Illustration by Christina Tran
Andrew and I agreed to meet at the GS25 near arrivals. He smiled when he saw me and asked if I needed help wheeling my single piece of luggage: a Rimowa carry-on. I helped him feel helpful, and he said something about catching the express train. We walked through the airport with our hands not quite touching, navigating the maze of marble flooring and forensic, morgue-like underpasses that never connected, eventually finding the station.
Sitting on the heated blue seat, I carefully positioned myself toward him to better inspect his side profile.
You wouldn’t have preferred a car? I said.
He smiled, and through an overhead speaker, a woman announced that the doors were closing.
No, he said—peak hour.
His face looked different in person, more angular, and I could tell he was wearing foundation.
I like how you’ve done your hair, I lied. He’d coiffed it in this very Korean way.
Did you do that for me?
He looked off to the side, seemingly abashed. A chime rang out, and the woman announced the incoming station.
Only this once. You aren’t tired, are you?
I shook my head. There was only a two-hour time difference between Sydney and Seoul, and I had slept on the plane.
As we sat in silence, watching the LED light on the station map travel towards our stop, Hongik University, I thought about how strange it was to meet Andrew. Until then, our conversations had consisted primarily of short video calls, and yet a stranger might have mistaken us as brothers, even lovers, seated in such proximity as we were, our shoulders pressed together lightly.
I felt a buzz in my pocket: a text from my manager, Tessa. I swiped the notification, unlocked my phone and downloaded the attached file. The file contained ten retouched photos, the post I would publish later that day. We aimed for three posts per week, two personal and one sponsored, but the flight had thrown off balance, and I was one post behind.
The photos had been taken earlier that week in various inaccessible places — an airport lounge, a hotel bathroom. I inspected them individually, zooming into different parts of myself, assessing plausibility and presentation. I felt something between shame and satisfaction whenever I recognized what parts had been touched. I never said it aloud, but it seemed embarrassing that I always knew where to look.
Andrew covered my phone screen with his hand.
Jalsaeng-gyeosseo, he said. You look handsome.
I didn’t need his approval, but I nodded anyway. My looks were the only thing I had on him, and even then, the gap was marginal. Andrew was attractive, but he’d had work done. I was almost sure of it. You could catch it sometimes when he looked up, the mark from his rhinoplasty, a sickle-shaped scar in the space between his nostrils.
It was hard to take Andrew seriously, not just because of the surgery. Some people are incapable of being taken seriously. The day his DM came through, I was in my living room with Tessa, and we laughed about it together.
‘Heyyy’ it read. ‘Luv the pics. U in Seoul?’
I didn’t know Andrew at the time, and I’d never heard of his group, LOV3STAR, but from his account, I surmised that he existed closer to fame than I did. When I searched his name online, I found that the group had once been popular and successful, even in the years before the members had enlisted. There were other details, of course: his dating scandals, the disbandment, and the company filing for bankruptcy, but I didn’t care to learn about his past. I knew next to nothing about K-Pop and wasn’t fascinated by it in the way others were. I didn’t say it, nobody did, but I hated how feminine the guys acted.
I was about to archive the message when she stopped me.
Wait, Tessa said. Don’t you think there’s potential?
For what, I said, although already I knew what she was referring to.
There was something more significant to gain from a relationship with Andrew besides money and a willing cock. We were both Korean, at least ethnically speaking, and so the kinds of people in our comment sections – acned fanfiction-writing teenagers, latent homosexuals – mostly aligned. For this reason, I intuited that our audiences, when compounded, would attract significant attention, brand deals, and the press.
I didn’t expect to be flown out and the truth was I could’ve paid for it myself. But then, if I was honest, there was something about being doted on that I found enticing, the idea that I could grab hold of his desire and state it.
Our train slowed, and the chime rang out again. At last, our stop. We stood up and made our way toward the opening doors. Over the announcement, Andrew explained that we would drop my bags off at his apartment, then walk to a galbijip near the train station. I wasn’t in the mood for a barbecue, but I let him believe I was happy.
The apartment was large and well-fitted. The walls were sleek and off-white, and the bathroom soap was the fancy one from Aesop. The windows were fancy too, floor-to-ceiling and south-facing, and extended across the entire far side of the apartment. I realized we weren’t very high when I peered through the glass. The view was relatively paltry. There were no skyscrapers, bright lights, or blinking signs. There was only the grey sky and the sidewalk, an anemic strip of bitumen pockmarked by sewer grates and pocha tents.
It’ll be cold, Andrew yelled out from the bathroom. You should borrow something.
Yeah, do you mind?
He emerged from the bathroom holding a small compact, a cushion foundation.
