Work Text:
Summer 2019, Universe A
Despite a marginal pay bump and slight title change (“Junior” to “Assistant” feels negligible), the main perk of the promotion is my new start time: 10 am. Naturally a night owl, something about dragging my limp body to a desk by 9 am was always a challenge, since I had a habit of staying up till 2 am scrolling Twitter until I passed out, phone in hand, purple lamp still on. But now, the extra hour is the height of luxury.
And while I promised myself that I would use the hour for something productive -- perhaps now is the time for me to finally get into yoga, or making a full fucking breakfast like a god damn adult -- I usually use it to roll around in bed just a bit longer, sipping on yesterday’s coffee leftovers, retweeting dril, ignoring texts. But it feels luxurious.
My commutes are usually spent staring into space, listening to an old episode of My Brother My Brother and Me, and counting the pairs of similar white sneakers on the commuters around my. There’s a different crop of morning regulars now that I leave my apartment at 9:20 instead of 8:10, and while I sometimes miss seeing the men in button downs all dressed roughly similar, the later crowd is a bit more diverse.
There’s a woman who has worn different patterned bike shorts every single day, a man who carries a large umbrella, even when rain isn’t in the forecast. A crop of girls who all wear the same floaty skirt from Uniqlo. A few regulars who hop on after one stop, too -- an elderly Chinese woman with a push cart, always accompanied by a young girl in pink.
And a cute tall boy, always in black pants and white sneakers, who always seems to jump through the doors at the last minute. His red backpack has miraculously never gotten caught in the doors. Sometimes he sits across from me. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he isn’t on the train at all. It’s sporadic, and I’ve yet to figure out the pattern, but I like staring at him. I like the way he styles his hair differently each day, how he sometimes breaks into a smile just looking at his phone. I’m hesitant to make the call that he has cute teeth since the closest I’ve been to him is about six feet away, but I keep thinking that his teeth seem really cute, then thinks that that’s a weird thing to notice.
One morning he catches me staring, and gives a tiny grin before looking back at his phone. I glance down at my phone in tandem, and don’t look up until I’m at my stop.
After a year and a half of living in New York, I’ve gotten used to blocking out the noise. My first few months were spent frustrated at how loud the city was, how hectic it was to simply get from one place to another. I’m now a pro at many forms of ignoring people: I don’t make eye contact with buskers, people asking for directions, people asking for money, people selling my things. Eyes forward, headphones on. I’m not really trying to make friends on the 9:27 am B train to Manhattan.
Which is why my blood boils when on a day when I don’t get a seat, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I sighed, and slid to the side, allowing whoever is touching me to get by, but they simply tap me again. I sighed louder and gestured toward the space I made, then looked up to see red backpack boy.
He said something, which I did not hear, because Julien by Carly Rae Jepsen is blaring in my headphones so loudly that I will surely be deaf by the young age of 42. He motioned to my headphones. I slipped one off my ear.
“You dropped your metro card,” he said. I looked down at the hand that was tapping me to see that indeed, it is holding a metro card, and I looked back up at backpack boy, and give him a slight smile.
“Thanks,” I said, slipping the other headphone off, letting them rest on my neck, “I just refilled it for the month, so that would’ve sucked.”
“Yeah, no problem,” he responded. A beat. He looks at my phone. “What are you uh…. Listening to?”
“What?”
“Your music,” he said. “What were you listening to so loudly that you couldn’t hear me?”
“Oh,” I replied. “Um… Carly Rae Jepsen’s new album.”
“She still makes music? The Call Me Maybe girl?”
“She’s made a lot of music since then.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Emotion was better but her new album is nice too. You should listen sometime,” I said, smiling at him, sliding my headphones back on. “Thanks again for helping me out,” I said, waving my Metrocard with an arch of my eyebrow.
He smiled. “Sure, no problem,” he replied, but my headphones are already on, and Want You In My Room is playing, and I simply cannot hear him anymore, but I continued to think about how nice his smile is up close rather than from the other side of the train. He does have cute teeth.
And while my morning commute remained consistent -- leave the apartment at 9:20, swipe into the subway at 9:26, hop on the train at 9:27 (usually, when it’s on time), I still couldn’t figure out backpack boy’s pattern. But when I did see him, he’d catch my eye and nod, giving me a little half smile. I’d do the same, then get back to my phone. It was the longest and most consistent relationship with a man I’d ever had. Just kidding!!!
My evening commute was slightly more varied, influenced by when I got off work or if I got dinner with a friend or went to a concert or decided to sit outside for a bit before getting on the subway. I didn’t have any regulars to watch, which is why when a man with a red backpack sat next to my one Thursday evening after leaving work late, I thought very little of it (or simply did not notice), until he waved a hand in my face.
