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“You know without you I’m so lonely,” The warm mellow of Vernon’s voice fades as Wonwoo walks into the museum. He pulls his flannel a little tighter, raises the volume on his headphones a little higher, as he attempts to block the sound out. It’s been a year since his removal from Seventeen. A year since he’s seen his 12 best friends, more like family really, though what kind of family doesn’t even reach out to you? “To be fair, I have ignored them too.” Wonwoo muses as he hands his credit card to the lady.
She looks at him analytically, furrowing her eyebrows as if she’s seen him before, but can’t quite put her finger on when. He freezes, “Fuck.” He doesn’t want to be seen. If there’s any light in his situation, it’s that people don’t follow him around anymore. He hates it now. How ironic wherein before he lived for the crowds. Because people know him more for his removal than what he did as a member of Seventeen. It boils his blood and makes him want to dissolve into the ground. He doesn’t want to have this conversation again.
She continues to observe him, failing to be discreet about it. He stares at the floor, praying, looking at the incredibly interesting checkered box tile pattern. “Here’s your ticket, sir. Enjoy the exhibit!” A sigh of relief. It appears as if she’s given up, she didn’t figure it out after all! Or maybe she never cared. “And I’m just being narcissistic.” He pulls out his phone.
The Museum is for indie artists, larger-than-life creations, automatons, and self-portraits all compiled into this giant building. It’s a comfort to Wonwoo, all masked up, a faceless figure in the crowd. Everyone here is admiring the art, which is quite similar to being on stage actually. Except there you were the art. A tinge of bitterness sinks to his tongue. He misses it. He can’t lie. But fuck, wasn’t an idol allowed some fun too? He shakes his head, trying to focus on appreciating this modernist print in front of him, but then his traitorous thoughts remind him of why he wanted to go here. Why he wants to escape.
His tiny, run-down apartment is a few blocks away from the arena. Wonwoo moved after he left the band, and he’s never been to more concerts in his life. The screaming, frenzy, dancing, bliss of it all. He loves living near it, even if it can be quite deafening sometimes. He just didn’t plan for the fact that Seventeen might go to town as well. “I mean, no shit. Of course, they would stop in New York.” The memories are still quite fresh, and sometimes he thinks about how the first comeback after he left was their most successful yet.
He tries not to think about all those comments, flashes in his memory telling him “He was invisible in Seventeen.” “See? The group was always meant to be 12.” “Even their dance formations are more in-sync now that he’s gone.” “Seventeen had 13 members before? I thought they were 12 from the beginning.” Gone. The members can’t even mention him, not a peep when they did their anniversary live. Mingyu slipped up, “All thirt- twelve are gathered here today.” There was silence before awkward laughter. He opens his phone, about to take a picture, and as he swipes through his apps, Weverse pops up. Once an artist now a lurker. The members don’t even talk to him, but he supposes it’s too late to rekindle that bond. His connection to them now is but a notification he always swipes up.
The next piece intrigues him, “Reminiscence.” It’s a portrait of a man facing a blue-brown night sky, resting his arms on the terrace railing, looking up to the sky. How many times has he done the exact pose since a year ago? He sits down on the bench in front of the piece, staring into it.
It was a Friday night, he remembers. Everything was hazy, but he remembers endless shots, shouts of glory, white lines, and messy blowjobs under the table. He didn’t register the flash. The damning picture. Him on a table taking a shot, while someone is under the table, clearly, well getting their fill of him. It was shocking. It was disgusting. It was a scandal if they’ve ever seen one. Seventeen, the idol group with a squeaky clean image (in reality they were just really fucking good at covering their tracks) had this guy on their team.
The public couldn’t believe it. They could not believe that a twenty-something-old man was getting some. Their fans were turning against them. Boycotts. Threats. Advertisers were wary. Wonwoo? The quiet member with wise words and slow motions? Caught doing… that? For the company, there was really only one choice. Isn’t it poetic how one night led to the demise of his career? Of his life? As for the group, they weren’t angry that he went out. They were just angry that he hooked up with someone.