Course not. Can you hold this a sec?
He handed me the compact, which I tucked into my jeans pocket.
Andrew returned with a black Arc’teryx puffer coat.
I have this, but it might drown you, he said.
That was unlikely; we were only an inch apart. I put the coat on, testing one arm, then the other.
Thanks, I said. You didn’t have to pay for this, did you?
He laughed.
No, he said. It was a gift from my publicist.
Andrew liked to do that and reference his employees. I don’t know if it was a power move, but he often referred to them as his team. Let me ask my team what he said when I asked him to pay for the flight. That put me off a little, the posturing. Andrew had no responsibilities, no obligations. His company contract was void; it had been since the disbandment, and he was allowed to be out to date other men.
A gift, I said. You must be famous or something.
He shrugged, walked to the kitchen and placed a glass beneath a water dispensing machine.
Not especially. Being famous sounds fucking awful.
He was trying to be self-effacing, but it came across as ignorant. This happened sometimes: Andrew would say something obnoxious, and in an instant, any attraction I felt would fail.
I’m not sure if you’re being serious, I said, but I hope you aren’t.
He raised the glass to his lips and then drank.
Did I say something wrong? he said.
He wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve, then swallowed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing lightly in his throat.
I suppose, I said, it’s just a privileged thing to say.
He looked down at the floor, then up, remaining silent. The air was still. Eventually, he cleared his throat and muttered about the time and how late it was getting. It started snowing, and I saw white flecks gathering in the window corners. The compact was still in my pocket. I could have returned it, but it seemed foolish, even impossible, to do that now. The exchange had already ended.
The galbi-jip was like most things in Seoul: overpriced and overcrowded. When we arrived, we were escorted to an empty table toward the back of the restaurant by an ajumma wearing a butcher’s apron. The table was separated from the main eating area by a large, semi-transparent divider whose purpose remained unclear. It didn’t serve the same function as other dividers, like the ones they placed between urinals to make you feel less seen. If anything, it made our separation seem more apparent.
What’s this doing here? I said. I shook it slightly to see if it would budge. It didn’t.
Just a precaution, he replied.
That was the first time Andrew acknowledged the danger associated with his being known. I say danger, but to be clear, nothing genuinely terrible could have ever happened. He wasn’t famous enough for that.
Are you scared of fans or something?
I was yelling. It was hard to hear the sound of people talking, the hiss of steam coming off the grill.
Andrew responded lengthily in Korean while pouring a shot of soju into my glass. I surmised his answer was no. Because he was a few years my senior – I had a rule about never dating guys younger than me – I drank the shot facing away from him. The seat I was sitting on was made of cheap plastic, and it creaked as I leaned to face the divider.
I still can’t believe he did that, he said in English. He’d started a story about one of the boys from LOV3STAR, but I’d caught only the tail end of it.
Wow, no way, I said. Have you caught up with him since?
It was a stab in the dark, but it landed.
No, he’s off now, you know. Has a wife and kids.
Good for him, I said. Do you think that that’s something you’ll ever want?
What, a wife?
No, a family.
He paused briefly before saying: Sure. If it happens, it happens.
He seemed unable, or unwilling, to elaborate further.
How’s the post doing? he asked.
I hadn’t checked since the train ride.
I opened my phone and scrolled through the post’s analytics section. The likes were lower than I expected, and most of the comments were from unverified accounts and porn bots.
Great, I said.
He nodded and turned over a piece of pork belly on the grill. The meat sizzled, fat met heat, mixed with oil and grease. When the underside was fully cooked, he used scissors to cut the meat into slivers and then placed the pieces into my bowl. Mogo, he said, eat.
We ate. I was conscious of his gaze on me but said nothing. I was staring at his face, too, stealing peeks whenever I felt his attention waver, assessing his features seriously. From this close, I could see the parts of his face where his foundation wasn’t set, patches where his skin wasn’t blurred but jagged.
I’m thrilled you came, he said. I wasn’t sure you would.
He was grimacing, I noticed. Had he seen me staring? It was hard to tell if he was genuinely pained or if his face was just like that.
Sure I would, I said. Were you worried I might bail?
He smiled weakly.
No, he said. It’s just a lot’s changed.
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. A lot had changed…since when? If Andrew wanted me to confirm the breadth of our relationship, the notion that it had existed long enough for peaks and valleys, periods of emotional or personal turbulence, it wouldn’t have occurred to me then to agree with him.
What’s so funny? Andrew asked, tilting his head.
I realized, with a sinking feeling, that I was smiling.
Oh, I said, letting my face fall. Nothing.
