Call me
Do not answer your phone to anyone except me I’m calling now
The phone rings—Alex—but I decline it. I don’t want to talk to him until I find out what’s going on for myself.
StarLune’s Min dating Canadian lawyer
K-pop dating scandal
Min Gfriend identified: Who is Ariadne Hui?
Fans demand apology from StarLune’s Min
There are comments about me, and while there a large subset who are vocal in their support of Jihoon, many are less positive. There’s disbelief Min would date anyone, let alone someone like me. I’m too big. Not pretty. Old. Canadian and Chinese, so a double whammy of foreign. A nothing and a nobody. A few defend Jihoon’s right to pursue a relationship but in a conceptual way, not one with me specifically.
I decline another call from Alex.
WHERE ARE YOU CALL ME NOW
Multiple threads are combing through the band’s lyrics to decide which ones are about me, which is romantic but untrue. The stories get wilder by the minute with zero evidence and have shifted to a narrative about me as a temptress rather than Jihoon and I as star-crossed lovers.
answer your phone its me alex
If it weren’t me they were talking about, this experience would be a fascinating psychological study into how people make connections out of nothing. Since it is me, it hovers right at terrifying.
Another call from Alex. I decline again, needing a moment to absorb what’s happening. To process it.
UREGENT
Had I run a marathon, I don’t think my heart rate could be higher or my body more exhausted, so I put the phone down and walk over tothe window on shaky legs. Seoul lies out in front of me, and it hits me that in this city and others, legions of fans are currently talking about me. I feel cold. Jihoon does online chats with over a million people watching. How can you even train to deal with that level of scrutiny?
Unable to resist the lure of the phone—it’s not FOMO but POMO, petrified of mob outrage—I check again before the reality of this hits me. My name is trending. My name is a goddamn hashtag.
I reach the bathroom right before I throw up.
I’ve barely rinsed out my mouth when I grab my phone. Jihoon said he was on this, so I shoot him a text that links to one of the stories about me. Me, specifically by name.
His reply comes up instantly.I’m sorry. I know. Trust me, Ari. Be strong.
I’ve seen how people get eviscerated on social media. I’ve been part of the conversations as my clients decide whether it’s safer to cut an outspoken or offensive employee loose rather than feel the weight of the internet’s judgment.
I look at his message.I trust you, I write back.I know you’re busy dealing with this, and I trust you.Then I think about what he said on the mountain, and I type three words.
I love you.
The message—the declaration—sits on the screen as I tap my fingers on my knee. Telling Jihoon how I feel fills me with exhilaration instead of fear about his reaction. I can do this. I need to do this.
I send it.
Then I wait for a response that doesn’t come.
Forty-Two
The next hour or so is a blur. I spend a good deal of time in the bathroom staring at my reflection and wondering what to do in between checking to see if there’s a reply from Jihoon.
There’s nothing. That’s fine. He’s busy with a crisis.
But my stomach feels tight.
