Bias Wrecked E-Book

C.M. Kars

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Fangirl Chronicles
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 578

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A K-pop fangirl finally meets her idol bias wrecker, who happens to be her oldest friend from a lifetime ago. Now that they're both all grown up, can an idol and his biggest fan find true love?

Raleigh Montgomery, K-pop fangirl and new Seoulite, gets the opportunity to attend a fansign event with her favourite K-pop band of all time, Trickshot. At that point, she's able to reconnect with Min Jaeyong, her oldest best friend, the one who left a hole in her heart when he left their high school to pursue his dreams.

Reuniting after so many years feels like the second chance Raleigh has always wanted. There's even a possibility of renewing a friendship that she sorely missed.

When that friendship could turn into something more, Raleigh has to wonder if the fact that Jaeyong is instantly recognizable in 30 countries can ruin a relationship that hasn't even begun.

Can a fangirl fall in love with her bias and live happily-ever-after?

Leseprobe

OTHER WORKS BY C.M. KARS

The Never Been Series

Never Been Kissed

Never Been Nerdy

Never Been Loved

Never Been Under the Mistletoe

Never Been Boxed Set

Sera & Hunter: A never been collection

The Fangirl Chronicles

Fangirling Over You

To All the Footballers I Loved Before

Bias Wrecked

Pucked Romance

Never Say Never

The Cuffing Season Series

Get Cuffed

Cuffing and Turkey Stuffing

Cuffing and Tree Trimming

Cuffing New Year’s Resolutions Cuffing and Loving

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Bias Wrecked

Book Three, The Fangirl Chronicles

by C.M. Kars

Copyright © 2021 C.M. Kars

All rights reserved.

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

Cover design by Indigo Chick Designs

Editing by Aquila Editing

V 1.0 PublishDrive 2022-02-11

ISBN (ebook) 978-1-990603-04-4

ISBN (paperback) 978-1-990603-05-1

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Hello Reader,

I would like to clarify a few points about this story.

As such, I have taken creative liberties with music shows and other aspects of idol life to help fit the story I wanted to tell. This is by no means a story about the K-pop industry; it is not a story about what K-pop is and what it is not.

This is a story of two childhood friends finding each other again and restarting their relationship and eventually finding love. One of these people just happens to be an idol.

You will find a page of terms I use in the following pages, and the Korean romanization next to those words.

I’ve been slowly self-studying Korean for the past couple of years (with spurts of really heavy studying, while neglecting my language learning for months at a time, because you know, 2020).

By learning any new language, you become exposed to new words, new concepts, and of course, the culture. I have tried my best to depict the Korean culture with as much respect as possible, but in the course of my research and this writing (I was actually supposed to go to Seoul, but then 2020 happened), I could have misrepresented concepts, or brought too many of my own preconceptions to what I’m talking about.

No offense was intended in any way, shape, or form. All mistakes are my own.

If you see something in this book that concerns you, please send me an email at: [email protected].

Thank you for being here, and I hope you enjoy this story.

Sincerely,

C.M. Kars

TERMS

Sasaeng(s) –shortened form of sasaenghwal, meaning private or personal life. These are overzealous, delusional (and sometimes dangerous) fans.

Annyeonghaseyo – Formal greeting of ‘hello’, how you would greet someone who is older than you, or higher status than you (i.e. not to children).

Yeoboseyo – How Koreans say ‘hello’ when answering the phone.

Algessumnida – a formal way of saying ‘yes, I understand’ or ‘understood’.

Hyung – the term used for older brother if you’re a male; also used as a title of sorts to describe a closer relationship between two males, a younger male will address the older male as such (when given permission).

Oppa – the term used for older brother if you’re a female; also used as a title of sorts to describe a closer relationship between a female and an older male (when given permission).

Noona – the term used for older sister if you’re a male; also used as a title of sorts to describe a closer relationship between a younger male and an older female.

Eomeonim – Formal address for ‘mother’; you would use this term when speaking about someone else’s mother or greeting someone else’s mother.

Abeonim – Formal address for ‘father’; you would use this term when speaking about someone else’s father or greeting someone else’s father.

Eomeoni/Eomma – a more casual address of ‘mother’/‘mom’

Abeoji/Appa – a more casual address of ‘father’/ ‘dad’

Adeul – the term for son

Yeobo – term of affection ‘honey’

Maknae – youngest member of the group

Banchan – small side dishes that accompany the main Korean meal (some of these include: kimchi, pickled radish, soybean sprouts, etc.)

Japchae – a dish of stir-fried glass noodles and vegetables

Gochujang – red chili paste that’s used as a base for most Korean dishes

Chapssaltteok – Korean-style mochi; a rice cake filled with sweet red bean paste.

Tteokbokki – a popular street food, also known as spicy rice cakes.

Netizen – slang word for a “citizen of the internet”

-ssi (suffix) – A suffix you would attach after a person’s full name (or just the first name if you’re closer) to sound more polite. Pronounced as ‘she’.

- nim (suffix) – A suffix you would attach after a person’s name or title to give the upmost respect, the highest form of honorifics.

Samgyeopsal – grilled pork belly

Selca – the Konglish word for “selfie”

Soju – a Korean distilled alcoholic clear beverage that’s made from rice, wheat or barley.

They come in green glass bottles and you drink it neat. It also comes in an assortment of fruit flavours with a lower alcohol content.

OT5 – your bias is all five members of a given group (like Trickshot)

Fancam – a video taken by a fan in the audience of their idols (some focusing solely on their bias), during a live performance or an award show

Fansign – a signing event for fans of K-pop groups (and other Korean celebrities). Fans for idol groups at these events are chosen through a lottery system after purchase of a physical album

Bias – your own favourite member of a given K-pop group

Bias Wrecker – the member that threatens your bias (i.e. favouritism) of another member and becomes your bias (usually, not always).