You see, he and Mingyu had a… situation if you will. Not quite friends, never lovers. It’s clear to him now that Mingyu was in love with him, but at the time, too deep in his self-loathing and overthinking, brainwashing himself into believing that he didn’t deserve Mingyu, well, Wonwoo thought he deserved a goddamn break. “It ended up a permanent break.” Wonwoo winces, reliving the silence. It was like a procession, packing up his things and leaving the dorms. Everyone was outside, exchanging nods and the odd hug here and there. It was dizzying, how quickly they became strangers. It was as if they didn’t spend their childhood and adulthood together. He imagines Mingyu telling them all about it. It was obvious whose side they picked. That’s what hurt him the most. “Yes, it’s my fault but fuck, I never expected that from them. Never.”
Jeonghan did reach out to him a couple of months after the situation. Sent his happy birthdays, well wishes, how have you been’s, and apologies, how the whole group felt guilty and sad about how it ended. Asked him if they could meet up for dinner. “I live in New York now.” Was his concise reply. “Oh.” Was Jeonghan’s eloquent answer.
They never spoke again.
He hears distinct laughter behind him, breaking him from his reverie. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots three tall men all huddled together around a camera. “Nice, vintage, what film are they using?” Wonwoo thinks. One of the men goes up to a painting, as the pair continue taking candid shots of him. That blue hair is unmistakable. Wonwoo’s heart drops. “That’s The 8.” He frantically looks around, “That’s Vernon in the beanie, and that’s fucking Mingyu.” He wonders how they weren’t spotted yet. No masks, no covering. How ironic that the non-idol is the one all bundled up.
His heart starts beating faster, he feels like running a marathon, he feels like flying, he feels like he’s on stage again, looking at Mingyu, singing with that honey voice, doing all the body rolls that make the fans crazy. His palms get sweaty as he puts one to his chest, controlling his breathing. He has to stop himself from laughing, how does he tell a superstar that he loves him when he isn’t one anymore? When they aren’t even friends? When they don’t even speak? “Hey, look there.” He feels three sets of eyes look at him. Sweat starts to drip on his face. He raises the volume of his headphones again, playing some soothing melody, almost tearing his ears apart. They move closer, a gasp escapes Mingyu’s lips. He doesn’t look. Doesn’t think. He’s just another wide-eyed man staring at paintings. It’s a standstill, the trio doesn’t move, clearly in shock at who they’re seeing.
Wonwoo can’t bear to look at them. He takes out his phone and snaps a picture of “Reminiscence.” Shakily getting up and walking to the next room. He looks back, and they all lock eyes. He pauses for a moment and almost hits a girl on the way. “Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He glances one more time. “He still looks so, so, beautiful.” They look shocked but surprisingly not, angry? He tries to steal another glance, but the crowd closes on him.
Seventeen is known for many things, but hide-and-seek isn’t one of them. It can work on the public, but not on him. He hears them follow him throughout the museum. Standing there at the back, while he goes about his visit. Feels their warmth, their lingering eyes, clearly looking with longing. He also stares from time to time, not knowing and not wanting to say anything at all. The wound is a year in the healing, but still raw. “Do I even deserve closure? What do I even want?” He ponders, while he stares at a painting of a woman spilling out of tomato soup. Sometimes he doesn’t understand art, but hey, to each their own. He looks over his shoulder, just in time to see Mingyu and Vernon trip over each other. He covers his laugh with his sweater, god, does he miss that. He misses the comedy that was being a part of Seventeen. All he needed was to go out with one member, and he was happy. It takes a lot to make him smile these days.
He works his way through the crowd again and exits the building. The cold air greets him, and it reminds him how his apartment’s heating is broken. “How I miss the perks of staying at 5-star hotels every tour stop.” Then it sinks in. “I fucking saw him. I saw them. HA!” He resists the urge to scream, barely. He feels weightless. Breathlessly, he whips his head around. There they are. As shiny and ethereal as ever. Minghao (or The 8? he's not sure what to call him now), with his shock blue hair and sunglasses, even though it's nighttime. Vernon, in his forever closet staple beanie, comfy in a puffer jacket.
And Mingyu. “He’s been going to the gym more often it seems.” Gentle, puppy-like eyes stare at him. It's as if they plead, “Please come to me.” His body aches to touch him desperately. But alas, all he can do is admire from afar. He’s somehow gotten even taller. He’s glowing. “Gorgeous.” He mouths. They keep staring blankly at him. Unmoving. Scanning. He spots the managers push the museum doors open. And that reminds him. It’s his cue to leave.