“Oh,” I said, slipping my headphones off my head. “It’s you.”
He smiled. “It’s me.”
“How’s uhh… How’s it going?” I replied.
“Good, good. How are you?”
“I’m good. I don’t usually see you on this train,” I said. He cocked his eyebrow in response. “Not that I’m like… Watching you, I just, you know, you see the same people every morning usually, or at least sometimes see the same people, but --”
“Yeah, no, I know what you mean,” he replied, saving me from myself. “I’m usually not heading back to Brooklyn this late.”
“Oh, me neither, actually.”
“What held you in Manhattan tonight?”
“Ah, just work stuff.”
“What do you do? For work,” he said, fiddling with his phone in his hands, toggling the ringer on and off, and on and off.
“I work in marketing, at an agency,” I replied.
“That’s cool. Like designing ads and stuff?”
“Maybe eventually. Right now I just help coordinate campaigns.” I smiled to myself. “I actually just got promoted from Junior Associate to Assistant Associate, which means apparently nothing at all other than staying late every few days.”
“Climbing the corporate ladder, eh?”
“For now. I wanted to study physics. This is just… Kind of a stopgap right now. I’m studying for the GRE in my spare time. I want to get my masters in Physics.”
“That’s quite different from your current job.”
“Humans are complex,” I said with a shrug. “What about you? What do you do?” I turned my shoulders slightly to face him, and I was struck, once again, by his smile. Cute teeth. I turned back to face forward.
“I work in programming,” he replied.
“Oooh, so you’re like smart or something,” I said.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Or something.”
I looked up at the illuminated map above his head, counting the numbers of stops left.
“Hey,” I said. “Aren’t you getting off here?” He looked at my with furrowed eyebrows. “Again, not that I’m like, watching you or whatever, but you know, I know you get on a few stops after me, but I’m not like, keeping track of you or anything, I just notic-”
“That’s my usual stop, yeah,” he said with a smile. “But I’m going to my friend’s apartment for dinner.” He shook the paper grocery bag in his hand. “I’m late ‘cause I was picking up food.”
“Ah,” I said. “What are you cooking?”
“I picked up a rotisserie chicken and veggies. And some beer. Nothing fancy. She just got back from tour and seems kind of exhausted, so I figured simple is fine,” he said.
“What kind of tour?”
“Sorry,” he said, smirking and standing up as the train came to a halt. “This is my stop. See you around,” he grinned as he stepped off the subway car, giving my a little wave as he passed by the window on his way to the stairs.
It’s another two weeks before I see him again, and he’s across the subway car so I don’t speak to him. Even if he were nearby I’d be hesitant to speak, because it’s the morning, and the train cars are somehow silent in the mornings, volume increasing as the day goes on. I see him the next morning, too, and he hovers above the seat next to me. When the old man next to me gets off, he replaces him, swooping down and smiling at me, then not saying a word the rest of the ride. He exits with a “nice to see you again,” and I laugh to myself, and try not to get my hopes up that I’ll see him once more.
His routine is inconsistent, far more so than mine, but I’ve begun to figure that I’ll see him a few times a week, though the days are never the same. This makes planning hard, as New York in the summer breeds sweatiness like mold on an aging block of cheese, and even though I’m not trying to impress him, I’d rather not be dripping sweat with pit stains on my shirt should he choose to plop down next to me one morning. I realize I never really learned that much about what he does for work, or what kind of tour his friend was on, and why his schedule is so inconsistent. Maybe he’s just late a lot.
I’m playing Candy Crush (yes in 2019, what an absolute madman) when I feel a familiar presence next to me on the train one Friday morning, on a week when I hadn’t seed him at all. It’s the end of July and I am very warm but I don’t really mind his proximity.
“Hey,” he said, nudging my leg with his. “How’ve you been?”
“Hey,” I replied, not looking up from my phone. “Though you didn’t recognize me after I dyed my hair purple or something.” I look at him with the tiniest smile. “I’m good, though. What about you?”
“I didn’t want to break the cardinal subway rule of not talking in the morning,” he said, smiling.
“That’s not a real rule, you know?”
“It feels pretty real to me.”
“Hmmmmm.”
“But I’m good. Just got back from a work trip.”
“Where to?”
“Japan for a bit, Tokyo mainly. Then Seoul for a bit. Around. You know how it goes,” he smiled at me.
“I actually don’t but that’s cool,” I finally give into conversation and lock my phone. “I don’t think I even know that much about what you do,” I said.
“Programming.”
“What kind of programmer goes to Japan for work? Or do I not understand computers at all?”
“It’s actually um… Like cultural programming?”
“What?”
“I help plan the musical acts at a network of big venues around the city.”
“So you don’t know how to code?”
“No.”
“Then why say programming?”
“Because it’s accurate!”
