What it Means to be Your Fan

I am roused from my 10 a.m. slumber by the sound of a phone notification going off. Fuzzy dreams of black wavy hair and crinkled-eye smiles still linger in my head as I reach for my phone on my shelf. My initial thought is not that it could be you because I haven't heard from you in days. Although, who else could it be? My only friend is someone I've known since fifth grade, who is now 25 years old and married. She only reaches out to me once every two months through random Instagram messages from her favorite cat lover account to let me know she's still out there. If it's not her, then I'm sure it's another Instagram notification followed by forty others that will soon follow throughout the morning. But, then again, could it be you? I become excited as blurry images of brown doe eyes still rush to swarm my drowsy thoughts. Don't be, I tell myself. 

The notification list is just as I thought, except your beautiful, magnificent, adoring name, wedged in between the forty Instagram notifications, graces my small screen, impossible not to catch. A missed video call. Not a message. I look at the clock. I have work at 12:00. It takes 40 minutes to get there. Based on my typical routine, it should take approximately 10 minutes for a shower, 10 minutes for breakfast, and 5 minutes to make lunch (assuming we have turkey). Ok, I don't have time to call you back. But my finger selecting the notification has a mind of its own. I guess I'll skip lunch today. Or just work altogether. 

It takes a minute to go through, but soon your bunny-toothed smile captures my screen. Your eyes squint in joy, and your hair flops around your head in black waves long enough to cover your secret bunny ears, which I know must be hiding underneath. But I can't miss the iced mug of dark yellow beer in your hand raised up to the screen. Now I understand why your smile looks so goofy. I laugh lightly to cover the worry. You are miles and miles away, and although it may not be 10 a.m. where you are, it's still 3 a.m. on a Saturday for you. I'm concerned. It seems like you're making this a habit. You're a casual drinker, but is it considered casual when you're crying by the night's end? I decide not to ask you. It's been a while; I keep it light. And I've missed you too much. I inform you that I have work in an hour, and I'll need to carry you in my pocket for the day. However, you don't acknowledge my playful attempt to get your attention. I send an onslaught of messages, each containing bright purple hearts, one after the other, but again I fail. 

You've started a karaoke session in your apartment. Turns out you also sing when you're sad too. Since you're busy, I walk around the house getting ready for work and listen to your drunken melodies through my earbuds. Even while intoxicated, your voice is sickeningly sweet, pure, and honest, laced with pain in its octaves. I gladly listen to you sing and sing as I crack eggs on the counter for breakfast and fasten on my light-washed overalls, imagining you here beside me. After I've picked out a coat for the nippy Spring day, I realize you've gone quiet. I then notice you've disappeared from the screen when I look at my phone. Your room is dark, as usual, the only natural light emitted from a flickering candle you lit and placed in front of the screen. I look for you in the shadows. I can only make out the black couch and the scattered stars rotating on your ceiling, cascading over your living room in a green and blue galaxy-like dust projected from your favorite galaxy mood lamp. Then I hear the soft snores coming through my ear. You fell asleep. You're lying on the couch but out of the video lens. The candle you have lit burns next to the screen; it sounds like a tiny crackling fireplace. It's peaceful. If I could, I'd stay and fall asleep right next to you. 

It's now 11:25. Again, I am late. We'll talk next time. 

At work later on I get a message from you:

Lol, is it morning?! I still need to sleep more :) I'm still sleepy

I reply back.

Oh, look who woke up, sleepyhead >.< :) 

—-------------------------------------------

The library life is fantastically eventful. Only three or four patrons scour the dust and book-filled shelves and sit behind the only two available public computers in the corner. As I assist a patron with the printer, I ponder whether my English degree was a worthwhile investment. Meanwhile, I sneak glances at my phone hidden under the counter, eagerly anticipating a message from you. Although you're probably still sleeping in your beer coma. I shut my phone off. As I listen to an elderly man scold my coworker for not putting up the closed sign on our holiday Monday last week, my mind wanders into a daydream. I imagine you waking up to the warm midday sun with your hair tousled and your lips slightly swollen from a deep sleep, only to discover that your video is still on. I laugh lightly to myself. You'll probably be famished once you wake up. 

