Again

The tickets sit on your desk, undisturbed, their glossy surface catching the dim glow of your bedside lamp. You don’t even need to read the text printed on them anymore. The details are already burned into your brain.

A fan sign.

It was supposed to be special, you remembered. Something to look forward to for weeks, marked on your calendar with a little star. You were supposed to show up, tease her about messing up choreography, make her laugh in the middle of a serious performance, see that look in her eyes that was just for you.

Now, the tickets is a stain on the table.

Your phone is face-down beside them, dark screen hiding the messages you haven’t opened yet. The well-meaning texts from friends, the casual work notifications, all messages except from her.

Wonyoung.

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. The memory of your last call with her is still fresh, the words playing over and over like a song stuck on repeat.

“I just don’t have time for this anymore.”

“For us, you mean?” “Mhm.”

It was disturbingly calm, measured, like it was just another item to tick off on her to-do list. There had been no anger in her voice. No hesitation.

That…hurt more than anything.

You had wanted to say something, anything to make her stop. To remind her of the nights spent whispering over the phone until she fell asleep, of the rare moments when she let herself be vulnerable with you, of the way she would light up the second she saw you waiting for her backstage to take her to eat a whole cow together.

But you couldn’t mutter a voice, just sitting there, phone pressed to your ear, fingers gripping the fabric of your hoodie so tightly it threatened to tear.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

That was three days ago, by the way.

Three days of checking your phone too often. Three days of convincing yourself you were fine. Three days of staring at these damn tickets on the desk and trying to figure out why you hadn’t just thrown them away. You should sell them. Give them to someone who’d actually enjoy them.

But you didn’t do anything.

Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s stubbornness. Maybe it’s the stupid and stubborn part of you that refuses to admit that she’s really gone. Whatever the reason, you find yourself gripping them tighter instead of throwing them away.

You decided that you will go.

Not for her. Not to see her. Not at all.

Just so you don’t have to sit in this room, drowning in thoughts of what used to be. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

Mhm. Yep. That’s about it.

-

The venue is packed.

Fans shuffle forward in line, their chatter buzzing in the air like static. Excited whispers, rustling light sticks, the occasional squeal when a favourite member’s name is mentioned. Your fingers tighten around the album in your hands. (Ironically you still hold onto her album)

This is normal for them. For the fans around you, this is just another fan sign. A chance to meet their idols, to share fleeting moments, to walk away with a signature and a memory they’ll cherish for years.

You should feel the same, of course. Instead, you’re just… tired. But seriously, who could blame you, you’re about to come face-to-face with your ex-girlfriend and she has no idea you’re here.

Your grip on the album tightens as the line inches forward. The first few members greet you with polite smiles, their voices light and bubbly. You do your best to respond normally, but your mind is elsewhere, trapped in the inevitable moment that keeps creeping closer and closer.

You don’t need to look up to know she’s at the end of the table. And then, oops, there’s no more time left.

Your album slides across the table. Long, slender fingers stop it in place.

And then her eyes meet yours.

She looks the same. Still flawless, as always. Every strand of hair perfectly in place, makeup soft and ethereal under the bright overhead lights. And those sparkly boba eyes that you often got lost in.

But…she’s not yours anymore. Not at all.

Maybe there was some sort of recognition, surprise, and who knows what else that crosses her face. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by a carefully neutral expression.

Her lips part slightly, but no words come out at first. Then…

“Hey.”

It’s awkward. Too awkward. You can feel the tension hanging between you.

“Hey.”

For a split second, she looks like she wants to say something else. Like she wants to break the script, ignore the rehearsed greetings and practiced smiles. She doesn’t. Which is obvious, she’s Jang Wonyoung.

Instead, she picks up her pen, the mask slipping back into place. Her expression evens out, and in a voice so perfectly professional it almost stings. She says, “Thanks for coming.” Just like she would to any other fan. Your stomach feels like it will belch out all the depressing episodes out.

You should’ve known. Of course, she wouldn’t acknowledge it. Not here. Not in front of all these people where her image is so pristine.

Still, it doesn’t make it hurt any less. “Of course. Would’ve been a waste of money if I didn’t.”

She presses her lips together, nodding slightly. “Right. Can’t have that.”

She signs her name, her handwriting as neat and practiced as always. But there’s a hesitance in the way she moves, a slight delay before she lifts the pen from the page. When she finally pushes the album back toward you, her fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. Then…

“Take care, okay?”

She’s looking at you now. Really looking at you.

And for a moment, just one fleeting moment, she’s not the Jang Wonyoung, the IT girl, the global superstar.

She’s just…Wonyoung.

The girl who used to call you late at night just to hear your voice. The girl who used to lace her fingers through yours under the table when no one was looking. And the girl who also told you she didn’t have time for you anymore.

The words stick to your throat. You genuinely don’t trust yourself to say anything.