I stumble up the stairs and glare down back at them as if to check that they actually didn’t move to trip me up. I take my place in front of the leader of Trickshot and coincidentally the oldest member of the group, the hyung, Park Hoseung, my original bias. Nothing but a long table separates us and I allow myself to fangirl, just a little bit.

Hoseung’s beautiful, as all idols I’ve ever seen are, his hair dyed an aqua blue, long enough to reach his shoulders, something like a sardonic grin hovering over his mouth as he looks at me, nodding his head towards me in an approximation of a bow. He keeps twisting the black Sharpie marker between his fingers, his ears are twinkling with his piercings, the eyeshadow around his eyes smoky and mysterious, skin pale with all the makeup under the harsh lights.

It’s the end of an era, the last show of the tour tonight, and none of us Trixies actually know what’s coming next now that Trickshot is going on their six-month hiatus. All we know is that the members will be pursuing their solo projects, and hopefully eat all the good food and sleep all the sleep. It’s still a shame, though, saying good bye to the vampire royalty aesthetic, once and for all.

I take a quick glance down the table, finding Jaeyong talking with another fan, looking like he’s giving her all of his attention, glancing up at her from his seated position, a soft smile on his mouth.

I glance back at Hoseung, flushing now, monster butterflies in my belly using their mutant superpowers to make me nauseous and nervous as I hold out my album with a shaky hand, before plopping it on the table for him to sign.

And because my brain’s screaming at me to say something, anything, I blurt out in Korean, “Thank you for all your hard work; this album is my favourite of yours so far.”

I keep my hands to myself, even if I can tell from my peripheral vision that some fangirls are able to hold their idols’ hands and have quick little conversations with them. It’s almost as if they mean something, like us fans aren’t just a faceless person in the middle of a crowd.

“What? You speak Korean?” Hoseung blurts, covering his mouth with a hand, eyes wide, his voice dipping into satoori, the regional dialect from where he’s from, making me wish I understood. It’s the same language, sure, but you take a person from the streets of Brooklyn, New York and toss them in downtown Glasgow, there’s gonna be something lost in translation, and that’s what I’m experiencing now.

“Uh, yes, but not very well.” I’m not going to tell the Park Hoseung that I don’t speak Korean like a native yet, but that’s just me sweating my Korean skills.

“Where are you from?” he asks, and my heart swoops down to my toes only to be rocketed back up to my chest, and I want to get off this roller coaster ride from hell, thanks. I’m high on his attention, and he’s not even Jaeyong. “America?”

I shake my head, swallowing hard. “Canada. A city called Montreal.”

“So far! How long was the plane ride?” Hoseung asks, grinning, before he signs my album, holding onto it with both hands, kinda like he’s holding it hostage. I fidget from foot to foot, trying to keep my focus on Hoseung, trying hard not to be rude, but I’m so close and yet still so far away from what could be the pivotal moment of my life.

Oh, shit, not this again, Raleigh. Not again.

I know. I’m trying to chill out on my expectations.

Having zero expectations for any given situation always guarantees a good time!

I cough into my fist, turning away so I don’t breathe on Hoseung, and stammer out a response. “About sixteen hours.”

Hoseung’s eyes bug out, mouth falling slack. “Sixteen hours? Sixteen?! Thank you so much for coming today, all the way from Canada! Oh, I didn’t get your name?”

And because I had the forethought to do this, I approximated my name into the Korean alphabet, Hangeul, in the best way I could on a post-it, showing it to him.

“Raleigh-ssi? Isn’t that a city?”

I laugh, nod at him, trying to be discreet about wiping the sweat off my forehead, and fan myself because it is hot in here.

“Again, thank you so much for coming to see us today. I look forward to the question-and-answer period.” He waves at me with both of his hands, jewelry glinting off his fingers and wrists, smile wide.

I move down the line, now standing in front of the maknae, the youngest member of the group, Kim Kyungmin. The kid’s barely nineteen years old, all teeth as he smiles at me, round cheeks, looking adorable. When I was nineteen, guys didn’t look like him, not one bit, and I had to come all the way to Seoul to figure that out.