Comeback – the event where any K-pop artist releases new music (could be an EP, mini album, full-length album).

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

PUCKED ROMANCE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ONE

Waiting in line is always a sucky place to be, but this line in particular really takes the cake. And now I’m thinking about cake.

Great.

I hand my I.D.—Quebec issued—and watch the Korean security guard frown at it, looking up at my face and then back down to my driver’s license, confirming that I am, in fact, who I say I am, Raleigh Montgomery.

I also have to point out where my birth date is—the first time I’ve spoken real Korean aside from the hellos and thank yous to the bus and taxi drivers, and the cashiers at convenience stores—we both do confirm that I am indeed born August 12, in the Year of Our Lord, 1993, and am of age to attend this event.

The security guard is smartly dressed, standing next to a staff member (I know this because she’s wearing a t-shirt that says STAFF in English on her chest), wearing a headset, a phone in her hand as she welcomes me to the fansign event that’ll start whenever the members of Trickshot take their seats, and they open the doors into the auditorium.

So I’m still waiting, having hit the first checkpoint in a series of checkpoints that confirms my identity and the identity on my ticket, as I pull up my email confirmation and the date it was issued.

I’m nodded through, thanking them for their time, because even I’m overwhelmed in the face of all these fans, even if I do count myself among them.

It’s my first time doing this, too, going to a fansign, or what we’d call a meet-and-greet back home, having won the lottery when I purchased the latest Trickshot album and the end of an era before the band goes on their six-month hiatus.

That’s not why I’m so nervous and excited though, even though I’m an OT6 stan, and love each member equally. No, my heart’s kicking hard at the prospect of standing in front of him, of seeing him again, after all this time.

I take my place back in line after I’m buzzed down with the security wand, the thing buzzing when it hits my ears and belly button from my piercings, my cheeks burning at the potential that I could have had my nipples pierced but chickened out before I could get them done, aware that it would make for an awkward situation.

I fidget from foot to foot, ignoring the odd looks I’m getting, sticking out among the ninety-nine-point nine percent of Korean girls—most of them high schoolers judging by their class uniforms—uh, being not of Korean descent, instead a mish-mash of Irish, Scottish, some Italian and a whole lot of French-Canadian. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to make my five-foot-eight frame smaller, hunching down and ignoring the way that people are looking at me, curious.

I try to home in on conversations, translating them in my head, letting my mind drift as I think about what our first meeting is going to look like, after all this time, sometime in the very near future when I get to stand in front of him again, the first time I’ll see him in person in almost fifteen years.

Because in the weirdest turn of events, the one and only Min Jaeyong, one of the members of the K-pop idol group burning their way through the charts much like their predecessors, used to be my best friend, a lifetime ago, back when we were both awkward.

He wasn’t as tall or as built as he is now, and I didn’t even have my boobs yet, my teeth encased in braces, embarrassed twenty-four seven about having food stuck in them so I wouldn’t smile, and if I did, it would be through covering my mouth with both hands.

And now we’re here.

Min Jaeyong’s taller than me now, and my chest filled in (along with the rest of me) and so much time has passed that I’m sure we don’t look like the kids we used to be, like the best friends we used to be.

Of course there’s the definite possibility that Jaeyong won’t recognize me, won’t know who I am even when I’m standing directly in front of him and decide to speak to him in French, the language he was most comfortable in since I didn’t speak Korean back then.

Well, other than the bad words that he taught me at the time, when he went by his English name, Lucas, because Jaeyong is kinda hard to pronounce in French.

And it’s weird, too, that ever since I found out—realized—that Jaeyong was my Lucas from all those years ago—famous now, working hard, looking more beautiful than ever, I became a fan of his too, blurring the lines between an old friendship and dying to find out about what kind of person he’s become, all these years later.

Does he still watch old Dragon Ball and Dragon Ball Z episodes like we used to back then, maybe occasionally binges them like I do, remembering a time when we were happier? Does he still have absolutely shitty writing that I couldn’t even read when he passed me notes in class?

What about that bright yellow Jansport backpack he had a million years ago that he let me decorate when I got my second period (after a six-month hiatus, the bastard) during one of our classes (was it geography or history?) and he took me to the nurse who helped me out, letting the decorating distract me from the embarrassment of leaking through my pants.

I didn’t know becoming a K-pop idol was a dream of his; it wasn’t something he vocalized, something he said out loud to me. I just knew that he loved to dance, and he loved Taekwondo, and he was apparently very good at both while I tried to manage my abysmal hand-eye coordination and my love of all things that dealt with the fantasy book genre.

Will Jaeyong still be that boy, who, instead of being grossed out like the rest of the guys in my class would’ve been at the mere mention of the word period, sacrificed his backpack for me to use as a shield for me to take the bus home after the leaking incident?

Will he still be that one true friend I had, the one I felt I could talk to about anything, anyone, and he’d always answer me truthfully, honestly and calmly? Will he still be one of the best friends I’ve ever had in my entire life?

Now that I’m older, I know it’s true that I was friends with some people in high school by pure virtue of the fact that I spent eight hours of my day with them, like I do now with some of my work colleagues, searching for something more, something deeper, trying to get that connection back that I felt I had with Lucas—Jaeyong.

Fuck, will he even remember me?

And so what if he doesn’t? So what?

I’ve got a new job here in Seoul, teaching English at a local elementary school in Dongdaemun-gu. My contract is up for renewal after one year, and I’m taking the golden opportunity to get away from home, from Montreal, and looking for a different me in a different place, needing a change of pace so I can kickstart my life in a direction I want it to go in, instead of feeling stuck in a rut like I’ve been in for what feels like forever.

My stomach twists uncomfortably, and I shake it off, shaking my hair back out of my face, trying to remember if my hair even looked like this back then, now that I finally understand what to do with my thick, wavy hair instead of the frizzy mess it was back in the beginning of high school.

