21. Missing Him
MISSING HIM
JIN — LONDON
By the last interview of the morning, the effort of speaking English so much, and so carefully, had me exhausted. I couldn’t wait to get out of this conference room at the hotel and back to my room, where I could mourn Sang-hoon’s departure in private.
The interviewer, a young blonde woman with a single string of pearls around her neck, glanced down at her notes.
“One more question. Your fans have been talking a great deal about someone they’ve identified as a member of your staff.”
I smiled automatically. “Our staff works very hard.”
“They do.” She smiled back. “But this particular person seems to have attracted unusual attention. Fans have noticed that you often look toward him during performances.”
The smile stayed on my face, but inside, my pulse raced.
“They’ve identified him as Sang-hoon, one of your stylists.” She tilted her head. “Some fans have nicknamed him your lucky charm. Others have suggested there’s... a deeper connection. How do you feel about all the speculation?”
For one impossible moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The truthful answer came first. Because he’s the man I love.
I almost laughed. Five years ago I wouldn’t even have admitted those words to myself. Now they were the only answer that felt true.
Every lesson Starhouse had drilled into me collided with that truth.
Never repeat the rumor.
Never validate the premise of the question.
Never let your expression answer before your words do.
The silence stretched, and I heard the producer shift behind the camera.
The interviewer waited for an answer, and finally my years of publicity training kicked in, and I said, “I’ve learned not to read too much into what people post online.” I smiled again, this time because I knew exactly how it looked. “Our fans are very creative.”
She studied me for a second, as though deciding whether to push. “So there’s nothing to the rumors?”
“There are always rumors,” I said. “I’m grateful people care enough about us to pay such close attention.”
Grace spoke from the sidelines for the first time. “That’s all we have time for. Thank you.”
The interviewer nodded politely. “Congratulations on the tour.”
I stood, shook her hand, and walked out of the interview room. Only when the door closed behind me did I realize my hands were trembling.
When the bus pulled up at the technical entrance to the O2 Arena, I spotted the line of ticket-holders waiting around the corner at the main gate.
When I stepped onto the sidewalk I heard a roar erupt, people cheering and screaming in English and even some Korean.
We all waved to them, and then Sun-hee-noona prodded us to head inside.
It was our biggest show yet. The kind of opportunity most K-pop groups would kill for. I wanted Sang-hoon to be here to see it. I watched Aidan and Liam confer over security setups, Sun-hee-noona carefully policing us so that we were never alone or in a position where an outsider could hurt us.
The firebomb in Cannes had changed everything.
Before, we’d been a pretty happy group, focused on making music and entertaining audiences.
I’d taken Sang-hoon’s nearness as a given.
Now everything had changed and I wanted desperately to go back to that time before Cannes, when we were lauded for that movie theme song, when we were on the brink of a world tour.
Mina had already set up her station before I arrived. Everything in the right place. “Let’s get you ready,” she said professionally.
When she started working, her hands were quiet and careful, and she was completely silent. Sang-hoon always hummed something — whatever we’d been rehearsing that week, usually just the last four bars on repeat. I hadn’t realized I listened for it until it wasn’t there.
She worked like someone reading sheet music they’d memorized but never heard performed. Technically correct, no wrong notes, nothing that wasn’t there. Sang-hoon worked like someone who already knew the song.
I sat in the chair and closed my eyes while she worked. Her touch was competent, gentle, everything it should be.
They weren’t Sang-hoon’s hands. Wasn’t the familiar rhythm we’d developed. Wasn’t the quiet intimacy of someone who knew every angle of my face, every preference, every mood.
“How does that look?” Mina asked, stepping back.
I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror.
Perfect. Professional. Exactly what Jin the center of Pryzm should look like.
Empty.
“It’s great,” I said. “Thank you.”
She smiled, pleased. “I’ll be ready for touch-ups during the show. Just signal when you need me.”
I nodded as my phone buzzed in my lap.
The message display read “Unknown number,” and for one stupid second, hope punched through me. Had Sang-hoon changed his mind? Was he on his way back to me?
But when I opened the message, I began to shake as the Korean characters filled the screen. Missing him won’t save you.