#fangirlproblem10

I wish there was a way to magically know how to react around your bias.

Chansol’s going to see my apartment. It doesn’t feel real. Having him sitting next to me in the van, smiling his signature smile...it keeps confusing me.

The blood on his neck is dried and flaking off, which shouldn’t be hot. But it is. It matches the crazy color of his hair. Goodness, he’s handsome.

I want to say something to him, anything. Under pressure, my Korean came easily. Now I have the chance to get to know him personally, but the only word floating around in my head is michesseo. Which means, are you crazy? Because I am. I’m absolutely insane to let Chansol come to my house.

This isn’t going to work. Space. That’s what I need. What if I get attached? 

Scratch that―I’m already attached. I’ve been attached for so long, loving him every day from a distance. But this is different. He’s been looking at me, interacting with me, even touching me.

I feel so dang guilty. I took him away from his bandmates. If I hadn’t cried and left the room, he never would’ve followed. Why couldn’t I just be normal and say thank you?

He didn’t have to follow me, though. I still don’t understand why he did. Then he took it a step further and saved me. There has to be a deeper reason. He’s met hundreds of fans in person. Given out high fives and signed pictures like they cost nothing.

The airport this morning was a good example. So many fans were gathered, hoping to see him—maybe even touch him—but he didn’t give them a second look. Broken glasses or not, he wasn’t obligated to come for me.

I want to dig and figure it all out, but I’m not sure how.

“Do they have music in America?” he says, breaking the silence.

What kind of question is that? Of course they have music here. How else would I know who he is?

He’s smiling like he just told the best joke ever. Now I get it. He wants me to turn the radio on.

Immediately, Taylor Swift or some other overplayed, overly adored artist booms through the car. Although, it does have a catchy tune. After a second, I start to bob my head.

All right, maybe I’m getting into the beat. Just a touch.

It builds to the chorus, and I start singing before I’m even aware of what’s happening, my shoulders shaking to the sound.

My teeth clack as I shut my mouth. I only sang, like, one line. There’s no way he heard me. How could I get so lost as to forget Chansol is sitting beside me?

He keeps turning his head to look at me. I swear he’s laughing.

“Shut up,” I say, swatting him. Stinker.

The chorus comes around again and Chansol clears his throat.

My heart drops as he starts to sing along. He doesn’t sing often in X-O, but when he does, it surprises me. It only takes three words for me to realize he’s better than he thinks he is, which is saying something.

He’s bouncing along to the beat, his legs getting into the motion. “Sing!” he yells when there’s a break in the lyrics.

Well, if he’s going to make me... I start soft, but he shoves my shoulder. “Louder.” Since his voice is drowning out the radio, he probably can’t hear me too well. I decide to do as the song commands and Shake It Off.

We both start belting, laughing at the music. It’s so cheesy, but I like it at the same time.

When the song’s over, we’re both cracking up so hard my stomach hurts. It feels good to let go.

“You’re coming to the concert, right?” he asks.

I look down at my lap then back to the window. I don’t want to tell him no, but doubt I can get tickets this late even if I had the money. I’m going to the venue, though. I have to at least try something.

“Yeah,” I say, giving him my half-truth.

He beams, looking way too happy. “You’re going to love it,” he says. “You’ll be so surprised.”

Surprised? Why do I feel like he’s talking about me in particular and not just the concert goers? I can’t puzzle it out.

“Hey,” he says, nudging me out of my reverie. “You’re really cute when you’re concentrating like that, but you don’t have to overthink it.”

The last thing I want to do when I’m trapped in a car with Chansol is blush, but my face heats to a million degrees, unbidden. I thought I was supposed to be in control of my emotions.

I can’t take it any longer. He has to know how much this thing—whatever it is—is killing me. I can’t live in my dreams forever, and if we’re going to spend more time together, I might as well draw a line.

“Don’t say stuff like that,” I groan.

Even though there’s still music in the background, the silence between us becomes awkward. I don’t know if I have the guts to express everything I’m feeling, so I leave it at that.

