Of Equal Measure

Considering her occupation, you always thought it would have been her—after all that time, the distance and the complications—that it would have been her who would move away to focus on herself and leave you behind. How did you, then, end up being the one who got away

Things did end cordially, at least. There’s some nuance to this story: you wouldn’t let yourself become enemies—and what a blessing, that, how your love metamorphosed despite the acceptance-reluctance push and pull— yet the physical separation wouldn’t let you have a chance at staying friends. But it’s hard to think of it that way if you’re to be honest—that it all ended well. It was more akin to ripping off a bandage, no time to react. You were both on this tightrope, running through a red parade, when you decided to take the job. Staying may have made a difference, but this is not that timeline.

“The U.S.?” Dahyun stared from across the kitchen.

You picked up on it immediately. Her voice never breaks when she’s sad, it overcorrects. Dahyun shuts herself in and tries, on willpower alone, to muster as much composure and poise as possible. She had told you once how this was always in her nature. The behavior had forever been encouraged, reinforced. You let it hang for a second longer because that’s usually your reply, your acknowledgement. Only then, “yeah, New York,” you replied, showing her the email on your phone.

So, you flew, far away at that, deciding to ultimately place the blame on your new career—the one that dragged you far from the industry that brought you two together in the first place. You knew lights and cameras and of course how to direct all the action. You’re an auteur: your artistic vision is esteemed and respected by many, but being revered granted you nothing worth holding on to. You wanted out of that hellish industry that you found gave little value to real talent and skill.

Those lonesome years running no-name gigs for the love of the game didn’t last long, however.

You found yourself slipping back into old patterns after some time—not even that long—networking with people you knew would ask you to come on board any and all projects planned for their years ahead. You were still a name that people recognized and sought out. There was always someone in your periphery that kept trying to pull you back to that grind. And like vice, siren song, you returned to do what you do best. It’s comforting to know that you’re at least good at it: the behind the scenes of the glitz and glamour and all of the fucking connections. You know who's who, and they certainly know you, and amid the crowd you pick up some photographer or another asking: “Who’s that?”

You catch her stepping off of a black van amongst a sea of camera flashes and shrieking fans. She doesn’t spot you, at first, so you stare, wide-eyed and shocked. 

The garment’s fashion house eludes you. It’s strikingly simple and equally devastating—would put the revenge dress to utter shame if only Dahyun were cognizant of the circumstance—though you give her the point for it, anyway. Whichever game is being played in hell, you are sure to help tally the score.

(Roll that tape forward. You struggle to remember much of anything post-daze. It’s easy to imagine the rush and the throng of paparazzi mixed in and around the mass of spectators and your phone buzzing nonstop following the minute-by-minute updates.)

Of course, the universe had to have you sit together for the duration of the show—front of the runway, start to finish—because they can’t have all the big names on the same row. You’ll balance her fame out with your faceless fashion—you’re known, but not enough for the public, as shrewd as they may be. They’ll be enraptured by her and her alone, the star guest out of all visiting tonight. The spread will look good on promotional material, too: the idol surrounded by moguls, socialites, the occasional nepotism stray.

“I thought you were out of the entertainment industry.” She carries her tone with solemn care, though her jaw falters, clenches.

The lump in your throat becomes ever present. It’s like picking up right where you left off. Her voice greets you with such daunting familiarity despite the years, the chasm between you. You fiddle with a cufflink hoping that it replies for you. “Came back a year ago.”

“A year…” Dahyun stares at a pompous model as she walks by, speaking towards unspecified directions. There’s hundreds of cameras and half of them are trained on her. “Same old?”

“Yeah, I’m responsible for all this.” There’s a level of absurdity you’re not prepared to unpack on how the seating chart is a legitimate, last-minute affair. “One of many, at least. It’s a whole thing.” 

“That’s good.” 

You were never part of the limelight, never officially took part in her life, and you’re certainly not camera trained, either. To meet like this now, around so many eyes and ears and barely be able to even look at her without drawing too much attention? 

Your throat is dry. Swallowing straight up hurts.

(A beat in the procession has you sneak a glance, anyway—never part of that spotlight, but always next to it. You had an idea on how to look for those windows of opportunity, search for respite among the chaos of her idol life, and there you see, her chest, a telltale sign, red spots forming all over, letting you know that she’s flustered, distraught. And you notice her breathing, attempting a calm and collected rhythm, and her failing to achieve it. Perhaps it’s all coming back to you, or you never really forgot in the first place, and to the untrained eye, she comes off as attentive to the show as ever.) 

“We’ll talk later.” You assure her.

And her voice finally breaks. “Please.”