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inspired-by-the-music · 3 years

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For You: Stand By Me

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Recommended Reading: For You: 4 O’Clock; these works have separate, independent, but deeply interwoven timelines.

Chapter 5: The Boy Who Said ‘Always’

Lei’s POV

Thirteen is a landmark age for everybody, I think. When I was thirteen, my life took off in a positive direction, but there were some drawbacks.

Sehun finally made his debut as an idol, attracting the attention and admiration that he always deserved. This wasn’t such a bad thing in itself, but I had seen less and less of him in the weeks leading up to his debut, and I almost stopped seeing him altogether once he was officially a member of EXO. It was a little sad, only being able to see him from the opposite side of a screen when he had been before my eyes for all those years, but I was happy that his dreams were being realized.

Maybe missing him would have been more crippling had I not been so busy with my own projects. Every morning, Amber and I sprinted through the halls of studios downtown to catch idols for interviews before their promotional stages. By the afternoon, I was back in the training studio with people closer to me in age and experience, working toward our shared goal of becoming real idols too.

Why I Experienced A Surge In Happiness At Thirteen:

I spent most of my time with Amber, who I admired deeply.

Speaking to such a vast collection of idols every morning taught me what I was training for: the opportunity to entertain others and express myself through art.

Johnny, Mark, and many of the others who would go on to form NCT took me under their wing on co-ed days.

Joy looked out for me on girls’ training days.

With Johnny, Mark, the rest of NCT, and Joy on my side, the mean girls were much less vocal in their bullying.

I know that this is kind of silly since I swear I believed Sehun when he taught me that others’ approval (or disapproval) didn’t define me, but I remember smiling from ear to ear when Amber showed me all of the supportive comments from people who called themselves my fans just from watching me interview idols with her. So many people cheered for me even though I hadn’t debuted or shown any hint of talent yet.

Even then, it occurred to me that Amber had carefully combed through all of the comments only to show me the uplifting messages, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to dwell on criticisms that I couldn’t see— especially not when she had gone to such lengths to inspire me. Besides, having just been freed from my braces, I embraced almost every opportunity to smile and boast my lack of a gap.

Those days weren’t necessarily easy or perfect, but they were simpler (at least in part) because I did not yet have to manage my image on social media. In my dealings with the public, I followed Amber’s lead and trusted that everything would work out. Now that I am older and I better understand those responsibilities, I hope that I wasn’t a burden to her.

The thing is, Amber never treated me like a burden. In many ways, she almost acted as if we were equal— as if she didn’t outrank me in age and experience in the industry. Still, she was responsible, protective, and considerate of me, all without ever boasting about what she did for me. Those days of following her lead shaped me more than I can ever explain.

If you imagine the perfect older sister, I promise that Amber was better in every way. She proved that every day and especially when we went to Japan for the S.M. showcase and she coordinated that belated surprise for my birthday.

Because that week in Japan marked my first break from training since I started a year prior, the trip was something like a vacation for me. My only responsibility was to help Amber vlog backstage. Once I was done with that, I reported to Super Junior’s dressing room, where Mom had set up a big screen for me to watch all of the performances without getting in anybody’s way.

I was alone, but I had long since learned to entertain myself. When a song I especially liked played through the speakers (spoiler: being first and foremost S.M. trash, I liked every song), I would set my popcorn down at my feet to stand and emulate the choreography while singing along.

Suffice it to say, then, that I was having the time of my life before the morning Amber tiptoed into my hotel room to tug me out of bed before the sun had emerged from its place tucked behind the clouds.

I knew that we were going somewhere special when she gave me a gift bag containing a pair of bubble gum pink overalls. To avoid waking Mom, who was sprawled out and snoring into her pillow, Amber whispered, “Happy Late Birthday! Hurry up and change into that. They’re waiting for us downstairs.”

Amber had been careful not to name who was waiting for us downstairs, but I wouldn’t have believed her if she had. Never in a million years would I have dreamed of meeting Key and Minho in the hotel lobby. They stood, bickering, by the front doors.

I guess Amber wasn’t expecting to see Key either. Furrowing her brows at him, she demanded, “What are you doing here?”

Key scoffed, “Good morning to you too,” but I caught the ghost of a dimple in his left cheek and figured that he was one of many who had a thing for Amber.

She seemed a little oblivious, wrinkling her forehead as she crossed her arms. “Where is Taemin?”

“Yeah.” Minho hurled fire at Key with his eyes as he repeated, “Where is Taemin?”

Key shrugged. “Fast asleep, I guess.” And Minho rolled his eyes.

My face, red enough from being so close to members of my all-time favorite group, darkened with the repeated references to Taemin, who must have been my ultimate bias. I breathed, heart pounding as I was trapped somewhere between relief and disappointment at the realization that he wouldn’t be joining us.

Too overwhelmed by Key and Minho and Taemin’s mere name, I didn’t even notice that Sehun was standing in a darkened corner until he said, “It looks like it’s going to rain soon. Shouldn’t we try to beat the rain?”

