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The girl had been polite, if a little intense. Being recognised wasn’t the thing that was bothering me, though that had been surreal. The thing that had kept me up last night was the casual way she’d spoken about how total strangers scrutinised photos to figure out where celebrities lived.

And somehow, a nondescript balcony photo I’d posted years ago had put me in the conversation.

I shuddered, despite the almost-uncomfortably warm day.

I walked through the park, just another anonymous person in a city of nine million, and no one cared who I was. No one stopped to pull out their phone and record me. I wore sunglasses and a cap to protect myself from the sun, not from the curious gaze of strangers. This was normal life, and today, I could not stop thinking about how, if I’d taken Jihoon up on his offer last year – in an alternate reality where we went public as a couple – that maybe I wouldn’t be able to do this anymore. Not because anyone would care about me, but because of who my boyfriend was.

While celebrities may have chosen that life, the people closest to them had not. Most people existed on the peripheral. They didn’t get security details. They had jobs and lives. They did the weekly shop, walked the dog, took the kids to school.

Or they gave up their entire life because they happened to love a person who was considered public property.

It went round and round in my head, a broken roller-coaster of a concept I could barely wrap my head around: that the way he and the other members lived might even now be my new ‘normal’.

Except the way they lived wasn’t normal.

And could it be something I could live with?

A little while later, I was sat outside a little bistro enjoying a pistachio croissant in the shade, when a notification popped up on my phone. A reminder to check my PO Box while I was back in London. The innocuous calendar entry also reminded me of something I’d completely forgotten about.

The letter I had sent in December. The letter to Ryo’s family. My… my paternal family.

The realisation sent my heart into staccato thuds because it had been months and months. Surely long enough for any kind of response. I struggled to swallow the bite of croissant I’d just put in my mouth – it seemed to have turned into sand, and I tried to flush it down with a gulp of coffee as my brain raced for a plan.

My PO Box was registered all the way on the other side of the city. I peered down at my watch. Rush hour in the middle of July. I groaned. It was easily an hour on the Underground, but I was in London now, and I didn’t know when I’d be back.

Wiping my mouth with a napkin, I stood up so quickly I rattled my mug on the table as my hip jostled it before turning and walking quickly to the nearest station for the Piccadilly line

Hours later

Joon

Why are you not at the restaurant?

[Sent 21:08]

Joon

Are you sick?

[Sent 21:22]

Joon

Kaiya?

[Sent 21:59]

I looked down at the notifications on my phone, but I didn’t move to pick it up.

I hadn’t gone to the team meal.

I’d gotten back to the hotel after the minibus had collected everyone. I probably could have made my own way to the restaurant, but I hadn’t wanted to. Hadn’t wanted to be around people. Hadn’t had an appetite.

Instead, I’d had a shower and changed into my pyjamas. It hadn’t helped, but it had passed the time

I was staring out the window at the never-quiet streets of London when a knock came at my door. I twisted round, startled. After a moment’s hesitation, I crossed the room to open the door, and somehow I wasn’t surprised to see him standing there. At some point, I’d stopped being surprised by him seeking me out.

“Shouldn’t you be at the restaurant?” I asked.