I hated it, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he had chosen such a physically demanding branch because he was punishing himself for all the flaws he’d believed he had. My stomach churned at the thought, because that was exactly the kind of thing he would do.
And then I’d get cross at myself for wondering why the hell I was trying to analyse someone I – someone I didn’t know anymore.
The self-correction ached, but I persisted because the alternative – letting myself believe I still knew who he was – would only hurt more.
When he was discharged, all the members reunited at the gates. The maknae cried, Woojin and Minjae opted for more reserved hugs, but once the first, awkward period was over, they all seemed to launch at each other, puppy piling on as they laughed.
Ace jokingly called him ‘Sergeant Oppa’, which earned him a shove from Woojin.
I watched the exchange even when I knew I shouldn’t, because seeing them like that only made me remember how we’d spent time together, and that path only led me back to the knowledge of how utterly I’d been cast out. By him, and by all of them.
I saw the announcement from ENT pop up on my phone. There would be no comeback live that day, to allow the membersthe space and quiet to reunite with each other. I was privately pleased they were at least being afforded that grace before the inevitable firestorm of speculation of what comes next.
I was also pleased that I wouldn’t have to struggle with the decision to not watch. Relieved I wouldn’t have to berate myself when I inevitably did.
Hot on the heels of GVibe’s discharge, I was rather, unsurprisingly, assigned to write a think piece on the global success and media recognition of K-Pop.
After watching the way the members had handled their reintroduction to the public eye – and more importantly, how the public eye had refocused on them – I decided to slant my article towards an observation on how late to the party Western media was to K-Pop. How K-Pop had been not so quietly shaping culture for years, and how that had largely been ignored. How it was only now gaining recognition due to the overwhelming numbers it brought in through streaming platforms and physical media – which had up until now been thought to be going extinct – to say nothing of live performances.
It was perhaps a bit tongue in cheek, considering I wrote for a Western publication, but thankfullyFrequencyoften veered towards the irreverent, and I got away with it.
May
I’d decided to take a holiday from the magazine in the last week of May to focus on the coursework for my Masters. I’d sofar managed to juggle my work load with admirable aplomb, but it had begun to catch up with me, and so I decided to lock in and spend the week in the library, which was only one tube stop away from my dorm.
I was just making a do-to list on my phone when the train slowed to a halt, which was why I wasn’t paying attention when the train doors opened. They swished to the sides and I took exactly one step before my entire body slammed to a halt. Plastered on the wall directly in front of the now open carriage doors was a six foot tall poster of him. Jihoon.
Evidently, he’d resumed his duties as an ambassador for a French fashion house, and that meant new ad campaigns.
Unfortunately, the people crowded onto the carriage with me had not gotten the same full body memo to pause mid-step, and continued their forward motion into my still form. I was knocked forward, and tripped when I lost my balance, sending me careening to the floor.
“What’re you doing?” Someone cried angrily from behind me, which all-in-all, was a fair question. Most people carried on past me, a couple even deigned to step over my prone body, but a handful of people did stop to help me up, and check if I was alright. How would I even begin to explain that my body had rebooted because I’d been confronted with a life-size poster of my ex-boyfriend?
Easier to say my foot had gotten stuck in the door.
“You really ought to watch where you’re stepping,” a kind, older woman said as she brushed dirt off my sleeve.
I could only bring myself to nod in agreement.
I’d spent so long existing in a bubble where he wasn’t a part of my daily life – or, apparently, my daily commute, that I had gotten used to the kind of peace in his absence.
That peace seemed to be at an end.
June
In the summer, I was invited to freelance for an indie publication.
Somewhere around mid-morning, my laptop pinged with an email with a bizarre subject line. I opened the email, fully expecting it to be a scam, but kind of hoping it wouldn’t be.
The further down the email I read, the higher, and higher my eyebrows went.
An independent music magazine had offered me an unusual freelance deal. I sat back in my chair, and snorted at the audacity.
They didn’t have the budget to pay me, but they did have hospitality tickets for theRoute Du Rockfestival in Saint-Malo, France.
I re-read the email three times to make sure I hadn’t misunderstood. Who pays a journalist in festival tickets?
Still… hadn’t I just been telling Becka that morning that I needed a break from London? The city had just entered that stage of summer where it got to be so hot that even the pavements were radiating heat, making the city feel like a sweat box.
