you make me

Tonight should have been one of the best nights of your life.

Instead, it feels like the end of the world.

See, you had the whole thing planned out months in advance. How the proceedings would go from start to finish. It was gonna be special; people would go crazy. They'd cheer, celebrate, and scream your name so loud you'd feel like you're on top of the world.

None of that happened. What you were left with is a broken dream and absolute heartbreak.

 Time flies when you're having fun. At least that's what was supposed to happen.

Tonight should have been the triumphant climax of all your hard work and patience. The culmination of five long years of diehard, borderline obsessive fandom. Years of saving little by little, counting the days, making countless prayers to a God that's mostly indifferent, until, finally—your pleas had been heard by the powers above. One simple announcement on a Wednesday morning:

IVE is coming for their world tour.

You've been a fan since debut. Anticipated the months after Yujin and Wonyoung finished their time in IZ*ONE. Almost five years since you knew they'd be the one, you'd only seen them from behind screens, in other people's cameras, and curated content. Years pass; they take over Korea, eventually the world. You have no place in it. But you're still waiting.

For lack of a better word, you're obsessed.

Not in a stalkerish, 'I'll follow them to their place and bother them' way. Fucking no. You know your boundaries as a fan. Rather, the kind that teeters along the line of parasocial and absolute dedication. Their influence is all over your bedroom: posters that plaster the walls, shelves of magazines with them on the cover that you carefully maintain from dust, binders upon binders of photocards both common and rare, but most importantly, albums of every version that you consider sacred. The crown jewel of your hypercapitalist consumption.

The family says you're wasting your time and money. Your friends laugh it off and call you quirky, steering conversations away from K-pop whenever possible, because they know you'll go into 30 minute tangents that somehow lead into IVE. At least they're understanding. Or highly tolerant.

They don't really know just how deep it goes. How much these six women mean to you, beyond the music and the fact they're so unbelievably pretty. That's a given.

But back to the matter at hand:

You've had the dates marked on the calendar the moment the official announcement hit. After five years and two world tours, they were stepping foot on home soil for the first time. Your territory. Not a festival with only 30-45 minutes per performer, not even as a one hour headliner. A full blown concert. They'd missed you the first go around, and for many days and nights, you'd cursed everything. Lamented that the only way you could ever remotely get close to these girls was to take a flight elsewhere, and the process was already a battle of its own. 

Not anymore. That risk was gone; the only thing you needed to secure was the ticket. You'll worry about what happens after.

And you'd been preparing. Waiting for the day when you could finally take from an account that had been storing bits of leftover money from your salary or allowance, four years of slow-burning patience and hope.

It was enough. More than. Except it wasn't. 

You were not taking any chances. You used every dirty trick in the book; bots, third-parties, people who only accepted a small fee in exchange for direct links to skip the impossibly long queue, to get an unassailable advantage even during presale. The people were yearning for more K-pop concerts, and at last, they were blessed. In a place where live music is few and far between, you weren't the only one starved. Anyone, regardless of their public recognition, could come and sell out if they went; that's how dry it's been. 

All those efforts weren't for naught. You're right where you want to be: front row. Exactly where they'd be passing by every now and then.

The rest could take care of itself.

 Even through your earplugs, you can feel the ground moving beneath and the collective noise of thousands piercing your eardrums. The way the roar of the crowd reverberates everywhere, the bass of the speakers thrumming throughout the arena. 

You're ready. Everyone is ready.

Anticipation pulses through your veins. You're counting the minutes till they take the stage. Lightstick on one hand—the latest version—your phone in the other. Your bag feels heavy, but the adrenaline makes you soar. Not even the stash of freebies from other fans, tour merch you'd bought at a rinkydink tent after waiting in line for hours, and an album and some photocards you hope they'll sign keeps you down.

This is your second concert, actually. You promised they would be your first, but circumstances got in the way. So you wound up flying off elsewhere to see another group instead. But finally, after four years of watching behind screens, of saving what little money you can, of building a shrine to the girl group of your dreams—it's all led to this.

The lights go dark. The crowd lets out a thunderous roar. Nothing else matters anymore; only you and the stars on that stage.

They emerge like angels descending from heaven to bless the ground you're stepping on. In all black leather looking lethal. It's a tired saying, but screens do little justice to how godly they are in real life.

And for the most part, it's everything you wanted and more. They move at a breakneck pace, performing one song to the next, even completing their solos with hardly any opportunities for them to speak until past the first hour (when they formally introduce themselves). Then they do their trademark hits. At one point, the crowd barks; you cringe, but they revel in it, so it's now tolerable. Your ears may be hurting, your arms are sore holding up their lightstick, and your body is being put through hell and back crammed inside a crowded pit, but you're having the time of your life.

