Chapter 39
It seemed that I couldn’t open my laptop anymore without Google alerting me to something new about the members of GVibes.
Minjae had been spotted in New York.
Woojin had apparently collaborated with a big electronics company in Korea.
Ace and Lee were on holiday in Malta.
I hadn’t minded this notification as much, seeing as how it had been a picture of them trying on hats in a market and generally just goofing off, looking for all the world like two kids who’d given their parents the slip.
Every day it was a fresh reminder of a world I no longer had exclusive access to.
I’d gotten used to the silence of the past two years.
I was able to acknowledge how necessary that had been for my own well being, but now I was realising I’d been lulled into a false sense of security, instead of preparing myself for the group’s inevitable reentry to the same industry my entire career was focused on.
It was so strange to be a casual observer of people I had known, admired and, even liked.
I would see photos of them uploaded to their social media, or the official ENT account, and for a moment it was like looking at a picture of an old school friend, only for the realisation to hit a moment later.
I did not know this person anymore. It was disorientating.
Two separate lives overlapping, like double exposure captured on film. I tried not to linger on those posts.
Ace’s tentative reappearance into my life was like being dumped into a field of emotional landmines. I kept trying to navigate around them, but each option – message him back or ignore it – felt like it might set off something I wasn’t emotionally prepared for.
But, eventually, the good manners I’d been brought up with proved to be stronger than any other feeling I might have had. Leaving him on ‘read’ made my skin itch. I just couldn’t do it, and he didn’t deserve it.
I responded two days later, with a simple,
Thank you.
I stared at those two words for so long that they simultaneously took on a plethora of new meanings, and somehow meant nothing at all. Then, like a nervous crescendo thrumming under my skin, I added four more words.
I hope you’re well.
No questions, no expectations of a reply, just well wishes.
I could live with that.
I felt sick for hours after.
Towards the end of the month, I opened up my laptop the way I did every morning, only to almost immediately slam it shut again.
I pushed my chair back from the desk in one, screeched movement and lurched to my feet.
“Fuck.” I dragged a hand down my face. “Fuck,” I said louder, pressing a hand over my heart, trying to pretend the slight tremor in my hand was due to the half cup of coffee I’d already drunk.
I moved over to my little window that looked down on the street below, pressing my forehead to the cool glass and watched how my too fast breaths misted the surface.
“Fuck,” I exhaled, as I admitted to myself that I was not okay enough for this.
But I would try to be. I was always trying to be.
I leaned away from the window, rolled my shoulders back, took a deep breath and sat back down at my desk. I opened my laptop and tried not to flinch as the webpage reloaded.
BAEK JIHOON AND LEE HYEJIN: IT’S OVER.
ROYAL COUPLE OF K-POP OFFICIALLY ANNOUNCE SPLIT. CLAIM IT’S ‘AMICABLE’
In the nearly three years since our breakup, I had done a lot of work to be able to move on, from both him, and the life I had been building for myself, brick by brick.
I had learned in that time that it didn’t matter how often I catalogued his faults. I had never been able to demonise him, because I had never seen him as anything less than the flawed human being he was. And I had loved him, regardless.
I had also come to accept that I had insulated myself in his life, and while comfortable at the time, that had left me without protection when the collision had come.
Being without him had meant learning to want things again.
Learning to like myself as who I was now and not versus who I had been then.
Learning to look forward to a future I had to build for myself.
But most of all, it had meant learning who I was, under the realisation of a failed dream, and a failed relationship, because for years – even before Jihoon – I’d sketched an image of myself in my mind of who I wanted to be.
Without a career in music production, and without Jihoon, who was I?
I had needed to figure that out, or drown in a sea of what ifs.
I’d chosen myself.
I’d found something that gave me joy.
And yeah, maybe I hadn’t found my place in the world yet, but I now knew who I was, and I was healed enough to admit that I still mourned the life I’d almost had – or at least, the life I’d thought it had been.
All that self-reflection to acknowledge that I felt conflicted.
I was sad for him, because while I could only guess at his reasons for so easily going public with their relationship, I still felt confident that I knew him well enough to know that he would be hating the media attention he was undoubtedly getting now over the end of it.
I took a shaky inhale and closed the browser. Time to get back to work.
The next week, my editor briefly floated the idea of me covering Jihoon’s breakup. She suggested I could write a small, quarter-page article from the context of how the media treated Korean celebrities.
“No.”
“No?” She blinked at me, like the word was a mistranslation of the one she had been expecting.
“No,” I confirmed, lifting my chin, but balling my fists in my jacket pockets.
“May I ask why?” My editor was a fair, but quick-tempered woman, and she had that look in her eyes now, the one that warned me not to bullshit her.
“All the other publications are already covering it from every possible angle. It’s a gossip story. Frequency is not in the habit of writing gossip, and I thought you wanted me to write that piece about AI infiltrating the streaming charts.”
I held my breath.
My editor tilted her head for a moment, eyes narrowed.
“Yeah, okay.” She shrugged. “Send me the draft when you’re done.”
Missive delivered, she turned on her heel and walked back towards her office. She didn’t see how I slumped against the wall, dragging in gulping breaths that juddered through me like sobs.
Unfortunately, I had been correct in implying how widely the breakup was being covered.
Nearly every Google Alert I had was saturated with articles rehashing the same non-information.
Nonsense theories based on body language, lip-reading attempts, and public appearances, or no-shows ,were everywhere.
It was a frenzy of guesses, and miscommunication.
Some sources claimed they’d broken up before his enlistment, while others claimed it had been during, but all pointed to the fact it had been over at least a year ago.
What I really hated to see was just how many people were coming forward to speak about his private life – like it was something anyone had a right to.
It wasn’t just the usual ‘private sources’ from the predictable places, like ENT, or former school friends – it was people he’d apparently gone through basic training with.
Men he’d shared barracks with. People who purported to have heard him talking about, or to Lee Hyejin.
The invasion of privacy made my stomach twist.
I’d already understood why he’d never wanted for us to… well. Now I saw exactly what he’d feared play out in real-time.
My chest ached every time I saw another article flash up, because he’d been right.
But I think I’d always wonder how it might have played out if he’d just taken the chance.