Page 15 of When Worlds Collide
“Is there anything I can do?” My throat felt tight, but I forced the words to sound as steady as possible.
Jihoon looked away. “No, Ky, I have to do this myself.”
“Right. Okay.” I nodded slowly, feeling like a millstone was tied around my neck. Or perhaps that I was one tied around his.
“I’ll be back soon.” He moved towards me and, cupping my cheek, pressed a chaste kiss to my cold lips before turning around and walking through the door. I heard him cross the living room and then, a beat later, the soft snick of the suite door. The air felt like it echoed in the still silence that followed.
I could still feel the warmth of his body in the sheets, but it was the only warmth I could feel.
I thought about going back to bed, but after how much I’d already slept, I knew I’d give myself a wicked case of delayed jet lag if I stayed horizontal any longer.
My laptop was plugged in next to the bed, and I pulled it up to rest on my lap, having a vague intention to check my emails, but then I saw that I had several notifications from the web host where I published my blog. I was surprised to see that I’d gained new followers. I hadn’t bothered writing anything for a couple weeks. Maybe someone had shared one of my posts on their social media again.
I shrugged it off, but I was quietly pleased. Feeling suddenly inspired, I opened a new page and began to type.
My fingers flew over the keys, detailing my move to Korea, the culture shock I’d barely begun to experience, and the ways I’d observed that music was treated so differently here than it was in the States.
Not all that long ago, people often accused boy bands of being a special kind of ‘manufactured’ - which was a polite way of accusing a group of being created for the sole purpose of appealing to the masses, and this was somehow a bad thing. As if having all the ingredients for success made that success less real.
But in Korea, the music industry doesn’t shy away from being a machine. It is a machine: a multi-billion-dollar machine, whose sole purpose is to create artists that have all the right ingredients to appeal to the most amount of people. Design is the blueprint.
While Western audiences might accuse a group of ‘selling out’, if a group dares to put their face next to any product, inKorea, brand endorsements are a major – and respectable – milestone. It’s common to see idols appear on anything, from skin care to luxury cars.
Is it really selling out if it’s also a sign you’ve made it?
Not long later, I pressed ‘publish’, feeling that small rush of satisfaction blooming in my chest like it always did when I put a new post up.
It was just a little side hobby, something I took time to squeeze in around the chaos of my day-to-day, but sometimes I wondered what it would be like to do it for real. To write about the thing I was most passionate about. To make it a career.
I mean, obviously a blog was not a viable source of income, but it was fun to dream about.
Chapter 6
Igot up and did all the things a normal person did in the morning; I brushed my teeth, I brushed my hair, I slapped on some moisturiser from the little tube I’d gotten on the plane and made a mental note to buy some more at the first opportunity, and then I got dressed.
Finally running out of things to do, I looked at my watch and, seeing that it was just after 3:00 pm LA time, I picked up my phone and moved over to the window, pressing ‘Call’. It rang for what seemed like minutes until –
“Boo, you whore!”
A wide grin split my face as I looked down at one of the best people in the world.
“Why are you in the bathroom?” I asked, recognising those cubicles from my nine months of interning at Pisces recording studios.
Becka rolled her eyes. “I had to run in here when you phoned,” she whined, sitting down – presumably on the toilet.
“Aww,” I cooed, “are you so excited to see me that you pissed yourself?”
“Yes, that’s exactly right, I’m peeing myself right now.” She deadpanned. “No, bish, I ran in here to hide the fact that I’m talking to ‘Pisces Most Wanted’.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I laughed.
“You heard. You’re officially an urban legend, congratulations. If Celine knew I was talking to you – and on company grounds – she’d lose her shit. Hence, our little tête-a-toilet.” Becka gestured around with a well-manicured hand.
It took me a second to process what she was saying.
“Oh. Oh! Everyone knows?”
Becka shrugged, but I saw the wry twist to her lips. “Yup.”
