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The neighborhood hasn’t changed.
John walks his parents down the street to the new SM building. Well, the old building now, he supposes. He still thinks of the tan, four-story building near Kia Motors as the “old” building and this sleek Cheongdam tower with wall-to-ceiling windows as the “new” building.
Apparently, the current newest SM building is even bigger and even more expensive, complete with a grandiose name—kwangya? Neither John nor his parents know what that means, and they haven’t bothered to look it up. None of them mention visiting it.
Sunlight reflects off the Cheongdam tower’s massive blue-tinted windows. John’s father shields his eyes with his hand as he looks up. John’s mother, the most sensible among their trio, has a visor and sunglasses to protect her.
John keeps his eyes at ground level, filtering the building through his camera lens. His parents insisted on visiting it. John would be happy to avoid this place, where he wasted so much of his passion and youth, for all eternity.
In his viewfinder, a butterfly floats past the first floor windows. He clicks.
“Do you suppose we can go inside?” his father asks.
“I don’t know if they are still using this building,” John says, not lowering the camera.
His mother points at the signage with SM’s loopy logo. “They’ve still got their name on it.”
“Maybe that’s leftover though. Or they might have turned this into just office space or studio space or something. There’s probably nothing worth seeing.”
They walk past the front, going around the building’s perimeter to the side entrance that the artists and trainees mainly used. The only signs of security are two cameras mounted to observe who comes and goes. It’s probably fine to loiter for a little bit.
This is the door that John remembers most, not the public-facing entrance. There’s nothing special about it. Just the side of a building, plain concrete. A steel door with only a sliver of glass to peek through. A door handle that was always a bit stiff and heavy, even when the building was brand-new.
He walked in and out of that door countless times. Now, John can only imagine opening it. Can only imagine what world would meet him on the other side.
The butterfly drifts on the wind, fluttering tiredly. It lands on the door handle and outstretches its two wings, mirrors of each other.
John raises his camera and clicks. Then they move on, heading toward the former dormitory.
The three of them came to Korea for a funeral. No one John knew—a childhood friend of his father who, to John, was just a name in old stories and occasionally a voice on the phone. His father wanted to say goodbye, and his mother wanted to visit some relatives she hasn’t seen in years. They asked John if he wanted to come too.
John hadn’t stepped foot in Korea since he left in 2015. But it’s been a decade, and he figured he shouldn't let bitterness rule him forever. His boss was willing to let him mix some PTO with working remotely for a few weeks. If nothing else, the trip would be a nice opportunity to shoot photos. It’s been a while since he had the free time to focus on his photography. If he gets enough good shots, maybe he can even do an exhibit. He’s not sure what the theme would be—just “Korea” won't draw sufficient interest. Hopefully, a theme will emerge as he totes his camera around.
The first week was spent on the funeral, visiting his father’s old friends. The second week was spent touring the province where some of his mother’s relations still live. Now, the third, final week is Seoul, seeing the all the tourist-y sights. And, for some reason, the places where John wasted so much fruitless time.
There’s nothing interesting, really, about this route that John used to take from the company building to the dorm. But his parents want to walk it with him, so he leads the way.
“It’s a little far,” his mother comments when their legs have eaten up eight blocks.
“It’s not that far.”
“It’s far for a kid to be walking at night.”
John re-affirms his long-ago decision to never tell her about the mugger who stole his shoes and iPod because they were the only valuable things on him. “I was almost always with someone. Dongyoung or one of the other guys.”
“Dongyoung! He was such a sweet boy. I wonder how he’s doing.”
“He debuted, didn’t he?” his father asks.
“Yeah,” John says, “I knew he would.”
Dongyoung had doubts, would share them with John late at night while he nursed cheap coffee through a pinched mouth. The dance instructor told him he was hopeless. Or he kept stuttering when he was nervous. Or he’d gained back the weight he lost, and he wouldn’t have time to shed it before the monthly evaluation.
But John knew he would debut. The company would have to be staffed by fools from top to bottom if they let someone who sang like Dongyoung slip through their fingers. Someone so diligent, so dependable, so determined to be good.
John had absolute confidence in Dongyoung. But his own future was never so certain.
