Chapter Twenty-One. First World Problems and Real-World Feelings #2
Inside, I’m met with a cozy space. Lavender walls covered in music posters—Queen, Paramore, Conan Gray; a queen-size bed with a sage-green comforter is pushed into one corner; and the opposite corner displays three guitars, a microphone, and an electronic keyboard.
Wait … is this Felix’s bedroom?
Cautiously, I edge further inside and close the door, which exposes a mirror covered in Post-it notes. Most are nearly illegible, like he scribbled them down before the thoughts slipped away.
CHEM TEST ON FRIDAY!!!
THANK HALMEONI FOR CHUSEOK $$
FINISH “TOMOROW IS GONE” CORUS BEFORE BAND PRACTISE TUES 4PM
And then there are ASL notes with obvious thought put into them:
TIME + TOPIC + COMMENT = SINTAX
FINGERSPELING: SLOW DOWN, FOCUS ON CLARITY, NOT SPEED!
GOOD + MORNING + YOU + SLEEP + HOW?
Guilt churns in my stomach. These are from high school Felix. A boy whose sincerity I’d doubted and accused of making excuses. Yet here, stuck to his mirror like a badge of effort, was proof of how much he’d tried—and how unfair I’ve been.
I run my fingers over them, a knot in my chest. This version of Felix—one who struggled but still cared so deeply—feels closer to me now than the polished pop star.
I’m torn from my thoughts when the door swings open. I turn, expecting to find Ava, but instead Felix face-plants onto his bed. He grabs a pillow and screams into it.
Unsure how to react, I wait for him to sit up, but he remains face down like a corpse. “Are you okay?” When I speak, he sits bolt upright.
“Jesus, Nat! You scared me.” His panic morphs into a chuckle as he considers me. He pats the spot next to him. I sit. “So why are you in my room?” He eyes me.
“Why are you screaming into your pillow?”
“Touché.” He takes a second to collect his thoughts before ranting. “Mum keeps introducing me— —friends who want signatures for their kids. I know— —should be grateful she’s proud of me but … I wanted to relax tonight, and instead I have to— — DAYDREAM mode. Again,” he signs with a sigh.
“And my dad…” He pauses. “All night he’s been saying— — embarrassing to tell his colleagues I’m a singer.
He pulled strings— —got me a spot at South Korea’s most prestigious university so I can ‘do something meaningful someday,’” he vents, absentmindedly trying to fix his lavender necktie.
“Like selling out arenas and being personally invited— —Donatella Versace and— —cover of VOGUE, TIME, and ROLLING STONE doesn’t mean anything.
Like being his son doesn’t automatically imply I fucking mean something to him. ”
He scrubs hands over his face. “I’m sorry. Those are first world problems.”
“Don’t apologize,” I urge. “You’ve given your all, you’ve been working so hard, and maybe sometimes it feels like too much but not enough all at once. And it seems like you’re tired.”
Defeatedly, his shoulders slump. “I reckon you’re right.”
When silence stretches, I reach over and gently remove his hands from the tie that’s progressively looking worse. I fix it and tuck it back into his sleek black suit jacket.
His lips ever-so-slightly part, and his focus lazily drifts to my mouth. A dangerous warmth spreads through my body, and I’m suddenly keenly aware of how close we are—how alone in his bedroom we are.
No! Nooope.
“Will’s moms are nice!” I blurt in a panic.
Very subtle, Natalie. Good lord.
He tears his eyes away from my lips. “Er, nah, yeah. They’re sweet as. They were the first people I told when I figured out I was pan. Thought a couple of lesbians were the right place to start.”
Warranted given his dad’s reaction … It’s not the same as coming out, of course, but when it comes to my desire to branch out, to bridge the gap between the Hearing and Deaf worlds, Dad always got it.
He encouraged me. Mom has never supported my endeavors.
She’d much prefer to stay in a bubble, where it’s safe and familiar.
But remaining comfortable won’t change the world. Risk-takers and rule breakers will change the world.
“Hey, Nat?” Felix draws me out of my thoughts. His thumb circles the back of my hand—wait, what?
Oh god. I did it again. Our hands are tangled together, fingers woven like thread.
Conflicting emotions stir as if Mom and Dad are sitting on my shoulders, bickering like a cartoon angel and devil. The utilitarian logic I inherited from her versus Dad’s all-consuming emotions.
“Felix…?” I murmur.
I hope he’ll continue from there. That he’ll do something that solidifies my friendzone choice.
He shifts, and for a fleeting moment, I think he’ll pull me closer. Instead, he takes his phone out of his pocket and checks the time.
“We gotta go,” he announces. “Can’t miss our flight.”