Something I can’t understand washed over me. Never in the years of knowing Sehun had I ever embraced him before, so I don’t know what I was thinking when I ran to him and threw my arms around his waist. It couldn’t have lasted for more than a second. As soon as I realized what I was doing, I released him, blushing harder than I had in my entire life.

Thankfully, Key and Minho were too focused on Amber (who was too busy trying to figure out where Taemin was) to witness my utter humiliation. The only witness was Sehun, who only blinked at me. A corner of his lips flicked upward as he waved. “Hi.”

He must have been in a good mood that day. When I finally gathered the courage to meet his gaze, he wasn’t glaring at me. Maybe because I was embarrassed enough without his lecture, he didn’t bother to correct my behavior.

I imitated his tiny smile and waved back. “Hi.”

And then I felt it all at once: how much I missed our everyday interactions— that I was no longer the only one who thought he was the most handsome person— that while I had naturally memorized his every word and every expression, while I had appreciated our every scattered moment, something about Sehun was past tense.

And I had never known to prepare myself for the feeling that I was saying goodbye to something that I couldn’t name but loved nonetheless. I probably couldn’t have prepared myself anyway, and I wouldn’t have wanted to risk ruining the days that are now memories by anticipating the end, but I was so caught off guard by the influx of emotions at the sight of Sehun that (all day) I struggled to catch my breath.

I couldn’t quite hear Minho tattle to Amber that Key had stolen Taemin’s ticket to Sanrio Puroland— I couldn’t quite smile about the surprise destination or mourn the missed opportunity to meet my ultimate idol— over the screaming thought that they were slipping away — or maybe (deep down I knew) they were already gone: the days of sitting by Sehun’s side.

It’s sad that so many details of what could have been our last golden day are lost in my memory. Even as I sit here, trying to dust off the memories off with my pen, all I can recover is the all-consuming fear that I was losing him who was never mine.

There is something sad about the passive love I had for Sehun. No matter how we changed, no matter how many days passed, no matter how the trees and flowers wilted and blossomed, come rain or shine, whether we spoke every day or never again, I would always want to see him just one more time. Always, even if one of us should try to strike it dead, even if one of us should try to forget, my one hope would be to see him happy.

The sad part is: I never willingly gave him my heart. Sehun had it from the moment we met. While something about that is very sweet and childlike and beautiful, it is cruelly unfair. Had my heart ever been mine to give, I probably would have given it to him anyway, but that’s not the point.

I read once that you don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I never got a say in who hurt me. If I had gotten a say in who hurt me, though, I probably still would have chosen Sehun. Like that book said, I probably would have liked my choice.

Anyway, here is what I remember. Here is what I can never forget:

Minho and Key, in their competition for Amber’s attention, had trampled on Sehun’s last nerve, so he wordlessly gestured me away from the group, toward a cotton candy stand.

Nobody noticed the almost childlike smile that grew on his face as he asked, “You like the little bunny, right?” He pointed to bright pink cotton candy shaped in My Melody’s image, and I nodded, too stunned that he remembered my favorite Sanrio character to speak.

When you love somebody the way I loved Sehun, you imagine that there is some deep significance to everything they say and do. Maybe that’s foolish. Or maybe something perceived or imagined is somehow real too. I don’t know.

Even on the most superficial level, I appreciated the smile he concealed behind the tall cotton candy before he entrusted it to me.

Chest heavy and aching for reasons even his apparent happiness couldn’t drive away— wondering if it was normal to want to cry even in the presence of someone who makes your heart flutter— wondering how it was possible to miss somebody right in front of me, right in arm’s reach— I started to say that the candy was too cute to eat.

Then, feeling like that was a weird thing to say, I decided to ask Sehun to take a picture so I could remember this moment later when my thoughts weren’t quite so bitter and only sweetness remained, but I never got the chance.

Dark storm clouds rolled in overhead and spilled cold rain on us without warning. By the time Sehun pulled me under some pastel pink and blue umbrella, much of the candy had dissolved into a shapeless pink blob.

“Sorry,” Sehun muttered as if he had caused the rain. He held his hand out, and I don’t think I would have given him the spoiled candy had I known that he would toss it into the trash bin without hesitation. He promised my devastated expression, “I’ll buy you another one once the rain lets up.”

Frowning, but not quite on the verge of tears, I mumbled, “I didn’t even get to take a picture.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “What a weird thing to say. You were never meant to photograph it. You should be whining, ‘I didn’t get to take a single bite.’”

I said, “People mourn tragedies differently, Sehun,” and I know he wanted to laugh at my dramatic reaction, but he was kind enough to bite back his snickers. And although I had forbidden myself from saying so, when I glanced over at him, and my heart tremored, I blurted, “I miss you.”

Again, he remarked, “What a weird thing to say.” Often when we spoke, Sehun looked away from me, toward something in the distance, but he had been eyeing me strangely since I hugged him in the hotel lobby. I always regretted hugging him. “How can you miss me when I’m standing right beside you?”