Oh, shit, what if I look too different, what if he doesn’t recognize me at all?

Didn’t we just go over this?

I remember when I first saw him, realized that it was Lucas (Jaeyong) I was looking at as I only got into K-pop three years ago when it took over the radio stations, first with that record-breaking English track from that band that blew up, and then the Korean songs were played more often than the English ones.

I liked the vibe, but most importantly I liked the lyrics after I looked them up, and it caused me to down spiral into K-pop and find other groups that I could vibe with, finally finding Trickshot among them and their debut song ‘Tricking You’, something poppy and sweet.

I liked the song and stayed for the music video, the gorgeous outfits (who knew men would look so incredibly amazing in velvet suits and vampire king aesthetic that I didn’t even know I was into?), and the crisp and sharp choreography was just a bonus had me going oh, yeah, I’m into this. More please!

My bias, and hence my favourite member of the group, wasn’t even Jaeyong in the beginning of my early fangirling over Trickshot.

I ended up taking a deep dive into the fandom, wanting to know everything about Hoseung, the leader of the group (and also the oldest member) and the rest of the guys, finding so much content on their livestreams, on their variety show.

I binged those half-hour episodes that included the group shenanigans and utter chaos that had me looking forward to every Wednesday morning (on account of the time difference) where Trickshot’s staff would set the guys up with treasure hunts for their fans’ entertainment.

It was like nothing I had ever watched or experienced before.

And that’s when Jaeyong finally caught my eye, when I learned that he was a foreign member, Korean-Canadian, and didn’t speak Korean as naturally as the others, who were all born in South Korea and therefore native speakers.

Jaeyong would fumble his words, and I remember freezing when he swore in Québécois French, the words tumbling out of him, muffling his mic so the editors wouldn’t catch the words and erroneously translate them for their international fans.

My scalp tingled and I felt a little sick, pausing the video at the close-up of Jaeyong’s face, scrutinizing it until I could see the boy I once knew, hidden in the man’s features. I remember feeling a little lost, looking at him, recognizing that smile that used to belong to me and me alone, now for all the fans watching their streams, Jaeyong looking more and more familiar in that disembodied way the longer I looked at him.

And like the total fangirl I’d become, I looked him up, the group’s bio, each member’s bio, until it was confirmed. Min Jaeyong was my Lucas Min from a thousand years ago, the friend I mourned when he moved away after the summer before the ninth grade, crying into my pillow more nights than I could count at how much I missed him.

How much I kept missing him.

He was here, in Seoul—becoming a trainee at Hana Entertainment at the age of fourteen, putting his dancing chops to the test, learning how to sing, and becoming one of the visuals (the most good-looking member) of the group, enticing more female fans to watch them with his good looks and insane dancing talent.

It was almost like getting my friend back, poring over all of their online content, learning as much as I could about the band, about Jaeyong, what he had been up to all this time when we were apart, what he was willing to tell the cameras over the last fifteen(ish) years of how he got to where he was, what he was doing while he moved away, and it became clear that he probably forgot all about me.

The livestreams and the variety show interviews don’t even hint at the other aspects of Jaeyong’s life, how he really is, his mental state, his emotional state—did he find someone he could love and who loves him back in the way he needs? Is he happy, exhausted, sick of the idol life?

I don’t know what I’m looking for here at this fansign, popping out like a ghost from Christmas Past and hoping Jaeyong will remember me, remember that we were once friends. That maybe, if he wanted, he could have one of those friends who knew him before he got crazy famous, when he was that awkward, bird-like boy that I thought the world of.

I’ll be happy if he does recognize me, and I’m going to make myself settle for that, not hope for anything more.

Like, what’s going to happen—he’s gonna wanna hang out?

If I’ve learned one thing about K-pop idols—male or female, rookie or senior—it’s that they work hard, super hard, seemingly putting the West to shame. Honestly, I don’t even think they get enough sleep on a regular basis, and Korea loves its work culture. I don’t know much about it, but I don’t think work-life balance exists over here from what little I’ve seen since I got into Seoul. Maybe I’ll figure it out when I start officially working next week, once I’ve settled in.

The line finally moves forward, jolting me out of my inner monologue and all of that unnecessary thinking. Whatever happens, happens, right?

My heart kicks against my sternum, and I pull in a deep, deep breath, trying to calm the nerves that are partly from excitement, partly from dread at meeting Jaeyong again.

As much as he’s changed over the past decade and a half…I haven’t really.

Stuck in a rut, like it feels I’ve always been.

Jaeyong’s been over here, chasing his dream, living his dream, making bank (if the projections on the Han Music Hot 100 Trickshot has received for their last mini-album is any indication), and I’ve been doing anything but.

Work is work, and while I thought it would be more fulfilling, it just isn’t—for me, anyway.

So I took a chance, bought a physical album and entered the raffle to get to Trickshot’s fansign in Seoul, not really thinking I’d win.

I had already made myself a promise that I would get to Seoul when I could, whether on a tourist visa or a work visa—that I would do whatever it took and got whatever accreditation I needed to teach English in my back pocket.

When I got into the K-pop fandom, I started to self-study Korean, hiring a tutor about a year and a half ago, and I think I’m good enough now (even if I do still make a ton of mistakes) to hold a conversation, to get my point across, even if the conversation I’m having isn’t as eloquent as I’d like it to be.

And the rest is history.

Oh, Jesus, we’re moving, we’re moving!

My attention sinks back into the present, the noise from excited conversation around me practically assaulting my ears, the energy along the line skyrocketing as the time between meeting our favourite idols and staying in line dwindles and dwindles.

Fuck, I might do something stupid like pass out, or hell, pee my pants.

Is there time for a bathroom break? No?

Suck it up, buttercup.

