The Anti-Fan and the Idol (My Summer in Seoul)

“Why are you making this personal?” Tears well in her eyes. “I’m fine!”

“You’re not fine, Sari!” I yell, then squeeze my eyes closed. “I mean, Ah-Ri.”

“Sari?” She repeats and slumps to the chair across from me. “She died last—”

“I know,” I whisper.

“You need to eat, Sari. You’re too thin; your body needs food,” I whisper, hugging her close, hoping to comfort her.

She laughs. “I’ll be fine. Stop worrying so much, it’s annoying.” She smiles at me again. “Everything’s fine!”

I feel the lies in the air.

And I let her keep giving them.

Two weeks later, she was gone.

Dead.

After jumping from a bridge.

She was twenty and had just gotten her first acting job.

Her letter was made out to me.

She died hungry. She died sad. She died alone.

And it was all my fault.

I saw the signs and stupidly believed the lies because I was choking down the same ones.

Some labels care for their idols.

And others, like hers, just want to make money.

She died alone.

Without me.

“Here.” I thrust a protein bar into Ah-Ri’s face. “I’ll order us some food before we start. Keep warming up your voice.”

An hour later, we’ve both eaten. Ah-Ri looked nervous to put the food past her lips, and I hate that it’s normal for trainees to diet so severely. Last year, two of the girls from a debut group were hospitalized for malnourishment.

The worst part is, I know that our label is actually more lenient than others.

It’s the fans—not that I would ever admit that out loud. We have some incredible ones, but there are always some who think they can dictate everything you do from what you wear to what you eat, even down to your ability to date.

I shove the food away. “You ready?”

Ah-Ri nods, putting her hands against her stomach. Was it the food? Or is she just nervous?

I play the song for her only once, thinking we’ll be listening to it over and over again so she can learn her part.

Most of it’s in Korean except for the chorus.

I want you, need you, have you, had you but lost. Pick up the pieces of the broken glass you tossed. Make it better, heal me, find me, make us stronger. Maybe it was never me but you that was the problem.

The chorus comes in.

Ah-Ri listens intently.

“The next verse is you,” I say as it starts.

Her smile is small at first and then grows so wide I can’t look away. She nods her head to the music, then closes her eyes, allowing me to stare even more.

She’s beautiful.

No, that’s not right. The music and the way she responds to it is beautiful. That’s what my soul recognizes. And, deep down, despite all the fake confidence and money…

I want her to like it.

The music.

The choreography.

The rap lines.

I find myself smiling.

“Stop staring at me, Ryan,” she says without opening her eyes.

I cough, clear my throat, and look away, drumming my fingertips on the table in a nervous fashion until the song ends.

She spins toward me in the chair and announces, “I’m ready.”

I jump to my feet. “You’ve only heard it once.”

“Yup.” She goes to the booth.

“Once,” I remind her.

“Caught that.” She goes inside and shuts the door, then grabs her headphones.

All right, then.

I go to the soundboard and get ready to layer the tracks, then hit the comm. “You’ll just record your solo for now, then we’ll see how far we can get on the harmony on the chorus. The others have the booth later today.” I exhale. “I left the lyrics in there for you to look at just in case.”

She gives me a thumbs-up.

I just shake my head and intro her into the song.

She isn’t late.

She’s spot-on.

Her eyes close again as she records her solo with professionalism and perfection. Beauty.

“One more take,” I say once she’s finished.

She rolls her eyes. “That was perfect!”

“Yeah, I can’t hear you,” I joke.

She raises a middle finger.

“But I can see.” I chuckle and count her down again.

I didn’t think it was possible, but she does it again—and even better than the first time.

When I stop recording, I look at the clock. We have at least another hour left of studio time.

She comes out of the booth with a knowing smile on her face.

I spin toward her and hang my head, wincing. “You searching for compliments right now? A solid pat on the back?”

She laughs. “Come on, I nailed it!”

I hold out my hand for a high-five. “These are rare, just so you know.”

“Your hands?”

“My high-fives,” I grumble, trying like hell not to laugh.

She sends her fist flying into my palm.

It stings.

I kind of like it. “Were you afraid our palms would kiss or what?”

A pink blush stains her cheeks. “It’s cute, you calling it that. Still waiting for your first real kiss then?”

“Please.” I snort.

“You’re…what? Twenty-five?” She takes a seat next to me. I scoot farther away, not wanting to have this conversation—like no part of it. “But you’re also an idol who’s been on a tight leash. No dating scandals, no rumors.”