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Crying over a bias is the norm.
“All right,” Sam says the next morning. “I have an idea.”
Idea? I don’t like the sound of that. All I want to do is sit in my sweats, drink tea, and think of Chansol.
“I’m not going to let you mope. We’re going out tonight.”
That’s the last thing I want to do. I need at least a week to recover from everything. There’s no one I want to dress up for, anyway.
“You’ll want to come, trust me,” Sam says.
Yeah, just like she wanted me to go to the store last night for some milk. That all went sour when I saw some baseball caps and thought of Chansol. Crying in the middle of the aisle is not a great way to spend a Saturday night.
I know it was my choice, but it doesn’t hurt any less.
Sam slams her hand on the table so I’m forced to look up. “I’m taking away your computer until you get up and come with me.”
Like that’ll work. I haven’t even been online since I left Chansol. Almost twenty-four hours. That has to be a record for me.
I sip my tea until I make annoying slurping sounds, and then I sip some more―looking pointedly at Sam.
“Disgusting,” she says, leaving the room. Good. Maybe that’ll make her keep her distance.
I am curious, though. I’ve stayed away from the Internet, so I don’t even know if Chansol is okay. Were the pictures of us posted online? What are people saying about them?
The same questions have been going through my mind since yesterday, and I’ve been too chicken to find out.
If nothing else, I need to check it to put my mind at ease. Then I can start moving on. Maybe I can even quell the rumors. Come out as that girl and tell everyone Chansol and I weren’t dating. Even though we were. Kind of.
The computer takes forever to load, and I bounce my knee the whole time. Even when the browser opens, it takes a few seconds for anything to show up. Stupid Internet.
I go to Twitter first. If anything is happening, I’ll find out there. I scroll through my notifications and don’t see a single thing about it.
Is it wrong to be disappointed? I mean, I thought there would be something. I didn’t even get to take a selca with Chansol—which means our time together will only live in my dreams. I can’t tell anyone, either. Only Sam knows, and she doesn’t care enough to back me up.
Maybe my savvy friends on Twitter just haven’t heard yet. Either that or they don’t care.
I click on the search bar and type in Park Chansol followed by yesterday’s date. Yes! An Everythingkpop article. It wasn’t totally ignored.
The link pulls up a picture of Chansol—wearing his jeans and my hoodie. He’s carrying a shopping bag, and he still has bed head.
Park Chansol was spotted shopping in Houston today, relaxing before his performance tomorrow. The concert is expected....
I don’t read the rest because I don’t need to. All I know is that someone spotted him when he bought a toothbrush yesterday, and that’s probably what brought the paparazzi to my house. If I hadn’t fallen asleep, I could’ve gone to the store for him, and none of this would’ve happened.
I wonder what it took to block the story about the two of us from leaking. I can’t imagine it was easy.
How can I give up on him when he’s still trying to protect me from afar? I may have been the one to start this mess, but if he didn’t care, he’d let the photos go. If only I could see his face and ask him what he’s thinking.
What an idiot I’ve been. I didn’t even get his phone number.
“Sam,” I call.
She comes running from her room, slipping a little as she sits across from me.
“I think you’re right,” I say. “We need to go out tonight.”
Sam’s eyes go wide. “Really?”
“Yeah, we’re going to the X-O concert.”
Sam furrows her brow. “We are?”
Even if Chansol rejects me for what I did, I need to give him an apology at least.
“I don’t care how long it takes, I’m going to wait until the concert is over. When they come out, I’ll see Chansol one last time.”
Sam’s mouth is a thin line, her big eyes glossed over. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’m not sure I want to see this side of you again.”
“Look,” I say, “either you come with me or I go by myself, but I’m going. I’ve made up my mind.”
Sam tightens her jaw but doesn’t say anything.
“We can go shopping,” I say, my voice rising in pitch at the end of the sentence. Sam loves shopping. Nothing gets her out of the house like the thought of new clothes.
She pouts. “Will you let me pick your outfit?”
As much as I hate to admit it, Sam has better taste than I do. I normally look amazing in whatever she chooses. “Sure.”
“And do your makeup at Sephora?”
That’s pushing it. She normally likes to do this dark dramatic stuff on me, which is not my style. But I’ll admit it makes me look sexy. I really need Sam to support me, so I’m not going to let a little vanity get in my way.