I bite on the meat of my inner cheek and ignore the rapid beating of my heart, the way it feels like I’ve run sprints instead of just standing around, thinking of seeing Jaeyong again, nervously pulling at my t-shirt (plain and black), looking down at my distressed jeans (also black), and down to my Chuck Taylors (black, duh), burgundy-dyed hair falling in soft waves to hit either side of my rib cage.

I have a zit coming in on my chin ‘cause it’s that wonderful time of the month before I start bleeding and aching and all that other fun shit that I have to deal with for having a uterus (and having the audacity to not have a baby this month), but I put some makeup on and if he doesn’t look at me directly, he won’t even notice.

I’ve never felt so self-conscious about my skin before I got here. Seriously, every person I’ve seen in Seoul is gorgeous—there must be something in the water, that’s the only explanation, that or the tteokbokki that I’ve fallen in love with.

I’m sweating a little, the hair at the back of my neck going damp, my skin warming through like I’ve drunk two cups of scalding hot coffee in a row and there’s a nervous jitter playing along the muscles of my legs so I can’t quite keep still.

It isn’t long until the steel entrance doors are opening to let us into the convention hall/auditorium, a giant room filled with seats, something like a dais in the front of the room, tables currently empty, clad in black tablecloths, bottles of water set up for each of the six members of Trickshot.

I fish into my bag, hot panic licking my insides before I finally grasp the old Dragon Ball manga that Jaeyong had lent me a million years ago that I never got the chance to give back to him. Now I want to return it, once and for all. I fish out the physical copy of their first mini-album too, the one with a very special place in my heart, hold it with the manga, and wait for my turn, peering over the heads of teenage girls, phones out, taking as many pictures as possible of the room alone.

I guess I should be doing that, too, but I think I want to remember everything instead of just watching through my phone camera.

The members finally do come out to screams and cheers, and I think I’m going to start hyperventilating when I see Jaeyong come out, looking as handsome and beautiful as ever.

Nothing about the way he looks is reminiscent of the boy he was as he takes his seat at the very far end of the table (because of course, of course, I have to wait until the very end to see Jaeyong again), and I know I have maybe another hour to wait before I face him directly.

Which means I’ve got less than an hour to get my shit together, to show him all I can be and not how I feel.

To hide the parts of me that missed him, that thought about him over the years while sending him good thoughts and vibes, dismissing that part of me that wondered if he ever thought about me, too.

The line starts moving.

And I put my game face on, staring straight ahead, waiting for my turn. Waiting and waiting and waiting…

I hold my breath; I’m up next.

TWO

I stumble up the stairs and glare down back at them as if to check that they actually didn’t move to trip me up. I take my place in front of the leader of Trickshot and coincidentally the oldest member of the group, the hyung, Park Hoseung, my original bias. Nothing but a long table separates us and I allow myself to fangirl, just a little bit.

Hoseung’s beautiful, as all idols I’ve ever seen are, his hair dyed an aqua blue, long enough to reach his shoulders, something like a sardonic grin hovering over his mouth as he looks at me, nodding his head towards me in an approximation of a bow. He keeps twisting the black Sharpie marker between his fingers, his ears are twinkling with his piercings, the eyeshadow around his eyes smoky and mysterious, skin pale with all the makeup under the harsh lights.

It’s the end of an era, the last show of the tour tonight, and none of us Trixies actually know what’s coming next now that Trickshot is going on their six-month hiatus. All we know is that the members will be pursuing their solo projects, and hopefully eat all the good food and sleep all the sleep. It’s still a shame, though, saying good bye to the vampire royalty aesthetic, once and for all.

I take a quick glance down the table, finding Jaeyong talking with another fan, looking like he’s giving her all of his attention, glancing up at her from his seated position, a soft smile on his mouth.

I glance back at Hoseung, flushing now, monster butterflies in my belly using their mutant superpowers to make me nauseous and nervous as I hold out my album with a shaky hand, before plopping it on the table for him to sign.

And because my brain’s screaming at me to say something, anything, I blurt out in Korean, “Thank you for all your hard work; this album is my favourite of yours so far.”

I keep my hands to myself, even if I can tell from my peripheral vision that some fangirls are able to hold their idols’ hands and have quick little conversations with them. It’s almost as if they mean something, like us fans aren’t just a faceless person in the middle of a crowd.

“What? You speak Korean?” Hoseung blurts, covering his mouth with a hand, eyes wide, his voice dipping into satoori, the regional dialect from where he’s from, making me wish I understood. It’s the same language, sure, but you take a person from the streets of Brooklyn, New York and toss them in downtown Glasgow, there’s gonna be something lost in translation, and that’s what I’m experiencing now.

“Uh, yes, but not very well.” I’m not going to tell the Park Hoseung that I don’t speak Korean like a native yet, but that’s just me sweating my Korean skills.

“Where are you from?” he asks, and my heart swoops down to my toes only to be rocketed back up to my chest, and I want to get off this roller coaster ride from hell, thanks. I’m high on his attention, and he’s not even Jaeyong. “America?”

I shake my head, swallowing hard. “Canada. A city called Montreal.”

“So far! How long was the plane ride?” Hoseung asks, grinning, before he signs my album, holding onto it with both hands, kinda like he’s holding it hostage. I fidget from foot to foot, trying to keep my focus on Hoseung, trying hard not to be rude, but I’m so close and yet still so far away from what could be the pivotal moment of my life.

Oh, shit, not this again, Raleigh. Not again.

I know. I’m trying to chill out on my expectations.

Having zero expectations for any given situation always guarantees a good time!

I cough into my fist, turning away so I don’t breathe on Hoseung, and stammer out a response. “About sixteen hours.”

Hoseung’s eyes bug out, mouth falling slack. “Sixteen hours? Sixteen?! Thank you so much for coming today, all the way from Canada! Oh, I didn’t get your name?”

And because I had the forethought to do this, I approximated my name into the Korean alphabet, Hangeul, in the best way I could on a post-it, showing it to him.