Why couldn’t he ever just accept how I felt? Always, always, always, I was embarrassed after revealing my feelings to him, but no shame was ever enough to remind me to bite my tongue. Something about him always compelled me toward honesty.

My face flushed, and I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re just not the same person you used to be.” Sehun grunted as if I had knocked the breath out of him, but I knew that I wasn’t strong enough to do that, especially not with words. “Maybe I loved—”

I hadn’t meant to say that. I meant to say ‘liked,’ but ‘loved’ came out of my mouth instead. I carried on as if I had made no mistake (and maybe I hadn’t), “— who you were as a trainee, and now—”

Why had I said anything at all? I made no sense. My gaze fell somewhere around my feet, somewhere in a shallow puddle. “Well, we never really were equals, huh?”

“I’m not different,” Sehun claimed instantly as if he somehow understood my gibberish.

I argued, “I’m not saying that you tried to change. You just have because that’s what people do.”

“Not me.” I watched Sehun shake his head, but I didn’t look too closely at his face. “And not you either. I’m still me, and you’re still you, so I don’t know why you’re so upset.”

“You really don’t think I’ve changed at all since we met?” I don’t know what I expected. I had always suspected that Sehun would only see me as the nine-year-old he met by the vending machine, but I was somehow disappointed.

Fidgeting under my skeptical stare, Sehun conceded, “Well, obviously some things are different. You’re older and taller. You sound a little different. You don’t look at things with little stars in your eyes anymore, and you don’t walk with your head down like you did last year, but—” He rolled his eyes when I raised my eyebrows to say ‘I told you so,’ — “what matters hasn’t changed.”

Because I didn’t know, I asked, “What matters?”

Sehun shook his head, finally looking away from me as he stuffed his fists into his pockets. “If you don’t know, there’s no point in telling you.” His voice, usually so calm and collected, burned me. I gasped at his temper, and he swallowed his frustration to say, “Words can’t convince anybody that you care about them.”

My jaw dropped. “You care about me?” The answer must have been obvious from the way Sehun cut his eyes at me.

When my cheeks turned red and I looked away, he quietly said, “I don’t like saying these things, Lei, so you’re going to have to put two and two together to realize that I’m always going to look out for you.” I didn’t think it was possible, but his voice dropped even lower when he breathed, “You’re going to have to realize for yourself that it hurts my feelings when you accuse me of changing.”

I almost choked on the humid air. “Your feelings?”

He frowned at my reaction, a thin line forming between his eyebrows as he drew them together. “Yes. I have them too, you know, even if I don’t spill them everywhere.”

Apparently, I had accidentally touched some nerve, but I didn’t think that justified Sehun’s harsh words. “I don’t spill my feelings everywhere.”

I glared at him, thinking that I would have apologized for hurting his feelings if he hadn’t set out to hurt mine too. “I only spill them to you because—” He gave me that warning stare, but I wasn’t going to say anything bad, so I frowned at him for always expecting the worst from me— “I trust you.”

Sehun seemed surprised that I could admit something so nice in the midst of what had become an argument. His eyes widened, and his expression softened as he reminded, “You shouldn’t trust boys.”

Almost teasingly, I lied, “I don’t really see you as a boy, though.” Sehun snorted, so I maintained, donning my most solemn expression, “Really, I don’t! I see you as more of a guardian angel.” Even when he was mean for the briefest second, I only thought good things about him.

“A guardian angel?” Sehun repeated, chewing on his grin. “I should warn you that the more you expect from somebody, the likelier they are to disappoint you— even if they really don’t want to.”

“You can’t disappoint me,” I said, “because I don’t expect anything from you.” Even while living in the moment, I knew that Sehun didn’t believe me, but I promised anyway, “I won’t get mad at you even if you get tired of looking out for me. I get that most people don’t mean words like ‘always’ and ‘forever’ and ‘never.’”

“I wish you didn’t know that,” Sehun said so quickly that I almost thought I imagined is voice. “I mean those words when I say them, though.”

That was the first time that I didn’t believe him wholeheartedly even though I wanted to. I didn’t think that Sehun was purposely lying or anything; I just think that some words are too big— too infinite— for people to understand well enough to use truthfully. It’s an accidental dishonesty. It’s enough that somebody wants it to be true. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

“Okay.” I nodded as if that would bridge my unbelief and the growing ever-present distance between us that he couldn’t feel yet, that he would probably (hopefully) never feel.

With nothing left to say, we stood together under the umbrella, waiting for the storm to pass so we could step back out into the day, but it rained for as long as I can remember. It rained even on the way home.

Yes, I’m still sad that I didn’t get a picture of that moment when I held the cotton candy in those seconds before the storm, but I think it’s sadder that I don’t have a single picture of Sehun from those days. I guess I should take comfort in the fact that the details still haven’t been forgotten; maybe that means they never will be.

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