*
Outside the restaurant, we waited for a cab in a little alleyway, pretending not to smell the shit-scented steam that hissed out of a sewer grate just metres from us. On Andrew’s phone screen was the interface of a taxi app, and an icon representing our cab moved incrementally across the screen. A voice called out to us, possibly the driver, but when I looked up there was a young girl with her phone out.
Jesonghamnida, she said, excuse me. There was a sad kind of longing in her eyes. It could mean only one thing: she wanted a photo.
Of course, I said, reaching over to grab her phone, which was already opened on the camera app.
If you could turn a little, I said, so that we’re both in the frame.
She opened her mouth slightly, then closed it. Andrew coughed, and I saw him frowning when I turned to face him. I think she means… he said, looking down. I made a kind of spluttering sound, like breathing underwater. I decided it was too late to recover, so very simply, I handed the phone to Andrew, who was already adjusting his mouth into the smile he used in photos. He held the phone up high, throwing up a peace sign, then a finger heart, while I stood silently on the side.
Andrew handed the girl her phone and bowed.
Nomu kamsahamnida, she said, shuffling quickly away.
A few minutes later, our car pulled into view, its horn peeling out and a whine. I can’t remember if we talked during the ride home, but I recall Andrew placing my hand into his, flattening his palm against mine. Staring out the window, I tried to distract myself from the moment that had passed, willing my mind to quiet the voice that asked why I cared so deeply and wished that someone would say it to me: thank you.
In the apartment, we sat cross-legged on the couch, watching an episode of a variety show that featured the members of LOV3STAR being interviewed by a panel of Korean comedians. I couldn’t concentrate much on what was happening; scenes often replayed from different angles, and animated captions invaded the screen. The scenes weren’t funny, but the insistence with which they repeatedly tried to convince you that they were. Beside me, Andrew’s body heat sagged out of him like a dog’s tongue.
Can we watch something else? I asked.
Wait, Andrew said. This is the good part.
The camera zoomed in on Andrew’s open mouth expression as he struggled to list three American cities. Laughter resounded, and the panellists began imitating the face he’d made. The scene replayed, as it always did, then eventually relented. The camera angle changed, and another member came into focus. The show continued.
Andrew picked up the remote and began fast-forwarding to another scene. The funny thing, he said, is that one of our members got sick on the way to the studio on this day. Just throwing up, again and again, into a plastic bag in the backseat. The rest of us didn’t know what to do, so we patted his back and everything, trying not to gross ourselves out. I remember being so nauseous that I almost threw up myself. But experiences like that are what bond you have with another person, you know? That’s something I think about a lot, that day and just being vulnerable in front of someone you love. Do you understand?
I’d stopped listening at some point and stared blankly into the middle distance.
No, I said. I don’t understand.
He might have looked at me with curiosity, anger, malice, or envy, and I would’ve known immediately what he was feeling had I turned and met his gaze. But I did not look at or near him. I stood up and walked to the bathroom. Once inside, I shut the door behind me and winced. The tiles were cold, especially so, as I’d walked in barefoot, and on top of that, I could tell from the position of the vanity lights that any selfies I took would turn out poorly. Exhaling, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. Displayed on the lock screen were three texts from Tessa.
‘Any updates??’
‘Dont forget tmrws post’
‘R u w andrew haha’
I replied with three texts of my own.
‘yes im in his bathrom rn’
‘whens the next floght tess’
‘tess pls can u cal me pls’
I placed my phone next to the sink and turned on the faucet. I cupped my hands underneath the stream and splashed the water onto my face. I stared into the vanity mirror and thought back to the girl who had embarrassed me earlier, the look of hesitancy and embarrassment on her face. It took all of my effort, in that moment, not to scream until my windpipe collapsed.
Leaning against the sink, I felt an object press into me. It was the cushion compact I’d forgotten to give back to Andrew. I retrieved it from my pocket, opened it, and tested the hinge. It snapped quickly, the top half clattering onto the bathroom counter. I gathered the broken pieces of the compact, deposited them in the toilet, and then pressed the flush button. The faucet was still on, blocking the sound of the still-circling drain. In the vanity mirror, I inspected my prominent face. I smiled, a convincing smile.
Joshua Tristan Woo (he/him) is a Korean-Australian writer based in Sydney. He is currently finishing a Bachelor of Arts and a Bachelor of Politics and International Relations at the University of Sydney, where he is a Dalyell Scholar.
Christina Tran is a graphic designer and illustrator focused on the art of storytelling through the combination of bold imagery and conceptual thinking. As a Graphic Design for Marketing graduate from the Wilson School of Design, she has received honourable mentions and a scholarship for her student project: Northeast: A Digital Guide to Chinese-Canadian History.