I huffed a laugh. “I’ll sleep on the plane.
We fell silent for a time as we ate, and honestly, I was impressed Becka managed to restrain herself from asking the question I knew she must be thinking. She had the courtesy to wait until the second I wiped my hands off on a napkin.
“So,” she started innocently, “how are you feeling?”
“There it is,” I chuckled.
“What?” She asked, defensively. “I’m just asking.”
“Yeah, sure.” I sighed. “I’m – well, ‘fine’ might be a stretch.” I paused, considering. With Becka, I didn’t need to pretend.Couldn’t, really. My emotions were written all over my face, and she had become incredibly astute at reading them.
“I’m… a professional,” I said eventually. “I’ll be okay, because this is my job.”
Becka’s face contracted – just for a second.
“You don’t need to be okay,” she said, reaching across the table to grasp my hand. I squeezed her fingers briefly.
“I know, but I want to be,” I admitted. “Mostly, I am. It’s been so long. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully be at peace with it, but I figure I don’t need to be.”
I blew out a breath. I’d spent months really trying to figure out how I felt, because I couldn’t keep on living my life in the shadows of my past.
Ever since I’d broken up with Patrick, I’d had to face the reality that I couldn’t keep dragging Jihoon’s ghost around with me, using it as a buffer to keep people at a distance. I knew I would always feel a type of loss over the life I’d envisioned, but I had done a lot of work to put him behind me. I’d had to come to terms with myself that I may always feel love for him, but I had to love myself more.
“I’ve moved on. I have,” I said with more force, seeing the sceptical look on her face. “Contrary to what every TV sitcom would have you believe, I don’t think you always need closure to move on.” I nodded, more to myself than for Becka’s sake. “I think sometimes it’s okay just to accept you’ll never get closure. Chose peace and move on.”
Becka shook her head slowly. “You’re a better woman than me,” she muttered.
“I know.”
Becka’s head snapped up.
“You weren’t supposed to agree.”
“I know.”
I didn’t have a press pass to the concert, just a seated ticket, so I filed in along with everyone else. The stadium capacity was massive, tens of thousands of seats and standing tickets had been sold, making this officially the largest GVibes concert I had ever attended. It had the unintended effect of making me feel comfortable in my anonymity. Here, I was just another face in a sea of people, and I felt the tension in my shoulders melt away with the realisation.
The atmosphere in the stadium was jubilant. It seemed that everyone was well aware of the gravity of this being their first overseas performance. So many fans had dressed up to match the various themes of GVibes’ past concepts, from their more recent edgy era to their initial preppy look from their debut album. I even saw a few people dressed up as the group’s Viblets – their plushies – which had made me laugh.
Fans were clustered in groups, and as I moved around them, I saw they were handing out and swapping freebie packs. I was offered several little gift bags, full of things like stickers, phone accessories, photo cards, sweets, beaded bracelets… the variety was astounding, to say nothing of the time and money spent on these little gifts freely handed out to fellow Vibers.
Lightsticks were everywhere – hung around necks, shoved in pockets, on display in clear, plastic bags. It was one of the many things that differentiated a K-Pop performance from any other. I had been to lots of live performances, but none were ever quite like a K-Pop concert.
The sense of unity was lovely. Whatever else anyone in this crowd was – student, doctor, waitress, journalist – in this we were all the same. Viber.
I discreetly dictated that thought into my recorder before I forgot to write it down later.
When I’d attended the Jingle Bell Ball, so long ago now I remember being amazed at how quickly an audience filled with general music lovers had immediately became a sea of K-Pop fans as soon as GVibes came on. Here and now, we were all united under the same banner and for a time, I could imagine what it must feel like to be just another fan. Someone who loved the group for no other reason than the general complexity of being a fan. A person who loved the music, the dances, the message in the songs, or even the personas of the group members themselves. And not as someone who knew each member.
Someone who hadknowneach member, I corrected.
There had been a time, right at the beginning, when we’d first broken up, when I had believed it would have been easier to have never known them. Never have known him.
Oddly, being in this crowd solidified how much I didn’t believe that anymore. Even after everything, I really believed that my life was better for having known him, and them, because my love for the music was still there. Knowing the real people behind the songs added a layer of complexity I couldn’t have expected. It was almost like having an additional sense to experience the music with, and for that, I would always be grateful.
For a time, I’d been granted an intimate view of how it all came together. I’d seen the humans behind the legends. I’d seen the back breaking work I knew they put into each song and dance routine. I knew Ace sometimes had to use supplemental oxygen after a strenuous performance because he’d caught once pneumonia as a child. I knew Woojin still got so nervous before a big show that he wore an elastic band around his wrist, snapping it to take his mind off his nerves. I knew so many of Joon–Jihoon’s habits that I could almost visualise him backstage now.
Unless… Unless the handful of years and their time in the military had changed even those small habits.