I count the hours, I count the minutes, I watch old videos of you and your friends playing games of UNO and Jenga while I take phone calls that blur into one another. "No, this is not the Law Library," "Yes, you need a library card for that," "No, I cannot provide that." But it's not enough. 

When I get home, I tell myself to search for new jobs. My part-time job doesn't pay me nearly enough to support me. Nor the occasional concert ticket. I fight the urge to check Instagram to see what you've been up to. I remind myself not to live vicariously through you, to not become too intertwined in your life. Holding onto my pink bunny plushie, I recite this mantra and open my computer only to see a collage of our pictures I made last month and set as my wallpaper, with your face in it. I fail. 

I know you haven't posted anything, that's not unusual for you, but when I search your name, I can't find you. There are countless accounts with your exact name, but I don't see that familiar black-and-white silhouette profile picture. I check all the letters of your name. I spelled it correctly. Do I need to remember the underline? I type "J, U, N," but it doesn't appear. I check your messages from today. Could I have missed something while at work? I discover there's one message unread:

I left Instagram. I just erased it because I never used it. I don't think I'll use it in the future just letting you know :)

Oh. Well, at least I have your pictures saved. I close the app. I really need to get a life, I think to myself. But where would I start? 

I think back to the day I first saw you. My best friend invited me to her house one day; she had been trying to introduce me to you and your friends for months, stating you were the next big thing. She said you all sang and harbored immense talent, but she said your voice specifically was one of pure magic. I could care less, but she asserted that I had to see you; actually, she said, "You have to see his friend. He's so beautiful!." Your friend was more handsome, I'll admit. The first of your friend group to catch my eye and all the other girl's eyes, I'm sure. Initially, he appeared distant and aloof, resembling a stunning yet frigid sculpture. However, as the night progressed, I learned he was quite warm and open. Nevertheless, I took one long look at his marble form and let my eyes flit elsewhere. They fell on, what I come to know, as your more responsible friend. This one seemed most intuned with my usual type. Kind and intelligent and just a bit of a goofball. I sometimes imagine if you weren't there that day how we would be married by now, on our second child. Naming our second son Indigo. But I'd never tell you that. 

I'd like to say I didn't see you first; instead, I heard you first. This doesn't make sense because sitting next to your friends, you were the more reserved of the group. The kind to watch things play out before acting. Shy, but not around those close to you. Your hair was cut short around your face, dyed a light brown, and straight. You had a constant Duchenne smile which made you appear innocent but a little mischievous. You definitely were noticed.

When a karaoke session began, I watched as you went up for a rendition of Memory of the Wind by the singer Naul, right after your kind, intelligent friend had just jokingly butchered it. We laughed along with him at his self-deprecating humor; however, this suddenly broke off at the first sound of your voice. I was entranced. To this day, that song remains my favorite because you sang it. Even against the muffled mic defects in your 10-dollar karaoke microphone, your voice was clear and powerful, warm and comforting. Even your friend's laughter had abruptly paused as they sat and listened, even though I'm sure they'd heard it a hundred times before me. You were not just a noticeable boy anymore. You took the stage, the forefront. You became the glittering star. The crowd you made gather around you could not look away. And neither could I. 

I still can't. 

You were born to be a singer. Nobody that ever met you would ever question it. I was not surprised in the least when your talent was noticed by a large entertainment company too. I supported you from the sidelines and became one of your fans as you climbed to the top. I was ok in my little part of the world as you discovered and conquered the whole of yours. And you stayed humble, always coming back to me at the end of the day. You really loved me. You had never failed to say it every day. But calls got shorter, and the days got lonelier. What was I to expect? You were living your life; I needed to live mine. 

You told me on a video call one day to prioritize my life and be happy even if you were not with me. You cried that day. You were drunk again. You were sitting at your dinner table with a white beanie and black hair underneath, curling against your neck. Were you leaving me? Was this the end? No, no, you were my only priority. You made me happy. I needed you. Nothing else mattered. 

My friend, the one who introduced me to you in the first place, told me you were right. I needed to move on. I was becoming too "obsessed" with you, she said. But she didn't understand. We had something special. You loved me, and I loved you. We relied on each other. But I yielded to her concern and put on my best fake smile. So I went to college for five years and got that degree I'm still not sure I wanted or needed. I spent day after day writing, reading, writing. You went to the White House and shook hands with the President, targeting social issues, spending day after day singing, traveling, and winning. I heard a rumor you dated that famous singer with flawless skin, the pixy nose, the one with Bambi's eyes. Her songs are almost as mesmerizing as your voice. I can see why you picked her.  