They turn a street corner, John’s body anticipating the turn before his mind fully registered it. Things really haven’t changed much. It’s funny to think that when he first arrived, this neighborhood—this entire country—was so strange. Korea, to him, had been relatives’ decorated houses on holidays, the local Korean church, the few blocks of Koreatown when they went into the city. But here, Korea was everywhere and everything. He spent that first summer break like a wide-eyed tourist whenever he stepped outside the company building or dorm. Even when he graduated high school and became a full-time trainee, he never lost the feeling that he was a stranger in a strange land.
Now, returning all these years later, his former daily route tugs him along, as if welcoming him home.
They walk past the musty used bookstore that sold comics Yuta would buy for 100 won a volume to practice Korean. They walk past the stoop where John and Hansol once took shelter for an hour when a hailstorm caught them by surprise. They walk past the shoe store where the shopkeeper gave trainees a discount since they wore out their sneakers so quickly. They walk past the restaurant where—
Oh.
John stops in his tracks. His parents pause behind him, glancing curiously at the Chinese restaurant that made him freeze.
“What is it?” his mother asks.
The signs are different, of course. From what John can see through the windows, they totally gutted the interior too. Low dividing walls where once there was only open space. New tables. New ceiling fans circling slowly.
“This used to be a gukbap restaurant,” John says. “I came here with the guys all the time since they were open late. The owner would give us a lot of appetizers on the house.”
Dongyong especially liked this place. Actually, this place was the last restaurant they ate at together, just the two of them. Dongyong was upset because rumors were flying about the latest lineup proposal for SM’s new boy group, and he wasn’t part of it.
Neither was John, but he was less upset and more resigned.
The restaurant’s door is the same, mostly. It’s been repainted, no longer a faded rust-red but instead the eye-catching, good fortune red of hongbao. But it has the same door handle, the same rectangular glass pane. A piece of John’s reflection stares back at him through the pane, muddled but visibly him.
John lifts his camera, clicks, and captures his echo.
“I j-just don’t know what else I can do,” Dongyoung says. “I know my dancing is still bad, but it’s not that bad, is it? Not everyone has to be a dancing prodigy, right?”
“Right,” Johnny says over the brim of his glass.
“And I know I’m not that tall or that handsome, but I look decent enough, don’t I?”
“You look great, Young-ah.”
“Maybe I should focus more on Mandarin. If they don’t think I’m g-good enough now for the first unit, then the Chinese unit is my next chance. I’m already too old for the kids unit. But the Mandarin teacher is only here Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and I’m already seeing the speech coach on Wednesdays during that time block. Maybe I should ask Kunie to help me. I get so confused with the tones.”
Dongyoung brushes his hair off from his forehead with both hands, palms pressing firmly as they pass over his scalp. His hands linger at the back of his skull as he stares up at the restaurant’s ceiling. Johnny watches him, sipping his cola. Personally, he thinks Dongyoung can stop seeing the speech coach, but he knows how self-conscious he is about his stutter.
Instead, Johnny puts his cola down and says, “You have time. They probably won't actually debut anyone for another year. A lot can change in a year.”
“They keep saying it will be soon though.”
Johnny waves this off. “They’re always telling the trainees it will be soon. They started saying the next boy group would launch ‘soon’ when EXO was three months old.”
“Yeah, but the timing actually makes sense now,” Dongyoung argues. “It’s been years since EXO debuted. And they’ve been doing test unit photoshoots more often.”
“Getting picked for the photoshoot doesn’t actually mean anything.”
“Easy for you to say. They include you half the time. I’ve only done a unit photoshoot once.”
“Pretty sure they just want me there for height comparison. Make sure none of you guys look too short on camera.”
Johnny eats a big spoonful of his pork and rice soup. It’s not his favorite dish, but it’s filling and, more importantly, the least expensive menu item. He needs to make his allowance last until the end of the month so he doesn’t have to ask his parents to wire even more money.
When he glances up from his bowl, Dongyoung is watching him across the table, arms folded across his chest.
“What?”
“Why aren’t you worried?” Dongyoung asks. “Do you k-know something I don’t?”
Johnny snorts. “How would I have any insider intel?”
