Page 50 of Teach Me K-Pop

Harper clearing her throat and making grabby hands in my direction gets me to tear my eyes away from the screen and give her phone back. “Yeah, she got good shots,” I agree, hoping my cheeks and ears aren’t as pink as I think they might be.

The girls continue to recall their favorite moments—screeching with laughter at Ryo and Tang’s onstage water fight and Chita being the one who caught the fall-out later, slipping and busting his ass, then swooning over winks on the big screen and kisses blown to audience members—before again proclaiming it the best night of their lives. I remember everything they’re talking about, and I can’t say anything, can’t join the conversation.

Because as far as anyone can know, I wasn’t there. I have no connection to RYSING beyond being a casual fan of their music that I was introduced to by some of my students. It feels like a preview of what the rest of my life could look like, as long as Nikko is a part of it. There will always be a separation, always be things I can’t talk about.

As much as I’m enjoying listening to them recount what seems like every second of the concert, I’m honestly kind of relieved when the bell rings and they have to go to class. The rest of the students who had been lounging around scatter as well, and I retreat to my office when I see Brenda strolling in, late, without a care in the world.

Dropping down into my ugly, old chair, I set my coffee down with a sigh. It feels like it’s been a long day already and it’s only 8 a.m. I pick my phone up to move it aside and see that I have three new messages waiting for me, all from Nikko. A picture of his room service breakfast, a selfie of him fresh out of the shower in a hotel room, and two words: Miss you.

I hate this.

??

“Noel. That dog is not a threat to you,” I try to explain for the hundredth time as she barks ferociously at a corgi in a commercial.

She growls again as the company logo flashes, but the dog is gone, so she settles back down next to me on the couch as the video we were watching resumes. I keep thinking I really need to just pay to upgrade and get the ad-free version—it would be so worth it. I’m not even entirely sure how we got to this particular compilation of RYSING reacting to themselves, but I don’t skip it because Nikko is there, right in the center, adorably covering his face every time the focus is on him.

I will take any kind of content that lets me see him right now. I need it—something, anything—to sustain me, because the days are passing, and I’m missing him in a way that I didn’t realize was possible.

It’s been almost a week since we’ve been able to talk. Their schedules are so crazy that a few text messages a day are all I’m getting. I know he’s got a job to do. I know I am only a small part of his life. But he’s become the main character of my story. And this is the part where I pine.

Nikko is on my mind literally from the moment my eyes open until they close again. I have never been this kind of enamored with someone before, and I’m finding that it’s kind of terrible. Maybe it wouldn’t be if I could be with him, if I could kiss him every time I wanted to. If I could reach out and touch him, feel him beside me. On top of me.

I can’t help the shiver that runs through me at the memory of his body pressed against mine. I’ve jerked off a ridiculous amount thinking about the sounds he made and how eager he was, imagining what could have happened next if we’d just had more time. It’s not just that, though, not being able to physically feel him and the way he wants me, but also the closeness. The intimacy of being able to hold him. Of just knowing he’sthere, and he’s real, and almost, maybe, could have beenmine.

Noel sighs like she’s exasperated when she gets jostled as I try to settle back down, and it makes me chuckle a little. “Same, tiny dog, same.”

Two videos later—a behind-the-scenes of a shoot for a fashion magazine the group did last year and a segment from a very chaotic Korean variety show—I get a text with a picture of Nikko taking a comically large bite out of a very messy burger. “Eating well,” the message says. I’m glad to know that he is getting a break and having a good meal, but fuck, I wish he could call. I still save the picture in my newly acquired, password-protected photo vault, hoarding everything I get like a desperate, digital dragon.

“Looks delicious!” I reply, and I mean both himandthe sandwich. I know it’s a pretty lame response, but I just feel kind of mopey about everything, and that’s all I’ve got. I do lean over, though, getting close enough to snap a selfie with Noel and send that to him.

Immediately, I see “my faves!” and several heart eye emojis appear on the screen, and somehow that just makes things worse.

??

“Got time for a call soon?” I hit send on the message to Kija and drop my phone on the counter, making a half-hearted attempt to mentally talk myself out of grabbing the bottle of soju I have in the fridge. I don’t even particularly like soju, but I’d seen it at the store earlier and couldn’t resist the Korean connection.

I get a ping back much quicker than I expected and see that he’s said to give him a few to get back to his hotel room and he’ll call. I have no idea where in the world he is right now, since our conversations have been as few and far between as mine and Nikko’s.

Passing on the soju in favor of green juice I guilt-bought, I toss Noel a chewy treat and drop down into a chair at the kitchen table to wait for Kija. Of course, I end up scrolling through the shots of me and Nikko on my phone—an automatic habit at this point. I stop on one of the selfies we took and, for some reason, send it zipping off to Kija. He might as well know where my head is and what he’s getting into before he talks to me.

A moment later, his name is lighting up my screen. “Hey.”

Kija snorts. “You send me a picture straight out of a romantic comedy and start the conversation with ‘hey’?”

“It’s a valid greeting,” I argue, having some regrets about sharing the photo.

“Hmm.” He just hums, his way of both acknowledging and dismissing my comment at the same time.

“So, where are you?” I ask. I know he’ll start asking questions soon enough, and I want to catch up on his life first.

There’s a noise that sounds like a suitcase unzipping. “Madrid, at the moment. But I feel like I’ve been everywhere the past few weeks.”

“All work?” I take a sip of the juice and wrinkle my nose. It has to be healthy, it tastes like grass.

“Yes,” he sighs, like he’s tired. “Work and drama. I have spent all day every day surrounded by five teenage girls for the last two weeks, and they’re somehow less problematic than this actress I went ononeless-than-great date with. She’s the drama. Not the girls in the group. Not even the company.”

I laugh, because his life always sounds like something out of the plot of a soap opera. “Would I know this actress?”

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