“Raleigh-ssi? Isn’t that a city?”

I laugh, nod at him, trying to be discreet about wiping the sweat off my forehead, and fan myself because it is hot in here.

“Again, thank you so much for coming to see us today. I look forward to the question-and-answer period.” He waves at me with both of his hands, jewelry glinting off his fingers and wrists, smile wide.

I move down the line, now standing in front of the maknae, the youngest member of the group, Kim Kyungmin. The kid’s barely nineteen years old, all teeth as he smiles at me, round cheeks, looking adorable. When I was nineteen, guys didn’t look like him, not one bit, and I had to come all the way to Seoul to figure that out.

We stumble through a conversation, the kid freezing when I speak to him in Korean, slapping Hoseung’s shoulder and looking at me, like he’s caught in some sort of elaborate scheme.

Two members down, two more to go, and then I’m going to be standing in front of Jaeyong.

My hearing goes in and out, trying to ignore the din of conversations going on either side of me, trying to ignore those fans that have sat down already, waiting for the line to exhaust itself so that we can have our question-and-answer period before leaving for the day, before having to go back to our normal lives.

I greet Choi Joontae, get my autograph, and a two-minute conversation, and then move down the line to meet Kim Heejoon, stumbling through stilted conversations because my mind’s blanked out all of the Korean vocabulary I know, making me sound like a complete idiot, or like I’ve gone and had a stroke.

I bumble my way through the last thirty seconds of a conversation until I’m just about to stand in front of Jaeyong, pulse heavy at the base of my throat like a second heartbeat, hands clammy and cold. My fingers slip along the cover of the beat up Dragon Ball manga from a lifetime ago that I’m holding in a death grip, Jaeyong’s English name scrawled on the first page: Ce livre est à Lucas. Rends-le moi!

I take a second, like a nanosecond, just to take a deep, deep breath, pull it into my lungs through my nose, let out a shaky exhale as I glance over and take in Jaeyong’s profile. I notice that he grew into his nose and his ears, the sleek undercut showing off his inky black hair, the top of his head also freshly dyed back to his original hair colour, parted on the side.

I stifle a grin when he goes to take a swig from his unopened water bottle, missing out on the whole grabbing part and tossing it to the ground, disappearing underneath the table for a few seconds, and from this close, I can hear him swearing in a mixture of French and English, making my heart thump hard.

I’m moving without giving the input to my brain, but here I am, standing in front of Jaeyong, waiting for him to break the surface of the table and look at me, and hopefully, hopefully, recognize me.

And then what?

It’s not like you’re going to get your friend back.

At least I’ll have the chance to say goodbye properly this time around, at least there’ll be that.

Jaeyong moves back to his sitting position, holding the water bottle aloft like he’s re-enacting that scene from The Lion King, something he used to do all the time when we were kids. It used to embarrass the shit out of me when I always wanted to have a low profile when it came to other people noticing me.

He flashes me a quick smile, uncapping the bottle, and takes a few gulps, then puts it down, gently wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his expensive-looking blazer, patting gently so as not to disturb his makeup. After all of that is done, he finally gives me his full attention.

And I choke, smile plastered to my face like some weird-ass version of a Stepford Wife, a robot, a doll, as he looks at me, his eyes shaking from side to side in his sockets, practically screaming for help as the silence lengthens, and we just stand there, staring at each other.

I nearly fumble the manga, nearly throw it at him because in a horror of horrors, I can’t seem to control my limbs when I’m nervous and around him.

“Dragon Ball?” he asks, frowning down at it, looking back up at me, confusion written all over his face. When the hell did he get that sharp jawline? What about that thick, long hair? He was always in buzzcuts back in the eighth grade, soothing and prickling against my palm when I wanted to bother him about it.

My heart seizes in my chest, and I know this is my chance, my one chance at this, and fuck me if I’m gonna choke and ruin it and always have to wonder what if.

“Yeah,” I say in French, “you left before I could give it back to you.”

Jaeyong blinks at me, and if I didn’t just hear him murmur to himself in French, I’d wonder if he’s lost it, if he’s really that much out of practice. He just keeps staring at me, then finally seems to shake it off and looks down at the battered copy of the manga (volume 10).

I watch him open the front cover, seeing his name scrawled there in his eighth-grade handwriting. He brings both his hands up to cradle his head, hunching over the table like I’ve gone and sucker-punched him the gut, made it hard for him to breathe through the pain.

“Jaeyong? Lucas?” I call, crouching lower, too, half afraid security’s gonna throw me out for upsetting one of their idols, but desperate to make sure that he’s okay, that I didn’t hurt him by bringing up the past. “It’s me. It’s—” I say in French.

“Raleigh,” he croaks out, lifting his head to look at me, dark eyes swimming with unshed tears, the tip of his nose a little pink despite the makeup. There’s a smile on his face, the kind of smile that’s plastered there for the cameras, for the public, like it’s not really meant for me, and he huffs a little laugh, confused.

“Raleigh Montgomery. What the hell are you doing here?” he says, in French, swearing for a second, before running a hand through his hair, frowning when it doesn’t actually move with all the product in it. “How did you find me? How did you get here? What?!”

Jaeyong reaches out a hand towards me, palm up, smiling wide now, more genuine, the kind that reaches his eyes. My heart flip-flops, relieved down to the marrow of my bones that he’s recognized me.

This, this was worth it, even if I only ever get this from him. I saw him again, I’m making sure he’s okay.

“You gave me your email all those years ago, but I lost it, cried for days because I lost it. I kept trying different variations on what I thought it would be, since you weren’t allowed on Messenger, and I kept getting failed mail delivery, and I gave up. You didn’t give me a phone number or anything. Shit, Lucas, I had to find out about your super-famous idol status by randomly getting into K-pop!”

