19. Absence
ABSENCE
JIN — AMSTERDAM/LONDON
Sang-hoon was gone. Actually gone. He usually packed my suitcase, making sure nothing was wrinkled or damaged.
For the first time on this tour, I had to do it myself.
I threw everything into the bag, not caring, and then dragged it down to the lobby where the valet added it to the pile waiting for the bus to the airport.
I put my earphones in and turned on music, and ignored anyone’s attempt to talk to me.
I wanted to stay in my own misery, and I did, through the bus to the airport, the short flight to London, and then another bus to the hotel.
This was what my life was reduced to. Bus rides, hotels, flights and performances. Nothing more.
My phone buzzed. Text from my mother:
Eomma: We’re so excited to watch the video of London show online! Your father already has his camera ready. Love you!
I stared at the message. My parents thought I was living the dream—international tour, sold-out shows, fame and success. They had no idea their son was falling apart.
I typed back: Love you too. See you in Seoul.
That afternoon we reported to the lobby for the bus to the O2 Arena. Mina came up to me and bowed politely. “It’s an honor to take over for Sang-hoon, Jin-ssi. I’ll do my best to make the transition smooth.”
“Thank you,” I said, because that’s what Jin the idol would say. Jin the professional. “I’m sure you’ll be great.”
I wasn’t, but I’d have to be. For the fans, for the other members of Pryzm, and much though I hated them at that moment, the bosses at Starhouse.
As we stepped on stage at the O2 Arena for the technical rehearsal, the vast emptiness swallowed us.
Twenty thousand seats rose in steep gray tiers until they disappeared into darkness beneath the roof.
Work lights washed the stage in white instead of concert blues and purples.
Half the giant LED screens displayed calibration grids while riggers in hard hats walked the overhead catwalks, looking impossibly small against the steel framework.
Somewhere high above us, a wrench struck metal.
Clang.
The sound echoed through the arena long after it should have died.
Tomorrow those seats would be filled with people who knew every lyric, every dance move, every tiny mistake we’d ever made.
Tonight there were only technicians calling cues, cameras gliding silently along their tracks, and the smell of fresh paint mixed with coffee and electrical equipment warming up.
We walked to our opening positions without speaking.
I had performed in dozens of stadiums by then. But the O2 wasn’t just another stop on the tour. If you could fill this room, you belonged anywhere.
“Stand by for opening cue,” came the voice over the monitor.
I took my mark at center stage.
Habit made me glance toward stage left, but Sang-hoon wasn’t there. Would never be there again.
“Music,” the technical director called, and the opening notes thundered through twenty thousand empty seats.
From those first notes, the rehearsal was a disaster.
I knew the choreography. Had performed these songs hundreds of times. Could do the routines in my sleep. But my body wouldn’t cooperate.
I was half a beat off on everything. My turns were sloppy. My vocals kept cracking on notes I usually hit clean. And every time I came off stage for a water break, I looked for Sang-hoon in the wings before remembering he wasn’t there.
“Again,” the technical director said, sounding frustrated. “Jin, you’re dragging. Pick up the tempo.”
I reset my position. Tried again.
Still wrong.
Haneul caught my arm during the next break. “Joon-hi, what’s wrong? And don’t say nothing. I’ve known you since you were a fresh recruit.”
“Sang-hoon left.” The words came out flat. “He’s gone.”
“What?” Haneul shifted from concern to confusion. “I saw he wasn’t on the plane or the bus. What do you mean he left?”
“He requested reassignment. Flew back to Seoul. He was afraid that Starhouse management, or the fans, would find out we were… together. That getting fired would ruin my career.” I took a long drink of water, avoiding his eyes.
“So now I have to work with Mina and I’m supposed to just keep performing like nothing happened. ”
“Joon-hi—”
“Can we talk about this later? I need to focus on rehearsal.”
But I couldn’t focus. The rest of the session was a blur of missed cues and frustrated corrections and the choreographer finally calling it early because I was making everyone else’s timing worse.
In the dressing room after, Tae sat beside me while I stared at nothing. “Haneul told me about you and Sang-hoon. I always thought you guys were close. And he just picked up and left?”
“You know about the fraternization rule. He thought he could save my career by leaving.” My throat was tight. “So he left. And now I’m supposed to just keep performing like my entire world didn’t just fall apart.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I want to go back in time and make him stay. I want to scream at him for being a coward. I want—” My voice broke. “I want him back.”
Tae pulled me into a hug, and I let myself collapse against him for a moment before remembering where we were. Professional. Had to stay professional.
“Sorry,” I said, pulling away. “I’m okay. I’ll be okay.”
“You’re allowed to not be okay, you know. You just lost—” He paused. “A friend. A relationship.”
“Everything,” I said quietly. “I lost everything.”