The light from my laptop flickered, but my thoughts had already strayed—back to him. It had been a few days since the concert, and he still wouldn't let me go. That look haunted me, even in my dreams. As the screen shifted into sleep mode, my fingers hovered above the keyboard. Slowly, almost hesitantly, I typed his name into the search bar. Restless—that was probably the word that best described my state. Just a quick glance, I told myself. Nothing more than curiosity, I kept insisting. But I knew it was more. So much more. A need was growing inside me—to close the gap between the stage, that man, and me.
The results flooded my screen. Pictures, videos, interviews, fandom chatter, social media accounts. An endless stream of information meant to make you feel close to someone. But something felt off. This version of him—it was too smooth, too perfect, too flawless. I wanted more. I wanted to take that flawless image and shatter it. Find out what drove him. What were his fears? His dreams? Or had he long since died on the inside? Just a mask now—flawless and immovable. Our conversation replayed in my mind. No. There was more. That coldness. That arrogance. That dominance. What I wouldn't give to wipe it from his face, just to see what was underneath, even for a fleeting second.
I felt it again—this dark part of me stirring. He had awakened it without even knowing. It had always been there, dormant. Until now, no one had been worthy enough to interrupt its sleep. No one. Until him. I clicked on one of his accounts. Went through the photos, one by one. A smile that made millions swoon, stole hearts—yet to me, it looked calculated. Mechanical. Nothing about him felt real. More pictures. Always the same. No cracks, no slips. Then I leaned back in my chair. A group photo. His eyes weren't looking at the camera, but off to the side. Toward something outside the frame. His expression—indecipherable. A tiny fracture in the facade. For someone like me, trained to read every microexpression, it was exactly what I'd been searching for. A crack. Small. Barely visible. I zoomed in. Took a screenshot. And thought.
"Jhio..." I whispered into the silence of my room.
I found out which cities he would visit next, which hotels the band usually preferred, what restaurants they liked. It wasn't hard. In today's world, fans documented everything. Posted it in forums. Discussed it like they were tracking a rare species instead of a human being. These idols had lost their real personalities long ago. The moment they signed that deal with the devil—the ink barely dry—they vanished. Replaced. My fascination with him wasn't personal, I told myself. But the truth? It always was.
I stared at the screenshot as if I could see more. Something obvious, something invisible. That expression on his face—it spoke in a language I needed to understand. No. I had to understand. Subtle. Coded. Meant to be missed by all. My fingers moved on their own again. Gears in my mind began to turn, slowly and irreversibly. I searched for videos, interviews, anything. His voice, a melody for most, was a code I wanted to crack. Every pause in a sentence. Every sideways glance. Every unconscious tick. I saw them. Collected them. Took more screenshots. Opened a document and let it fill with unanswered questions I would one day solve.
Hours passed. The darkness outside merged with the one in my room. The fan hummed quietly—I didn't notice. I was too deep in. Then I found it. A clip. Filmed by a fan backstage. The quality was trash, the image shaky, but the content? It hit me like a drug. There he was. Jhio. Alone in a corner. His shoulders slightly slumped, his face turned away. No trace of the polished performer who had owned the stage minutes earlier. No poses. No control. My pulse quickened. That moment—it was real. A glimpse of weakness, never meant to be seen. I watched it on loop. Studied it. Fell in love with the truth that even he—was just human.
How I wanted to pull him down from that throne he ruled from. That pedestal everyone built for him. I closed the video, opened a new document and started writing. Places. Names. Locations. Lines that all pointed to one center: Him. He was a challenge like no one before. My curiosity reshaped itself. Took new form. Grew into a game. A game where I made the rules. No one had ever drawn me in like this. Nothing ever had. It was time to find out how many hits it took to shatter a flawless mask and see the skin underneath.
My phone vibrated. A message from Melissa. Something about the next tour. A chance to see him again. I read it. Felt nothing. She didn't get it. None of them did. Only I understood what really mattered. My eyes returned to the screen. Locked onto his face.
"We'll meet again," I whispered—his own words now a silent promise.
Over the next few weeks, the idea grew inside me like a seed, digging roots deep into my mind. I began printing photos, pinning them up, feeding them with every bit of information I could find. A dark whisper guided my every move. It didn't start as a plan—more like a fever that took hold of my thoughts. Korea. His home. The place where he lived. Breathed. Existed. Far from the stage. Far from the cameras. Far from the rehearsed persona the world saw.
I leaned back in my chair. My fingers still. Waiting for the signal. A search bar stood open. My breathing slowed while my heart raced. Like a predator ready to strike. Flights to Seoul. Apartment rentals. Culture. Language. I didn't know where to begin—but that had never stopped me before. Why start now? If anything, it fed my hunger.
My job? My apartment? Those forgettable faces around me? All meaningless. My current life—an outdated image. And like always, when something bored me, I'd discard it. There was nothing left for me here. But there—he was there. I made a list of what to sell, what to keep. It was short. My laptop. My documents. A few clothes. My phone. Everything else? Dead weight. Irrelevant.
It took a few days until I made the final moves—but when I did, I felt free. Awake. Ready. I canceled my lease, sold my things, sent my employer a cold, clear message: "I resign effective immediately. Please do not contact me." I didn't care what they thought. The theater had to change. The circus had to move on. The countdown began. Three weeks. Three weeks until my flight. My new apartment in Seoul—never seen in real life, only on pictures—would be ready on the same day. And then, the real game could begin.
"We'll meet again...so much sooner than you think," I whispered as I stared at the board I'd pinned all those photos and notes to.
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👣 Tuesday, she gets closer. And he has no idea. 👣