I place my hand in his, blanching at the fact that his hand is so, so much bigger now, dwarfing my own hand, fingers wrapping around my hand gently, carefully.

“I just thought you forgot about me. Holy shit, what’s happened to you? You look so different?”

“Me? Look at you!” I laugh, elated when his fingers tighten around my hand, like he’s just as afraid of pulling away as I am.

“I mean, it’s been a long time, I was bound to change. You got super tall, and I’m really mad about it,” I scrunch my nose at him, wiping my free hand down the leg of my jeans, as if that’s going to make the clamminess of my left hand currently held captive by Lucas (Jaeyong! Jaeyong!) suddenly disappear.

“This is crazy, I can’t believe you’re here…in Seoul.” It takes him a second, and his eyes go wide and big, and his mouth drops open like he’s just realized where I am. “You’re in Seoul, and I’m in Seoul! We’re in the same city!”

I remember him getting excited over things, practically squirming in his chair, pulling out random dance moves whenever he was happy or proud or anything but sad. I was always envious, severely lacking hand-eye coordination, and dancing always felt like a cruel joke. And now I know that Lucas can do absolutely sinful things with his hips, the mere thought of him dancing like that making my cheeks burn hotter.

“Yeah. I’m actually going to be working here for the year, and I’m being presumptuous, I know, but I put my number in there, where Goku finds the seventh dragon ball. Up to you, I know how busy you are, and your team is giving me a death glare, so I’m gonna go. No pressure, okay? It was so nice to see you after all this time.”

Lucas squeezes my hand, mouth set in a soft smile that makes me smile back, makes me believe that we’re alone and not in front of an entire room of people, some of whom are waiting patiently for their turn. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you, Raleigh.”

I move down and off the dais, light and airy, practically walking on a cloud as I move and take my designated seat in the crowd. I try to calm myself down, looking back up at the row of fans in front of our idols, in front of our boys, trying to stifle the smile that’s permanently glued to my face as of today.

My legs bounce as I wait for the line to peter out, catching sight of Lucas once more when he’s free to look at me, no other person blocking his view, no one blocking mine, and he flashes me a grin that I feel down to my toes.

Who knew?

Honestly, who freaking knew?

I watch Jaeyong glance down at the manga, flip through the pages while microphones are set up on their little stands in front of each member, every single one of them donning flower crowns, or funny hats that they’ve just received as gifts.

The maknae’s trying his best to move with no less than six of them stacked on his head, moving gingerly so they don’t fall over—he looks like the Mad Hatter or something close to it—grinning at his hyungs and at the crowd.

I try not to look at Lucas—at Jaeyong—but it’s hard going, my body flooded with relief and a sudden exhaustion that makes me realize how amped up I’ve been for whoever knows how long. Now that I’m seated, now that I can relax and the hard part’s over, all I want to do is crawl into my pajamas at home and go right the hell to sleep.

I watch Jaeyong flip through the manga again, looking like he’s studying every single page, flashing a grin at the pages when I think he’s found my phone number, keeping his eyes down, but still making my cheeks warm, even from this distance.

Puberty hit Min Jaeyong like a freaking truck, and I got gently grazed by the eighteen-wheeler of puberty doom, looking pretty much the same (except for the somewhat explosive growth of my tits before I went to cégep, and the same goes for my ass and hips). So yeah, I guess I was easier to recognize.

My stomach’s almost twinkling with something like euphoria when Jaeyong glances up, sees me looking at him, closes his eyes and smiles wide and big and I swear to God, my breathing just stops.

It’s disconcerting to find out that my old friend, the one true friend I had a lifetime ago, turned out to look so outwardly beautiful.

I never really thought of him as beautiful back then, couldn’t think of myself as beautiful. I had too many breakouts, too much emotion at that time during my life when everything felt out of control. Jaeyong was my best friend, the one person who got my jokes, who knew my eighth grade self like we were two sides of the same coin.

And now—if this goes the way I think it is going to go—we’re going to reconnect, a whole decade plus later, and Jaeyong…Jaeyong’s lived his life in a way that I can’t even begin to compare myself to.

Who gets to say that they chased their dreams until the very end, until they became a definite reality?

Not a lot of people, and I just happened to have been friends with one of them.

Still, though, it would be nice to reconnect, to get to know him again, to see if that mirage-like memory that swallowed up my loneliness whenever I thought about him during high school holds a candle to the man he is today, to the person he’s become.

I want to know all about him, I want to know everything—not just what I can deduce and garner through Trickshot’s online content available to fans; I want to be let back into his life to learn everything there is to know about the last twelve or so years of his life.

And yeah, I’m kinda terrified of what I’m going to say to him, but hey, we’ll keep the conversation about him since it’ll be way more interesting than anything I’ve ever done, so we’re guaranteed a good time. We’ll share a coffee, or a meal (that I’ll pay for because that’s the way things go when you reconnect and find each other again), and talk.

Jaeyong waves his hands at everyone, as do the rest of the members, standing up to formally introduce themselves as a group and then individually (as if we wouldn’t recognize them in the middle of a crowded street by their eye shape alone).

They settle back in their seats, and the moderator sets up the question and answer period, a whole line already made up in the aisle between the rows and rows of seats, fans ready to ask their idols questions.

Me? I’m just happy to be here.

THREE

I’m disappointed, sure, but I shouldn’t have expected anything more, really.

Like, yes, I reunited with Min Jaeyong after all these years, saw him as the man he’s supposed to be, and not the boy he was, superimposing the two so that they’re one person now and forever.

That’s all I was expecting when I went to the fansign, that’s it, honest.

It’s my own problem if I expected anything more, ran a whole bunch of scenarios in which I could get my old friend back, make my first friend in Seoul, too, in one fell swoop.

God, it feels like it’s impossible to make friends as an adult, Jesus.