“But you let me call you smart when you first told me you’re a programmer!” I laughed. “You didn’t even correct me!”
“I never said programmer,” he grinned. “I said I work in programming.”
“Oh my god,” I said. “So you’re not smart.”
“Hey!”
“What!?”
“I’m plenty smart. I just can’t do math that well.”
“Okay okay okay,” I said, backing down from my playfully antagonistic stance. “So what goes on in Asia? What were you there for?”
“We’ve got a couple venues out there that we’re partnering with that want to experiment with bringing more Western acts, and a couple venues mye want to bring more… Non-Western acts.”
“Like K-pop?”
“Amongst others, yeah.”
“That’s cool,” I said.
“Yeah, something about it makes the world feel a little smaller, in the least cheesy way possible.” He smiled at my, and I smiled back at him. “You into K-pop?”
“Eh,” I said, “not really.”
[AUDIENCE: LAUGHTER]
“I wasn’t either, really, until I went out there and met a few groups. Those kids can dance."
“I’m sure they can,” I said, politely. “Sorry, this is my stop. Good seeing you,” I nodded at him as I stood. “I’m [Y/N!!!!], by the way.”
“Nice to meet you again,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I’m Soonyoung.”
I held onto his hand for a moment, realizing this was the first time they’d ever made intentional physical contact. Usually that’d freak me out, especially with a stranger from the subway, but something about this felt safe. I held eye contact with him for a second before nodding my head and letting go of his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Soonyoung. I’ll see you around.”
Summer 2019, in an alternate universe (Universe B), though one that is remarkably similar to the aforementioned Universe A
This wasn’t the first time I’d slept on the street for a band. I’ve camped on the street more often than I’ve camped in nature, and it’s not my fault that I like to be front row for things. It’s not my fault I like to win! So when Seventeen announced that they’d be doing a Build Series interview -- not even a concert, an interview -- it’s a no-brainer to sleep on the street.
So I do, but sleep isn’t really the word for it. I drink iced coffee, still riding the excitement of being front row for their KCON performance, of waving to Mingyu and DK and Woozi. I waved to all of the boys but there are thirteen so I will not list them all.
But I sustain myself the entire night with a few protein bars and a very large Dunkin, and I don’t even feel that tired, because I know that at 8:30 am they’ll come check the standby line, and I’ll hopefully maybe get into the studio. And because I always win, when 9:30 rolls around and they usher in the crowd, I’m seated to the left of the stage on a little stool, with a direct line of sight for the little curtain that they’ll enter from. And when they walk out, one by one, and Home plays in the background, I don’t even shake like I normally do, maybe because they’re so close to me, maybe because my veins are literally filled with coffee at this point, but I feel simply content when I see my friends Seventeen.
My friends are in the studio, too, in different places though, so I’m alone on the little stool over to the side, so I don’t even have anyone to assure my that the following did in fact happen: when Hoshi took his seat, he made eye contact with me, and he stopped moving, just to look at me. He moved a bit closer, I reached out my hand, and he reached out his, and then he shook it, like a dad who doesn’t know how to congratulate his middle child on finally graduating college. And he looked my dead in the eyes while he did it, and I mouthed the word “hi” (maybe I whispered it, inaudibly), and he smiled and mouthed the word “hello,” and I’m not a delusional person -- I don’t really believe in magic or the stars -- but I could’ve sworn I knew him in a former life.
(And you’ll never know this, but Hoshi could’ve sworn the same.)
It’s chaos when they exit the studio; the crowd is louder than before, hollering the boys’ names, waving their hands and banners. I sits in awe, quietly, smiling, watching the back of their heads bob as they file out of the rows where they were interviewed. While Dino and Jeonghan duck and wave at fans and Vernon thanks the host, Hoshi turns to the side and slides over to me, takes my hand again -- more weird handshake bullshit -- and says, as best as he can, “Nice to meet you.” I’m taken aback, but not too shaken, because something about speaking to him feels like speaking to an old friend. “Nice to meet you too,” I say, nodding my head, smiling, “and thank you.” He shakes my hand once more, nods, then pads off to join the rest of the guys, lagging behind them a few steps on his way out.
Outside the studio, I congregate with my friends to debrief, which is a kind way to say that they scream about what just happened.
“I just feel like Hoshi was my friend in another life, man,” I say after they’ve brought their voices back to a normal speaking volume.
“I just feel like Joshua Hong is my boyfriend right here and right now,” says one friend.
“Mingyu big,” chimes in another friend.
I nod. Mingyu big, indeed. I don’t try to reiterate my point, though, because I know that it’s not going to mean the same thing to them as it did to me, and telling them about the interaction takes away some of its specialness, so I hold it close to my heart, and hope that our paths cross again someday, in this universe or some day in another life.
