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I hadn’t even been for here a year. Not long enough to accumulate the things that came with making a place a home. That feeling had stayed with me for so long that I’d gotten used to it. Everything I owned could be replaced. Clothes, toiletries. They were just things. Most of my life was stored digitally. Music and movies were now streaming services. My work was stored on hard drives or the cloud. The magazines I bought for work, or pleasure, were stacked in the recycling pile. Every kitchen utensil and gadget had come with the flat. I owned so little.

Last night, I’d gone through my things, and all I’d kept thinking about was how impermanent my life was. Unbidden, my mind had replayed something Patrick had said to me the night we’d broken up.

“It’s like you’re constantly waiting on the call to go somewhere. You’re on standby.”

It had hit me so hard that I’d sat down, because he had been right.

I had tried to recall the last time I’d put down roots. My parent’s house didn’t count, and even if it had, I’d accumulated next-to-nothing while living there during lockdown. In LA, everything I’d bought had been for the apartment I’d shared with Becka. And since moving back to London a few years ago, I’d moved from one place to another during my studies, so buying stuff just hadn’t occurred to me.

That left Korea. I had come to the uncomfortable realisation that I’d accumulated so much while there that I’d come back with more suitcases than I’d travelled out with. The one I’d borrowed from Jihoon was still stored in my parent’s loft. Some things I’d had to leave with him. Like my storm cloud dress. Sometimes I wondered what he’d done with it. Gotten rid of it, most likely. The thought hurt more than I’d wanted to admit.

I hadn’t even realised how transitory my life had become, when all I’d ever wanted was to feel settled. Personally, professionally. I’d spent so long chasing that ephemeral idea of ‘purpose’, that I’d forgotten to live a life worth pausing for.

Yawning, I sat up in bed and pulled my laptop towards me, turning on the little bedside lamp.

I opened my emails and it was the first thing I saw. The thing I’d been waiting for all week.

From: ENT

Subject: Terms of limited contract.

Dear Miss Thompson,

Thank you for returning the signed Non-Disclosure Agreement.

We are pleased to provide your limited contract agreement - see attached.

Also included is the provisional tour schedule, per diem outline, and travel allowance details. Please ensure you review these.

An information pack outlining your responsibilities, deliverables during your assignment with ENT, reporting structure and behavioural expectations has also been provided for your reference.

We kindly ask that you familiarise yourself with the attached materials and confirm receipt at your earliest convenience.

Your travel from London Heathrow to Incheon has been arranged, and your flight details are included within the attached pack.

Should you have any questions, or require clarification, please respond directly to this email.

Kind regards,

Global Tour Liaison Team

ENT

The attached pack was massive. I skimmed through the tour schedule and contact information before opening the four-page outline of my specific deliverables. Concert write-ups for each leg, a ‘city-stop feature’ covering details like the venue and crowd atmosphere in each region, long-form feature articles, beginning-and end-of-tour retrospectives… My eyes widened as I scrolled further down the document.

They knew exactly what they wanted from me, and it was extensive. I had to remind myself that ENT was an enormous entertainment company. This was not their first rodeo. Unlike the K-Pop performances I’d previously been tasked with writing up, ENT knew exactly how they wanted the tour portrayed and who the audience was.

Then there was the money. ENT were covering everything from food and hotels to taxis with a generous daily allowance on top of my monthly wages. The catch was that my wages were pay-on-delivery. If I didn’t deliver the write-ups, or had to dip out of the tour for whatever reason, I didn’t get paid.

It was a risk. I’d left my salaried position at Frequency to follow GVibes around the world, and I wasn’t guaranteed a salary. I’d made this decision because I truly believed it was the best move for my career, but there was more to it than that.

I was excited. Writing about music, performers and the impact a single lyric could have on the world had given me such joy, but first and foremost, I was a fan. Following one of the most exciting, dynamic groups around the world on tour? It wasn’t just a career-topping dream, it was a personal dream. Yes, there was the undeniable fact that it had the potential to be deeply uncomfortable, but if I had to deal with a little discomfort to experience something so fulfilling… well, then I’d suck it up.

I forced my attention back to the documents, familiarising myself with the tour details. Cities, countries, a veritable phone-book of contact information for the hotels and local transportation.

My eyes began to swim, so I clicked out of it and moved onto the next package, where my eyes snagged on to a subsection titled ‘Code of Conduct’.

My eyebrows rose higher and higher the further down I read. What was disguised as corporate do’s and don’t’s was actually more like a very firm, politely-worded set of boundaries.