promotion, I would have known.
And I was so, fucking proud of him. Even then. Even now, because it was everything he’d worked towards, despite the constant push backs, and the self-doubt. So, while it hurt – and my God had it hurt – I was happy for him, because he deserved it.
Not long after he’d released his album, I’d published an in-depth series on my blog about my life before the pandemic. Starting with my move to LA, documenting how it had been to live with my best friend in the City of Angels, and rubbing shoulders with Grammy winners in the hallways of one of the world’s most well-known recording studios. I’d carefully gone over my NDA to make sure nothing I had described constituted as a breach. I’d even had a conversation with Becka in an officialcapacity, but she was happy that anything I wrote would only be good publicity for the studio.
It went without saying that I wouldn’t write anything about Trevor Kyle, even if only because legally, things were progressing there that I didn’t want to wade into.
It seemed so obvious to me – looking back through the photos – when he had come into my life. It was like the pictures in my reel suddenly had colour in them, but maybe that was just down to the subjects of the photos.
Ferris wheels, sunsets, gardens with pools.
Halloween street parties.
There was such light, and joy in those photos that for the first time in months, I could think back and smile.
Once I’d finished documenting my life as an underpaid intern, I’d debated about writing about my time in Seoul. In the end, it had been Mum that persuaded me to do it. To use the experience as a sort of catharsis. And, of course, she had been right, because while I still felt… erased, putting my experiences into words – even heavily edited – felt like validating my existence, because I had been there.
I had worked for what I wanted, and even though what I’d worked for had been him, I’d had experiences in Korea that I didn’t want to forget.
I didn’t want to forget that part of my life, because I think… I think it made my life better. Bigger, somehow. I didn’t want to forget it just because it hurt.
I didn’t want to erase myself.
When it was done – when I’d described my last flight out of the country – I’d felt freer than I’d ever felt. Like I’d released the lingering ghosts of secrecy, and self-doubt, and turned thenarrative into an experience, instead of a memory. It felt like a gift I’d given myself permission to have.
The series had given my social media presence an unexpected boon. My intention had been only to put words down as something for myself, but it’d had the unintended effect of gaining me thousands of new followers, which in turn converted to readers on the articles I wrote forThe Loop.
That series was probably the reason why I’d been offered a permanent contract. I even had my photograph in the bylines – something I still wasn’t used to. LA and Korea had directly contributed to me becoming a feature writer, and it was that knowledge that gave me a sense of peace that it had all been worth it.
It had also been the final push I’d needed to make the decision to move back to London.
The city was where the publication offices were. I was a staffer atThe Loop, but I now had ambitions for other, larger, print and global publications and it no longer made sense to hide in Cumbria. I needed to be in motion to move on.
Sighing, I pushed away from my desk and swivelled around in my chair.