The elementary school I teach at has a bunch of adorable little kids, a lot of them sharing the same last name (the three most common surnames in Korea are Lee, Kim and Park), dressed in casual clothes (even though middle and high school students are supposed to wear uniforms) and a sassy attitude that has me snickering more than anything else.

It’s the common classroom warfare—who stole whose pencil, desks and chairs constantly scraping along the floor because some kids are more energetic than others. There’s murmuring and excited gasps when snacks are brought out to be admired collectively by the group, and of course, the murmurings are centered around me, the newcomer, whispering under their breaths about the clothing I’m wearing, my hair colour, my glasses—whatever.

Common kid stuff thinking they’re safe behind a language barrier.

“Teacher!” Park Sehee says in English, shooting her hand in the air, waving it around and demanding my attention. Her little hand waves from side to side, her entire body stretching up and out of the seat like she’s reaching for the ceiling, straining to touch it while she’s as close to the ground as can be instead of actually sitting down.

“Yes?”

Park Sehee grins at me, one of her front teeth half-grown in, shaking her hair out of her eyes.

“Do you like youcha?”

I don’t know how long I can keep up this façade, keeping it from the kids about how much I know of Korean. “You asked that correctly, Sehee, good job! No, I don’t know what youcha is. Please tell me more about it.”

Her face falls, mouth twisting up in a little kid sneer, dropping her hand so it thwacks against the desk. “You don’t know youcha?”

I clap my hands, trying to wrangle their attention back on me and the lesson plan, trying to get them to focus when it’s the last class of the day, and they’re in that excited lull where it’s literally twenty minutes from school ending and going back home.

I mean, I’m looking forward to it, too, after my meeting with the rest of the staff, on the goals we need to accomplish for the term now that the first week of school is officially over and we can get our bearings on how we think it’s going to go.

The day passes without incident and after my first real week of work is officially done and over with, I indulge myself in a post-work workout at a gym I recently joined close to my apartment..

I pass by the closest convenience store after I’m done, marvelling all over again at the cheaper prices of what comes out to better-than dépanneur eats, the kind of eats that would be way more expensive back home. A bottle of water isn’t going to cost you three dollars over here, that’s for sure.

I head back to my apartment, still in my gym clothes, hauling my gym bag, adjusting the shoulder strap of my bag cutting across my body with all the shit I’m carrying. I’ve got my convenience store eats, my special training shoes, hip circle, work clothes stuffed in there, sweaty towel, a giant bottle of water, and my wallet that I have yet to completely empty of Canadian cash and change, after doing the dumb thing and buying a shit ton of maple syrup at the duty-free before getting to Seoul.

I had to. Nothing else compares.

I punch in my pass code on my apartment door, loving the idea of never having to fish for house keys again in whatever bag or purse I’m carrying. I wipe down the surface of the touchpad after my door unlocks, ad step inside.

I toe off my sneakers, pulling the door closed behind me, adding the security chain, looking at my empty apartment, the way it moves and breathes on its own, even while I’m not there, wondering if my grand adventure is going to get more interesting anytime soon.

Not that I expected Seoul to change me per se, but I just expected more of myself here—like I was finally going to stop being an incredible introvert and go on solo travel adventures since everything is so close here—a three-hour train ride on the KTX will get me across the entire country, to the port city of Busan.

But I’m still doing the same routine I did back home, in Montreal.

I walk into my apartment and put my snacks on the kitchen counter, then go to my bedroom, chucking off my dirty clothes and get into the shower. I’m still lamenting over the fact that my apartment doesn’t have a bathtub, just like it doesn’t have a dishwasher (unless I wanted to spend more money for that), which has given me more nightmares than I can count as of late.

Doing your own dishes is the definition of hell for me. I’d honestly volunteer to go to the dentist for other people if it meant I didn’t have to wash dishes all the damn time.

And this is what my life is now, bitching about washing the dishes I left in the sink this morning, getting pissed off at Past Raleigh, who’s an asshole for leaving those there after I had breakfast, booking it to the bus stop and making it to school on time.

It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve been fully moved in, and twelve days since I gave Jaeyong my phone number.

A lot of things could have happened in that time, a lot of things.

Jaeyong could have been kidnapped by aliens, but I’m pretty sure there would have been some sort of news report to that effect—there would be a police inquiry and all that, I’m sure of it. The fandom would riot or have a meltdown.

Jaeyong could have lost the manga I gave back to him, or one of the staff members could have misplaced it, or God, thrown it out. Honestly with the amount of presents the guys received at that fansign, I can’t imagine where the staff puts all those gifts, if they even are able to keep all of them, every single time.

One of the group members could have stolen the manga before Jaeyong was able to put my number in his phone, and they are currently negotiating terms, or moving forward with blackmail strategies before giving up the good stuff. I haven’t received any weird texts or phone calls since I gave Jaeyong my phone number, so obviously, that’s probably not the case.

And lastly, which of course is the most likely scenario, is that Jaeyong was playing me for a fool at the fansign, lying straight to my damn face, pretending like he was happy to see me.

As the days have passed, have kept passing me by, it’s looking like he’s that kind of person, and I wonder what the hell happened to him in the years we were apart for him to change that much.

Maybe I was too presumptuous, thinking that he would want to reconnect with me, too. And Jesus, why the hell would he want to do that?

Why would he do that when he has everything he ever wants right now, taking time out of his precious schedule to meet with me?

I put on a fresh pair of jeans after I shower off all the sweat, wrapping my wet hair on top of my head into a messy, wet bun, putting on some different jewelry for the piercings in my ears, big hoops on the first piercing of my lobe, and going smaller and smaller until I hit the ones in my helix. I make a mental note to find a piercing shop to change out some of my jewelry. Maybe I’ll end up changing the rest of my piercings out, too—who knows? Not me.

I wear a t-shirt that says I Survived Infinity War, tucking the loose fabric around my waist into the jeans, putting on a fresh pair of socks, tidying up my room as much as I can.