“I don’t know! You’ve known the staff the longest! You should be the most desperate of all of us, but instead you’re…”
“I’m what?”
Dongyoung works his jaw as if he’s testing words before he speaks. Finally, he says, “You seem like you don’t care anymore.”
Johnny stirs his soup. The swollen rice grains drift through the pale broth like tiny rafts lost at sea. He hasn’t confessed this to anyone yet except his parents. But he doesn’t want to lie to Dongyoung.
“I’ve been looking at universities.”
“Here, or…?”
“Home.”
The word sinks between the two of them, settling on the tabletop between their bowls with unseen but still real weight. Dongyoung doesn’t say anything, so Johnny continues to keep silence at bay.
“Come on, you know my Korean isn’t good enough to attend a university here. I’m probably not smart enough either,” Johnny jokes, but Dongyong doesn’t laugh. Still, he prattles on. “If I start university now, I won’t be that much older than everyone else. And if I wait any longer, I’ll probably forget everything I learned in high school, and then I’ll be in big trouble. So now is the best time to go.”
Slowly, Dongyoung asks, “Do you want to go to university, or do you want to quit training?”
“Both, I guess.”
Admitting it feels simultaneously relieving and damning. It feels safe, admitting this to Dongyoung. He won't judge Johnny harshly or gossip about it. Dongyoung has always kept Johnny's secrets.
“I’ve spent so much time training, worrying about monthly evaluations and lineup rumors. I’m ready to move on. Worry about a degree and a normal career instead, like everyone else.”
“Oh.” Dongyoung’s eyes glisten under the gukbap’s restaurant’s dim lights. He looks down. Blinking, he breathes deeply and starts to say something else, but the words seem to stop in his throat. After a long moment, he finally says, “I understand.”
They don’t talk about it for the rest of the meal. They don’t say much at all. When it’s time to leave, Johnny insists on paying for both of them. For once, Dongyoung gives in easily. Johnny only looks away long enough to settle payment with the owner, but when he looks back, Dongyoung is scrubbing his eyes with his sleeve.
“Dongyoung…”
“It’s all r-right, hyung,” Dongyoung says. He walks for the exit. “Let’s go.”
Johnny follows him out the door, but it feels like they are already walking in separate worlds.
While his parents sleep in the hotel bed next to his, John finds Dongyoung’s private Instagram. It isn’t hard. For as long as he’s known him, Dongyoung always picked his usernames by scrambling the digits of his birthday with one of the three names he decided on for the pet hedgehog we would never get. John tries a dozen or so combinations until he lands on a locked profile with thirty-something followers. The avatar is a half-eaten dessert bread.
John sends a follow request from his own private account. His isn’t as locked down as Dongyoung’s; his username includes his initials, his avatar is himself, and he has twice the followers. But it’s safer than trying to connect with his public photography account that has way more eyes on it.
Just as he is rolling over to plug in his phone and go to sleep, his phone buzzes. His follow request was accepted. John pauses half-propped up in the hotel bed, flicking through the private account. None of the photos posted show Dongyoung’s face or anyone recognizable. But just as John begins to doubt, his phone buzzes again with a DM.
Hyung! It’s been so long. You and your parents are in Korea?
John’s last few posts are photo dumps of the quick shots he’s taken with his phone during the trip thus far. Dongyoung must’ve checked before messaging, cautious as always. He types back a response.
Yeah, we’re visiting. We’re in Seoul for the next few days, then we’re going back home.
Then he waits. He waits long enough that the arm propping him up starts to ache. John lets himself sink back down to the mattress. This was probably a bad idea, he knows. It's just...visiting Seoul hasn't been as painful as he thought it might. Sure, none of his efforts here amounted to anything except lost time. But he has a lot of good memories here with the old crew. Especially Dongyoung.
Still. They haven’t spoken in a decade; what could they possibly have to say to each other? Dongyoung is probably grappling with that same question.
John starts typing, Sorry to bother you so late to give Dongyoung a graceful exit. Before he can hit send, however, a message arrives.
Would you like to meet up tomorrow afternoon?
Ten years ago, Johnny walked out the trainee dorm's front door for the last time.