Fall 2019, Universe A
While summer in New York feels like moist death, and smells like hot piss and melting garbage, autumn in New York is like a beautifully crisp fever dream, one that lasts for all of three weeks, three weeks in which the whole city (all 13 million inhabitants) collectively agree to spend as much time outdoors as possible, in which everyone shares their secrets on where the most beautiful trees are. Last year the first and most vibrant tree to turn was in central park, and it, along with the Hot Duck, drew a crowd every single day. And then the weather turns a bit too crisp, and snow falls sooner than you expected, and everyone retreats to their heated three-bedroom apartments and attempts to make mulled cider (and it’s always too sweet), but for those glorious three weeks, anything feels possible.
It’s been more than two months since I’ve last seen Soonyoung. For the first few weeks I wondered if he went on another work trip, and by week four I wondered if he had moved. By the sixth week I tried not to think about him. It was a subway stranger crush and nothing more, despite the immense comfort I felt anytime he plopped down next to me.
So I lived my life. As one does! I went to work and made new friends and went on a date or two. The people were all nice but I did not feel a spark, which seemed to be how life went these days. I played frisbee in the park with a friend of a friend who lived down the street, even though neither of us were very good at it.
On the first Saturday in October I decided to take the train to Central Park, because I’d watched You’ve Got Mail too many times growing up and now associate the Upper West Side with autumn leaves and books and things. I went to a diner and ordered a grilled cheese and got a hot chocolate to go and went to the park. I brought a book and a notebook but neither were as appealing to my as my phone, so I pulled it out instead and began to scroll Twitter. I felt the presence of someone sitting next to me, but I had headphones in and didn’t really want to look up. I switched to Candy Crush and heard a muffled sound, like the person next to my was speaking to me.
I removed one (1) airpod. “Sorry?” I asked, without looking up from my screen.
“You’re still playing Candy Crush?” I looked up to see the smiling face of Soonyoung. “How is there still candy left to crush?”
My mouth spread into an uncontrollable smile. “It’s been a while,” I said, pushing away my instinct to hug him hello.
“Business trip,” he said.
“For nearly three months?”
“So,” he said, turning toward me. I remained facing forward. “I work in concert programming, right?”
“That is what you told me, yes,” I said.
“But I’ve always wanted to do like… Lighting stuff. A bit more creative, less administrative. But my job is cool so I’ve never really voiced that. But when I was at one of our partner venues in Seoul, they were programming the lights for one of those K-pop groups, and I started asking a lot of questions, and since I was there for the week, they let me hang around.”
“That’s cool.”
“It was so cool. I ended up being allowed to stick around and help program the lights for their whole world tour, even though they’re just in Asia right now. They’ll be in the US in the spring and I’m going to tour with them, hopefully, running lights.” He’s grinning big, and I can’t help but grin back at him.
“What’s the group? BTS?”
“Seventeen.”
“Are there Seventeen boys?”
Soonyoung laughed. “There’s twelve of them,” he smiled. “They’re really cool. It helped that I was able to talk to them easily, and honestly at times I felt like if I could dance I would get along well with ‘em.”
“I’m sure you’re a great dancer,” I said.
“You’d be surprised,” Soonyoung said. “But you should listen to them sometime.”
I sighed.
“I know you said you don’t like K-pop! But they’re pretty cool. At least come see them when they’re in town next spring.”
“Hmmm….” I said, turning toward him, finally facing him. He’s not smiling with teeth right now, but I can see it in his eyes, the way I always could, the way I could hear it in his voice the times that they talked while sitting next to each other on the subway. “I’ll consider it.”
“Actually it might be in Newark and not here because that’s where we tend to send a lot of K-pop acts, but it--”
“I am no longer considering it I will no go to New Jerse--”
“C’mon man!”
“No one willingly goes to New Jersey!”
He laughed, then smiled at me for a bit, not really saying anything. A leaf fell in his lap. He stood up.
“Want to take a walk?”
“It’s gonna get dark soon,” I said.
“So let’s walk out of the park. Maybe get some food.”
“I already ate a grilled cheese earlier.”
“Are you trying to be difficult?”
“No.” I stood to look him in the eye. “I’m just being honest.”
He eyed my while “hmmm”-ing, and I wasn’t sure what his next move would be.
“But to continue the honesty thing, I’d like to keep hanging out, so I’ll sit and watch you eat food if you want,” I finally said.
“Why don’t we get a drink instead?”
“A drink. Right. Great idea,” I said, smiling, softening a bit.
With his hands in his pockets, he began to walk, bumping my with his elbow. I realized he was holding it out for me to hold. I slipped my arm through his, and he looked at my and smiled, with his eyes and with a full grin, and they exited the park, arm in arm, and headed to get a cup of hot spiked cider as the sun went down.