He sits in his car, flipping through the radio. He skips the 80s breakup songs, 00s punk-rock (it’s way too late for that), and he pauses when he hears the familiar tune. “If you leave me, baby.” He skips to the next station. Wonwoo truthfully doesn’t know where to go. So, he takes the long way home. Passes through antique stores and old pizzerias. Thrift shops and gay clubs. The night is alive, and the city that never sleeps lives up to its name. He doesn’t want to go home. He passes through the arena, hears the band rehearsing, and keeps driving. He keeps driving and driving until he’s on a highway. Somehow. Traffic lights pass by him, his sole companion. “Will I be alright?” He asks. “I don’t know, darling.” They reply, looking down on him with pity. The Chandelier Christmas decorations flicker as he passes by. He spots a convenience store.
New York was really the best place to disappear for him. He’s just one faceless person in a sea of those who want to make it. “Except I already did. I just fucked it up.” He downs another beer. His vision is getting blurry, and everything is hazy again, like that night. The car swerves left to right. The engine revs louder and louder. The music, some synth, club, party anthem blares from the speakers. The windows are down, and no one but him is driving, though he spots shadows in alleyways, and fights outside restaurants, and for the first time in a long while, Wonwoo feels truly at peace. He feels truly invisible. Thank god there were no pedestrians at that hour. It’s a miracle he makes it home.
(The next morning)
A knock startles him awake. Head pounding and wobbling legs as he stumbles to the door, knocking over papers and bottles, and dirty clothes along the way. “Shit!” Almost tripping over his cat’s litter box. He’s been busy, okay? He opens the door to see, no one. Just a brown box with a tie, “To Wonwoo” written on it, in neat Hangul. He would recognize that handwriting anywhere. He carefully rips open the packaging to find a piece of paper. A ticket. VIP. To Seventeen’s concert. And, is this a dried leaf? From an evergreen tree. His favorite. His heart starts palpitating again, imagining his overwhelming reaction when he sees them in the flesh. Performing. Having so much fun. The time of their lives. Without him. And then he thinks about how selfish he is. Only thinking of his happiness. Again. “It’s too damn early for this.” He places the gifts on his table carefully and goes back to bed, mind confused, torn, and heart hurting.
Wonwoo is just about finished with work when he glances at the paper on his cupboard. A ticket for one. He still has time. One of the best seats in the stadium. Seated, as he preferred, but close enough wherein he could see him. And they him. He trembles as he examines the ticket. Turns it back to front, back to front. Flashes of green rooms, basements, late-night dance practices, scripts, cheers, after-concert dinners, all of it happens before his eyes. “I can’t fucking go. I can’t. I.” His voice breaks, as he curls on the floor and cries. Cries a well of tears.
He realizes this is the first time he’s cried in over a year. He’s never let himself mourn. Why would he? He made this storm, he should sit in it. He should be punished for it. For the first time, he sees his life for what it is. The rust after the golden age, hundreds of miles away from the people he loves, a block away from his greatest what-if. In this bleak apartment, with but a cat for company (cute but sometimes Pookie isn’t enough), in the busiest city in the world, swept away by all the chaos. He feels like he’s holding on for dear life, searching for meaning without thinking. Frantically asking, “Where do I belong?”
He cries until his nose gets runny and his entire face puffs up like a rice ball. Pookie nuzzles into his lap, staring at him with the cutest concerned eyes. He pets her but even she isn’t enough to stop the tears. He cries harder when he remembers how he used to weep into Mingyu’s lap during those nights wherein he did believe those who called him invisible and useless. He cries until he’s back in those cramped dorms, how the members all huddled around him with a surprise happy birthday. Cries until he remembers that faithful day when his bosses told him their decision. The regret and humiliation burning him from the inside.
But most of all, remembering Seungcheol’s disappointed face and Mingyu’s hurt one haunts him the most. Cries when he thinks about how new fans won’t even know who is. What he meant. Cries wondering if he even meant anything. Cries until he hears faint cheers from the outside. Cries until he remembers his only interactions with him come once in a blue moon when he shamefully types Mingyu’s name on Twitter. Staring into his eyes and pretending that he was still his. Weeps and wails until he crawls to bed and the regret and guilt slowly seep out of him. Cries until he physically can’t anymore.
Then he shakily types in a number he swore to never remember. “I’m sorry. I can’t. It’s too… I know it’s my fault. But I still can’t.” It was better this way, he thought. Him on stage, precious and shining, and Wonwoo, the damned man who had a chance and fucked it up. The idiot who can never stop looking at him.
“I’m sorry. It’s better this way.”
A final tear trails down his face as he types the last line.