“Why?” he asks, tentative.

I chew at my bottom lip. What can I say that will satisfy him but not reveal my true feelings? “Because...we can’t be friends.” That should work, right? He’s an idol, and I’m me. If we’re friends, I might get hungry for more. I already am hungry for more.

“And why can’t we be friends?”

Dangit, how do I answer? I wish I hadn’t started this conversation. My gaze turns to the window, so I don’t have to see his face.

“I know you,” I say. “You’re nice to everyone. You have a positive attitude about life. Even when you’re trying to avoid the paparazzi, you thought about me before anyone else. But that can hurt you. I’m afraid of what other fans might do. If you’re friends with me, it might cause you problems later.”

He needs to leave me as fast as possible so the pain in my chest can stop. It will throb less once he’s gone.

“Funny,” he says, a smile in his voice. “You don’t think I can take care of myself?”

I swing around so I can see his expression. He has a half-smile and not a care in the world.

I roll my eyes. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying I’m your fan. Nothing more. It was dangerous for you to approach me. I could’ve been a sasaeng.”

“But you’re not,” he says, reaching across the space the separates us and taking my hand. “I can tell the difference.”

Well, that backfired. The heat in my face increases until I feel my ears burning. Is he really holding my hand? I know in Korea it’s common for friends to hold hands, and I’m sure he’s just trying to comfort me. It’s working. A little.

“Look,” he continues, as if it’s no big deal that our fingers are interlocked. “It was my choice to follow you outside. It’s my choice to be here, and it’s my choice to be your friend. You can respect that, can’t you?”

Of course I can. It’s just that it’s ripping me apart to have him so close knowing I can’t hold on.

“Sure,” I say, anyway.

“Good,” he responds, relaxing enough that he starts driving with one hand. “Let’s try this again. You have a beautiful smile.”

He’s really not going to give up. I guess if I get this time with him now, I should take advantage.

“What, like this?” I say, flashing him all my pearly whites.

He nudges my shoulder. “Yes. Like that.”

It’s so hard to be mad at him. He’s just too cute.

“How’s your neck feeling?” I ask, releasing his hand and leaning across the middle console to get a better look.

He stiffens. “It’s fine.” I swear his voice went up a pitch.

I reach out one finger to touch the wound. It looks like it’ll heal clean, at least.

“I should’ve gotten out of the way.”

“No,” he says. “I should’ve been looking out for you.”

I scoot back to my side, continuing my study of the landscape passing by. It’s all splintered because of my cracked glasses. “I guess I owe you for saving me.”

“Yep,” he says, not missing a beat. “You do. I’m going to have to think of some way you can repay me.”

Holy crap, that’s just an expression. Like I could ever repay Chansol for everything he’s done for me.

I’m dying to know what he’s thinking, but I’m afraid at the same time. “What did you have in mind?”

“Hm,” he says, his chin getting all wrinkled as he thinks. “A coupon.”

He wants twenty cents off yogurt? “Coupon?”

He nods, his face bright. “Yeah. A coupon book. You know―wash my car, cook me a meal...” He clears his throat. “Free hugs. Stuff like that.” He said the last words way too fast, but I got it. He wants a free hug, eh? I’d make him a giant book of free hugs if he asked for them.

The only problem is, he’ll never use them because his stay is temporary. I guess it doesn’t hurt to entertain. “If that’s what you want.”

His grin almost reaches his ears. “It’s what I want.”

Gosh, he’s beautiful. I can’t get over it, no matter how much I try. It’s not just the way he looks, it’s that he causes everyone around him to feel his energy. I can’t stay upset in his presence, no matter what. He has all of me, whether or not he wants it.

I search through the glove box and find a scrap of paper and a pen. FREE HUG, I write in English. I stuff the coupon in his shirt pocket and sit back, pleased. I hope he uses it sometime soon.

“This is our exit,” I say. I don’t want to say that because it means we’ll sleep in separate rooms and then he’ll go in the morning. And when he leaves, my heart will go with him.