I run some bronzer into the crease of my eyelid as eyeshadow, then dust some over my cheeks, add two coats of mascara to make my eyes stand out more, and put gloss onto my lips, ready to go on my kind of solo adventure to explore my neighbourhood.

I grab one of my smaller cross-body bags, adding my phone and wallet to it, and some lip balm (because who am I if I don’t have lip balm in close proximity?), and head out the door.

I head down the street, just aimlessly walking around, becoming one with the crowd of people, some of them coming off work or school, heading out to drink and eat before hitting the clubs or whatever it is that the younger kids do.

Even in this crowd, I feel like I’m walking alone, waiting for the streetlight to turn so that we can all start walking across, my legs pumping just in case I’m greeted with an overzealous driver that wouldn’t mind nicking my legs ’cause I was taking too long to cross.

I head towards the Han River, wishing I brought a blanket with me, wishing I bought a coffee to sip as I walk along the path that follows the river, watching some of the bridges start to light up for the evening, the sun starting to set.

It’s quiet in the way trickling water always is, but it just serves to highlight how alone I am—people in couples or groups dotting the grassy portions near the river, sitting on picnic blankets, sharing meals or alcohol, laughing to each other, at each other.

It looks nice.

I’m so caught up in looking around, trying to find another lone person—reading a book, listening to music, someone—when my phone starts ringing, the low hum of it startling me out of my hawk-like perusal of all the people around me. I hastily pull my phone up to my ear, not checking the number.

“Yeoboseyo?” I start with Korean, since this is now my Korean phone number and only the people who are in Seoul know it: my boss and the rest of the school staff in case of emergencies, Jaeyong (if that ever happens), and my mom, back in Montreal. Except there’s a thirteen-hour time difference between Montreal and Seoul so it’s too early for her to be up yet and calling me, not that I’m really expecting a phone call from her.

It could be a proof of life kinda call, but Mom never really cared too much about me when I was in Montreal so why would that change when I move half a planet away?

“Raleigh? Is that you?” Jaeyong asks in Korean, and it feels like I’ve gotten a sledgehammer to the temple, hearing him speak it for the first time in years, understanding it, too. It makes me feel oddly closer to him somehow, as if I’ve scaled a wall and now we’re both able to stand on the same side of it, only a few feet apart.

I swallow hard, glancing around me as if I’m being watched. “Uh, yeah. Hi. Yup. It’s me. How are you?”

“It’s Jaeyong.”

I snort, trying to disguise it as a cough behind a hand. “Of course, I know it’s you. You’re like the only person my age here who has my Korean phone number.” Oh, look at me being super honest right off the bat. Yikes. I shut up, not knowing how to proceed now that we’re talking on the phone with each other.

Maybe that quick little reunion was all we had in us, all the conversation we were ever going to have, making false promises and fake plans to see each other one day in the future that would never come to fruition.

Then why is he calling you, ya big dork?

“The only person? I doubt that. I still can’t believe you’re in Seoul.”

You and me both, buddy. “Me too.”

“And that you showed up at my fansign. Not in a million years would I expect Raleigh Montgomery to show up. And Hoseung-hyung told me you were speaking Korean? And now you’re speaking Korean to me, this is wild, totally wild. I feel like I’m hallucinating.”

Well, at least he talks the same way he used to, flitting from subject to subject, circling around and coming right back around again. Maybe he didn’t change all that much?

Oh, Jesus, who am I kidding?

My heart gives a kick at the memory of us being in eighth grade math class, doing algebra or something, I don’t know, it’s all a blur, and Lucas (then) trying to listen to me explain how to find X, but having none of it. He went off on a Dragon Ball tangent about Goku not needing to find X until the teacher had to separate us while everyone else was trying to finish the worksheet.

It was mortifying at the time, me the goody-two-shoes, and Lucas being loud, not in an obnoxious way, but in a this is unfair kinda way. We had shot glances at each other, three rows of seats apart, Lucas making it feel like we were separated by a whole land mass instead of in the same classroom.

He always made me feel like I could count on him, from projects to assignments, to weekend hang outs when our parents would let us, to going to our local bookstore and coveting the manga that we couldn’t afford yet—he always made me believe I was important.

And now he’s important to the whole fandom, too, and everyone gets to see how wonderful of a person he was—is. I’m not sure how I feel about that, having to share a friend with the rest of the world.

“So, funny story…”

It’s never a funny story.

“My parents have been up to visit me from back home, where my mom’s from, and I told them that you’re here. Well, not right here here, but in Seoul, and they lost their shit. So you’re invited to dinner at my place, but only if you have no other plans ’cause I know this is last-minute—”

“Will there be your dad’s japchae?”

“I knew it. You’re in it for the food. My poor parents.”

I snort again, making a horrible honking sound that somehow sets him off on his own peals of laughter, and it’s good to hear his voice again, to hear that laugh, the deepness of his voice that I never got to experience before puberty hit him hard. “Sure. You sure it’s okay?”

“My mom’s calling it fate, destiny. So yeah. Please come and have dinner. It’d be nice to catch up like we said we would.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Of course. I’m just by the river now,” I say, not that it is any indication since the Han River splits Seoul in two and goes on for kilometers and kilometers. “So I’ll need some time to figure out a bus.” I’m already getting up and moving, trying to spot a place, a bakery, something, where I can go in and buy something delicious to bring over.

“Just text me your location and I’ll send a car for you. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” I ask. “Will it be safe?” I whisper, not allowing myself to really think about who he is, what he is.

Jaeyong’s quiet for a second, enough to make me look down at my phone and see if we got disconnected somehow, but nope. “Don’t worry about it. Send me your location, and I’ll get a car to you.”

“I can take a taxi.”

Jaeyong sighs, grunts an affirmative sound. “Whatever makes you feel more comfortable. The food’s gonna be ready in an hour.”