Over time, I have come to accept the bitter truth that your life is beyond my reach. Your life appears to be a constant display of vibrant purples and shimmering blues, like an endless fireworks show. You have found what you love, nurtured your talent, and let it flourish into beautiful roses. Giving one to each person whose lucky enough to receive one. I would like to take a little bit of your magic and sprinkle some overhead as well. Maybe some tulips might grow instead of these weeds. 

I want to prove that although we may be far apart, our love for each other remains strong. I know I am your biggest supporter. If given a chance, I could make you happy and wipe away any tears that fall. I've known you for so long. Our friendship, our love, can overcome anything.

—--------------------------------

I find myself standing at your doorstep, outside your hotel room. I had heard that you were in town, and although I know you value your privacy, I remember you mentioning that you wished we could all meet up in person instead of just chatting online. Maybe now is the right time for that. That day could be today. I took off the weekend from work to see you and be here for you. You seem so down lately, I had to come cheer you up. So here I am, food in tow, with your favorites, sweet bread, and strawberry milk. 

A friend on Instagram told me you were staying here. I hope she's right. I even bought a room beneath the floor you're supposed to be staying on. It's 10 p.m. right now. Tomorrow is your 24th concert, but I'm sure you're awake, considering your video calls are always past 12 p.m. I waited until this floor was clear because I didn't want any distractions; I'm already nervous. 

Room 284. I knock on the door twice. I stand there for a minute or two, with no answer, before I hear footsteps coming down the hall. 

I panic. 

I drop the food in front of your door and sprint down the opposite direction of the hall, pushing through the emergency exit doors as I race down the three flights of stairwells and throw myself through the lobby stairwell entrance. I fly through the lobby, boots hitting against the red and beige patterned carpet until I pass the hotel bellhops with puzzled looks on their faces and set off down the sidewalk at full speed, my heart in my throat, and possibly the dinner I had three hours ago. 

—---------------------------

"Did you see Jun-sang's Weverse post?"

My boba drink is grasped tightly as I suddenly hear the name. I look up from my phone to find my friend staring at her phone across the table with a disturbed look. My palms suddenly feel sweaty. 

"No, why?" My voice sounds calm enough. 

"Those sasaengs are at it again." She rolls her eyes and hands her phone to me. I read the post for the second–first time. 

Jun-sang: Please don't send me delivery food. I'm thankful for your concern, but I won't eat it even if you send it over. I'm serious. Stop. If I get sent food one more time, I will check the receipt number and take further action to stop this. End it beforehand. 

My throat is dry. I can't form words, so I look up at my friend and widen my eyes in a dramatic expression of surprise. 

"I know, right?" She states, grabbing her phone. "That would have been you five years ago, too," she jokingly bursts out laughing, resuming her scroll through Weverse. I laugh nervously with her and sip my boba tea to keep myself busy. "Have you seen his recent lives?" she continues, "He seems a bit sad lately, but his lives look like so much fun. I heard he got drunk and fell asleep with the live still going the other day! Did you watch it? I just saw some clips on Instagram." I shake my head vigorously, mouth full of milk tea as I chew the boba slowly. 

"Oh wow, you've really changed since your Z2M phase. I still remember when I showed you that video of their group singing karaoke at my house 5 or 6 years ago. I was so in love with Tae-hwan. And you were so obsessed with Jun-sang. I could tell you were hooked as soon as you heard his voice. All I heard for the next year after that was how great he was. That's all you ever talked about!" My friend begins to laugh hysterically across the table as she relives our old memories. I stay silent. 

When her laughter finally dies down, she looks at me again, quiet for a moment. "I'm pretty sure you were their biggest fan," she giggles. "I had to force you to get out of your room and off that computer. I mean, your still a fan, right?"

As I gaze at the tablecloth adorned with purple and white flowers, I run my fingernail along the curves of the stitching. I glance up to see her curious expression. 

"I mean, not so much. I'm not really a fan anymore."