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[Sent 14:38]
Me
Got it. Becka, there was a man with a camera outside.
Becka.
Fuck. Stay there. Turn your phone off. I have your hotel number. I’ll call if I need you. Do it now.
[Sent 14:40]
I pressed the power button on my phone, unable to ignore the mounting notifications on the screen before it turned black, and with a shaky exhale, I shoved it into my pocket.
The silence in the room felt like a kind of pressure on my ears. I felt jittery, like I’d had more than the half a cup of coffee before I’d dropped it. I yanked off my jumper, and immediately regretted it when my skin chilled, goosebumps breaking out across my arms where I tried to rub them for warmth.
Being without my phone or laptop was both a relief and a kind of impotent horror. I knew Becka was right, but without the grounding distraction, my mind invented new ways to torment myself.
Had anything else been posted? Had ENT issued a response? Had Jihoon seen it?
Being offline in this wholly unfamiliar way made me want to scream because I couldn’t monitor the train crash that was happening to my life in excruciating slow motion.
My fingers twitched towards my pocket, but then I heard my dad’s voice in my head, teasing me for always being on my phone, but when I thought of my dad, a cold kind of terror stole over me. Would they go after my parents? The way they’d gone after Jihoon’s?
Oh fuck. Everyone in my life would see this. My career as a reputable journalist was over. The music journalist sleeping with the artist she had been paid to follow on tour?
Oh god, oh god.
Jihoon’s career.
His fans. Would they hate him? All the times he’d publicly denied being in a relationship – they’d call him a liar. Because of me.
I did this to him.
Weakly, I sat down on the edge of the bed, knees shaking too much to stand or continue pacing.
“Ow, fuck,” I muttered, pulling my thumb from my mouth, unaware I’d been biting my nail until I drew it out to see a line of blood where I’d ripped the skin.
I blew out a breath, shaking my thumb, trying not to see the way my hand shook.
The suite door unlocked, and my head snapped around in time to see Jihoon push it open. His eyes found mine immediately, and he crossed the room in three long strides to kneel in front of me. He was panting, out of breath, eyes wide, hair messy and falling into his flushed face, and when his hands rose to cup my cheeks, I felt them shaking against my skin.
“Jagiya,” he rasped, “are you okay? I tried to call you so many times.”
“I turned my phone off,” I tried to say, but my voice came out thin and weak. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Becka told me to turn it off.”
His brows furrowed. “Becka?”
“She’s kind of my PR manager,” I said, giggling at the absurdity, expecting him to share in the joke, but when his thumbs smeared wetness from my cheeks, he wasn’t laughing.
“Jagiya,” he murmured thickly, “I’m so sorry, please forgive me.”
Forgive him? I couldn’t think past the words, couldn’t make sense of them.
His chin trembled, and he squeezed his eyes shut. My chest ached so hard I couldn’t take a full breath.
“Tell me this does not change anything,” he stammered, fingers digging into my thighs. “Tell me we can survive this. Tell me this isn’t what ends us.”
“Joon… Joon, no. No, this isn’t your fault.”