We stumble through a conversation, the kid freezing when I speak to him in Korean, slapping Hoseung’s shoulder and looking at me, like he’s caught in some sort of elaborate scheme.

Two members down, two more to go, and then I’m going to be standing in front of Jaeyong.

My hearing goes in and out, trying to ignore the din of conversations going on either side of me, trying to ignore those fans that have sat down already, waiting for the line to exhaust itself so that we can have our question-and-answer period before leaving for the day, before having to go back to our normal lives.

I greet Choi Joontae, get my autograph, and a two-minute conversation, and then move down the line to meet Kim Heejoon, stumbling through stilted conversations because my mind’s blanked out all of the Korean vocabulary I know, making me sound like a complete idiot, or like I’ve gone and had a stroke.

I bumble my way through the last thirty seconds of a conversation until I’m just about to stand in front of Jaeyong, pulse heavy at the base of my throat like a second heartbeat, hands clammy and cold. My fingers slip along the cover of the beat up Dragon Ball manga from a lifetime ago that I’m holding in a death grip, Jaeyong’s English name scrawled on the first page: Ce livre est à Lucas. Rends-le moi!

I take a second, like a nanosecond, just to take a deep, deep breath, pull it into my lungs through my nose, let out a shaky exhale as I glance over and take in Jaeyong’s profile. I notice that he grew into his nose and his ears, the sleek undercut showing off his inky black hair, the top of his head also freshly dyed back to his original hair colour, parted on the side.

I stifle a grin when he goes to take a swig from his unopened water bottle, missing out on the whole grabbing part and tossing it to the ground, disappearing underneath the table for a few seconds, and from this close, I can hear him swearing in a mixture of French and English, making my heart thump hard.

I’m moving without giving the input to my brain, but here I am, standing in front of Jaeyong, waiting for him to break the surface of the table and look at me, and hopefully, hopefully, recognize me.

And then what?

It’s not like you’re going to get your friend back.

At least I’ll have the chance to say goodbye properly this time around, at least there’ll be that.

Jaeyong moves back to his sitting position, holding the water bottle aloft like he’s re-enacting that scene from The Lion King, something he used to do all the time when we were kids. It used to embarrass the shit out of me when I always wanted to have a low profile when it came to other people noticing me.

He flashes me a quick smile, uncapping the bottle, and takes a few gulps, then puts it down, gently wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his expensive-looking blazer, patting gently so as not to disturb his makeup. After all of that is done, he finally gives me his full attention.

And I choke, smile plastered to my face like some weird-ass version of a Stepford Wife, a robot, a doll, as he looks at me, his eyes shaking from side to side in his sockets, practically screaming for help as the silence lengthens, and we just stand there, staring at each other.

I nearly fumble the manga, nearly throw it at him because in a horror of horrors, I can’t seem to control my limbs when I’m nervous and around him.

“Dragon Ball?” he asks, frowning down at it, looking back up at me, confusion written all over his face. When the hell did he get that sharp jawline? What about that thick, long hair? He was always in buzzcuts back in the eighth grade, soothing and prickling against my palm when I wanted to bother him about it.

My heart seizes in my chest, and I know this is my chance, my one chance at this, and fuck me if I’m gonna choke and ruin it and always have to wonder what if.

“Yeah,” I say in French, “you left before I could give it back to you.”

Jaeyong blinks at me, and if I didn’t just hear him murmur to himself in French, I’d wonder if he’s lost it, if he’s really that much out of practice. He just keeps staring at me, then finally seems to shake it off and looks down at the battered copy of the manga (volume 10).

I watch him open the front cover, seeing his name scrawled there in his eighth-grade handwriting. He brings both his hands up to cradle his head, hunching over the table like I’ve gone and sucker-punched him the gut, made it hard for him to breathe through the pain.

“Jaeyong? Lucas?” I call, crouching lower, too, half afraid security’s gonna throw me out for upsetting one of their idols, but desperate to make sure that he’s okay, that I didn’t hurt him by bringing up the past. “It’s me. It’s—” I say in French.