He heads for the hall but stops in the doorway. A heaviness settles over him as his gaze sweeps over his childhood bedroom. He takes one last long look, his expression distant, as if trying to hold on to something he knows he can’t keep.
I was na?ve to think the universe would make this easy.
No. This is a choice I have to make for myself. A choice I already made.
But clearly, I didn’t factor in my brain pulling me in one direction and my heart in the other.
After our flight touches down, Felix’s mouth tips into a tired smile. “Cal’s right. You snore,” he teases softly.
I lightheartedly smack his shoulder as he pulls his hood over his head and puts on a mask, a small effort to fly under the radar, and offers me one. I do the same.
Sunglasses grabs his GUCCI duffel bag and my backpack from the overhead and we disembark. I brace myself for the horde of fans I’ve come to expect, but the only signs of human life in the airport are employees and some people waiting for red-eye flights.
We pile into an Uber, and Felix opens Instagram. I don’t know how he’s casually doomscrolling when it’s—I peer at his phone—3:12 a.m. My whole body feels weighed down, and I struggle to stay awake.
“C’mere,” he says, looking up. He scoots closer to me and pats his shoulder. “Rest.”
Maybe clearheaded, didn’t-take-two-flights-and-attend-a-party-in-one-day Natalie would decline the invitation, citing the friendzone, but currently, I’m so tired I’m actually dizzy.
I rest my cheek on his shoulder. He sets his phone aside and cards fingers of his free hand through my hair. The action lulls me back to sleep.
When he wakes me up, we’re at the hotel.
He’s usually careful to maintain distance while we’re outside, but tonight he wraps an arm around my waist and supports me as I stumble into the lobby, half asleep.
I prop myself against the front desk. Felix rings the little bell until a desk clerk finally appears.
“Two rooms under Song and Nielsen,” he says.
A bit of typing, then, “You’re in room 701, Mr. Song. Andrew Moore checked in for you, but I need to see your ID.”
Felix roots around in his fanny pack. The endless stream of items—an unopened pack of glitter gel pens, a backstage pass from Madison Square Garden, and a mini tangerine—would be funny if it weren’t yet another thing keeping me from sleep.
He hands the desk clerk his Washington State driver’s license when he tracks it down.
The desk clerk hands Felix a key card. “Miss Nielsen…” Their brows furrow. “I’m sorry, your reservation was given away. When— —didn’t check in— —assumed you were a no-show.”
The news perks me up. “What? Can I rebook?” If I’m not upstairs and in bed in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll pass out in the middle of this ornate lobby.
“I’m sorry. We’re full.”
“Hey, Nat, it’s alright,” Felix soothes. He squeezes my shoulder. “You can sleep in my room.”
“No,” I mumble. “Boundaries.”
He tilts his head. “What’d you say?”
“Never mind!” I sign with a burst of sleep-deprived frustration. I snatch the key card from Felix and head for the elevator.
Room 701 is right beside the elevators on the seventh floor. I unlock the door, swing it open, flick on the light, and … freeze.
Felix stands behind Ginger and me, bags in hand. “What’s wrong?”
I crane my neck to look at him and dramatically gesture to the room. “There’s only one bed.”
“Oh, c’mon, Nat. There’s plenty of room. We won’t even touch. Unless you feel like having a cuddle,” he teases with a mischievous smirk.
I unstick my feet from the invisible superglue in the doorway and enter. Ginger falls asleep on the floor after I take off her vest.
Felix’s eyes twinkle playfully as I build a wall of pillows in the middle of the bed. “Stay on your own side, Pretty Boy,” I grumble.
“Alrighty,” he chirps. “But you do realize you already cuddled me during the flight—”
“Go to sleep!” I bite, and flop onto my side of the barrier.
“You’re gonna sleep in your travel clothes?” He pulls a disgusted face. “Yuck.” He tugs his sweatshirt over his head. “Fair warning, I’m gonna change my pants now.” I close my eyes at the speed of light. After a moment, he says, “All clear.”
I open my eyes right before he turns off the light, and to my horror, I find that he didn’t put on another shirt. The bed shifts as he crawls in, and I tense up. Felix is shirtless. In the same bed as me. Inches away.
Suddenly, I’m wide awake as we lie here with only a half-assed pillow barrier separating us.
There’s no way I can ask him to put on a shirt, right?
Right. Because that would mean explaining why it bothers me, and I’d rather have a toddler perform brain surgery on me than admit to Felix that his shirtlessness makes me feel things.
After god knows how long, I roll to the very edge of the bed, as far away from him as I can get. I’m seconds away from falling asleep when he murmurs, almost too soft to hear, “G’night, Nat.”
“Goodnight, Felix.”