You don't think in the moment; the music is still booming, and your fervor is still at a fever-pitch. They come out for the encore and spread everywhere. A member or two comes around your area every now and then. You hold up a sign. One handcrafted from love and patience. They glance, but their attention ends up with someone else. Even when you wave harder, they give hearts, blow kisses, but not of them land on you. 

Something shifts. Your zeal flickers. They're now giving their farewell speeches, and fans are shouting mid-speech: they laugh, giggle, get them to answer back. You're still holding up the sign in the hopes one of them will acknowledge it, but their gaze fixes up ahead. They do their final two songs, and the cycle repeats: a member passes your way, you hold up a sign, they look everywhere except you. Each pass, each distant gaze chips away at your heart.

And after two hours, it ends.

Confetti springs everywhere, they're waving goodbye, headed in your direction as a collective. Fuck concert etiquette now; you have your sign held up to the sky. Just a flicker, a single point of recognition is all you want. Their gazes move from left to right, mostly at the seated lower box—but they look past you again. To the people beside you. Everywhere but you. Then they turn away. They've given you the cold shoulder.

They take their final bows and walk to the back of the stage, still waving as the panel closes in front of them, and then they're gone for good. 

The stage lights come back on. Staff usher out the crowds, telling them to leave as the cleanup crew steps in. VIPs are told over the speaker to stay put. You are staying put, but your excitement has completely died. Your body leans on the barricade, folding in utter disbelief, giving out after enduring so much: the frenzied movement of the crowd, the energy you exerted waving your lightstick and sign, a general lack of sleep, and the fact that none of the girls looked at you even once.

But the night isn't quite over yet. There's still a send-off. And one way or another, you will leave with something.

 Waiting is its own torture.

You're scrolling through your camera roll in the meantime, scanning, assessing all the photos and videos you've taken. None of them do justice to how they truly shine with your own two eyes, even with the occasional blur and shake. Being a hair's width from them, breathing the same air as them—it should have been enough. It isn't.

There's no point of contact. Not a single photo, not a single second, not even a single frame in any of the footage you've checked where at least one of the girls meet you or your lens, even when they're right in front of you. Nothing at all. 

You were too caught up in the heat of the moment to truly notice. How they'd get the ones beside you or behind you, but never exactly you. The way they'd skip past in favor of someone else. Maybe it's only coincidence; so far, you haven't analyzed every video frame by frame.

Doesn't matter right now. The staff are making the announcement, ushering in clusters of VIPs into the backstage pen where send-off happens. Perhaps this is how the universe corrects; that this is the twist that tonight will bring to give you the happy ending you dreamed of.

When they lead your section in, you follow along. Carefully monitoring the environment, the groups that have already flanked the front rows ahead. There's hardly any space left to fit in, nor is there enough room around the corners. At this point, you'd be three or four people behind, some behemoths, others carrying obstructive signs. If they couldn't see you up front, they definitely won't see you now. But your eagle-eyed gaze catches on the far right edge of the room: a tiny, intimate zone beside a concrete pillar that is an island in and of itself. 

So while no one's watching or paying attention, you stake your claim: a prime spot before anyone else even considers it. Given the circumference of the lounge, they're bound to walk past you again. This time, you'll correct those mistakes.

The others pick up rather late, take their spots beside you. No matter. You're still in a prime spot, right as they're about to exit—or where they'll start first. Either way, that interaction you've been chasing is all but guaranteed. Surely.

For a few minutes, everyone waits. Across your vantage point, some push and assert their presence, but for the most part, it's all calm, tense excitement. One last chance to see their favorites up close. But for you, one last chance to prove you meant something.

From a distance, a door can be heard swinging open. The ripple comes quietly at first, like the calm before an incoming tsunami. And then, a thunderous roar echoes around the intimate room.

They're here. Again. Still wearing their encore fits. Still unbelievably ethereal. 

Etched on their features are tired but steady little smiles. But they're not complaining, nor does the idol veneer crack. It's only been 40 minutes since the concert ended, and they were performing for almost two and a half hours straight. Yet here they are, waving at everyone like they can go another round. They're professional as ever, even when signs and albums and phones are being harshly thrust upon their faces.

Your items are ready: a pen, their latest album, the same A4 sized sign you've been raising on and off throughout the show, now ragged and worn, and a set of photocards, one for each member to sign. There's also a handwritten letter in your bag that you plan to bring out when they get close. And somehow, even after two hours of shouting and yelling, you still have a voice. You'll expend the last your lungs can produce if it means they finally see you.

They're starting from the other side of the room, and you watch them deliver their best. From left to right, they settle into fanservice like it's muscle memory.

Gaeul calmly waves at anyone she sees. She looks at a girl's banner with her photos on it and a message printed in big Hangul font. Points at it like it's the most precious thing in the world. Then she leans forward to pose for another fan's phone, and it's like the spotlight is shining just for her. She asks them to show the photo, and after a brief inspection, nods in approval before moving on.