If Chansol really likes me, he’ll like me for who I am. He already saw me at my worst. “Fine.”
Sam squeals and pulls me out of the kitchen chair. After I shower, she asks to do my hair, too. If it’s fun for her, then I don’t have a problem with it.
My hair is about shoulder length, and most of the time it’s pulled back since I’m in the kitchen. I also find it totally unmanageable. Sam uses some weird products then spends forever with a hot curling iron to my head, but when I turn around, I gasp.
My brown hair is in perfect glossy curls. I didn’t even know it could do that.
We hit the mall next. Sam picks out this super tight red dress, but it looks amazing on me. She offers to pay for everything since I still don’t have my purse back. I’m starting to feel worthy of a Kpop star.
The only thing I refuse to let her do to me is wear heels. I consent to strappy sandals, but I’m planning on being on my feet for a long time. Heels are just crazy.
By the time we leave the mall—Sephora bags in our hands—I actually have guys turning their heads to look at me. Can’t say that’s ever happened before. Sorry, boys, I’m taken. At least I hope I’m taken.
We arrive at the venue before the concert starts. People are cramming their way inside, wearing X-O shirts and blaring songs from their phones. I don’t know why I wanted to be here so early. I’m hoping for a miracle...someone to give me their ticket or something.
I should know better. If any of these fans are like me―and I’m guessing most of them are―they wouldn’t give up their ticket unless someone murdered them.
“Let’s go wait by the stage door,” I say to Sam once the doors are closed and the music has started.
Sam groans. “Let’s get something to eat instead. I’m starved.”
No way, I’m not giving up now that I’m here. I’m on a hunger strike until the night is over. Food is my favorite thing in the world, but it can’t compare to Chansol.
Some big burly dudes are standing around the back door and not letting anyone come near. We’re not the only girls trying to get in.
I look around and spot an apartment building across from us. If we could just get to the top, we could watch from the big screens since the building’s roof is open.
“No,” Sam says when I suggest the idea. “I’m hungry.”
“I let you dress me up,” I say, stomping.
Her lower lip juts out. “You didn’t let me buy you those fabulous heels.”
Is she still hung up on that?
“How about this: you grab something at the convenience store across the street and meet me at the roof of the apartment.”
She brightens. “Okay! Anything you want?”
“I don’t care,” I say. I just want to see the concert.
Sam skips off, and I’m faced with the mission of getting inside.
I wait, one foot pressed to the wall, head down, until someone comes out.
People have done this in movies a hundred times, looking all smooth and walking up to the door like it’s not a big deal, but I’m shaking. I squeak out a nervous “hi” to the person leaving. They look at me funny but leave without a word.
I stride inside, trying to act like I own the place in case someone is watching. Then I run back to the door and shove some paper from the trashcan under the doorjamb so it doesn’t shut all the way, but it’s not noticeable.
My feet aren’t moving to the top floor as quickly as I need them to. All right, so I take the elevator, but it still seems like for-ev-er. I end up going around the top hall a few hundred times before I spot the exit to the roof.
I have to pull down some stairs to get there, and they creak loudly as I do so. I leave them open so Sam can find me easier.
Just as I’ve hoped, the view is perfect. The giant screens show all the boys’ faces. Every time the cameras pan to Chansol, I let out a scream. It’s not like anyone can hear me with the amount of wind blowing up here, but I can’t help myself.
This dress was a dumb idea because I’m freezing.
The pounding that comes from the stadium can barely be heard over the howling wind. I don’t care. It’s worth it. And at the end of the night, I’ll get to see Chansol again. Then I can fix everything. I’m going to tell him I’m crazy about him. I’m going to let him hold me, and I’m going to figure out a way to be with him. Even if we’re separated by thousands of miles.
I hear someone coming up the stairs and I’m actually glad, because I’m hungrier than I first let on.
“Sam!” I say, turning my head.
But it’s not Sam. It’s not anyone I know. Scratch that―it’s someone I know. Someone I know very well.
It’s that witch of a reporter, Nana.
I have no idea how she found me, but I can’t really think about it. My attention is glued to the big screen. Not because of Chansol, but because I can see my own face staring back at me.
#fangirlproblem19