He purposefully booked the earliest flight possible so he could leave before most of the guys managed to wake up. They already said their goodbyes the night before. John used up the last of his allowance to order a stack of pizza, everyone else chipping in what they could spare. They ate too much and stayed up late until Mark fell asleep on the sofa and then others started to pass out as well. Ten cried in the bathroom and pretended he didn’t. Taeyong cried in front of everyone.
Johnny didn’t want a repeat performance, hence why he elected to leave at four A.M.
No one stirs as he brushes his teeth and packs his toothbrush away. He crosses the dorm quietly, carrying his two suitcases instead of rolling them to reduce the noise. He slips on his sneakers at the entrance.
But when he puts his hands on the door handle, Dongyoung says, “Hyung.”
John turns. Dongyoung stands in the living room, dressed in his usual pajamas of baggy black shorts and oversized white T-shirt. It makes him look small.
“Hi hi,” Johnny says, hoping to coax a smile from Dongyoung’s dour mouth. It doesn’t work. “I’m heading out.”
Dongyoung takes a step forward. “Should I wake them up?”
“No, no. Last night was plenty. They need to rest for practice today anyway.” He points at a pale envelope in Dongyoung’s hand. “What’s that?”
Dongyoung glances down and stares for a moment. “It’s n-nothing.”
He tucks the envelope under his arm, the paper vanishing against the white folds of his clothes. Then he takes another step forward, hands lifted but hesitant.
Johnny closes the gap and hugs Dongyoung hard. Like if he just presses firmly enough, he can fit him into his luggage and take him home too.
But Dongyoung belongs here, belongs on the stage. He is meant for singing and flowers and pretty outfits and glowing lights. The company will see that. The team needs him.
Whatever Johnny is meant for, it isn’t here. He isn’t needed.
Dongyoung's voice trembles when he speaks into Johnny's shoulder. “I’ll miss you, hyung.”
Johnny's heartbeat thunders in his ears. It's such a simple statement, but it makes his throat tighten.
“You’re going to be great,” Johnny tells him. He gives him a squeeze before letting go. Backing away. He takes in Dongyoung’s fragile face with a glance and then looks elsewhere before he saw him cry too. Johnny is at his limit.
“Thank you,” Dongyoung says. He sniffles. “Your flight is soon.”
Johnny doesn’t need permission to leave, but he takes it anyway. He turns the door handle and crosses the threshold into another world.
He leaves this one behind.
And, gradually, it passes into memory.
John takes a bus to a neighborhood in Seoul he’s never seen. It's a residential-commercial mix, leaning more residential. And pricey, judging by the slick building exteriors and latest model vehicles he sees along the street. When he steps off the bus, he studies Naver’s map and heads down the sidewalk to the next intersection with his phone in one hand and a bakery gift bag in the other.
Dongyoung’s apartment building stands at the crossroads, tall and imposing. John double-checks the map before walking in and showing his ID to the doorman. Then he rides the elevator up and prays he isn’t making a mistake.
He peers inside the bag to check the plastic cake box. The strawberries on the cake are still in all their original places. He debated whether to bring anything, wondering if it’d make him seem distant. An acquaintance visiting for the first time rather than an old friend. Then his mother found out he was considering showing up empty-handed and went online to find nearby bakeries, insisting cake could only improve any visit.
Dongyoung did have a sweet tooth. Long ago, at least. Maybe Doyoung doesn't. He never became fully accustomed to Dongyoung's stage name back then, and it still sounds strange in his head now.
The elevator dings. John finds the right door, takes a breath, and rings the electronic bell. For a moment: silence. Then soft footsteps approach the door. A pause.
The door swings on quiet hinges, revealing a surprising amount of open space for a Seoul apartment. It's clean and white, except for a vase full of pink carnations visible on a countertop. Standing in the doorway, mere inches from John, is Dongyoung.
“Hi hi,” John says.
Dongyoung beams. Without hesitation, he steps forward and hugs him. And, somehow, they fit together just like they used to.
The strawberry cake is a hit.
Dongyoung makes John swear he will eat half. John diligently eats perhaps a third while Dongyoung devours the rest obliviously. In between bites, he asks John about—everything. How he is doing: great. How his parents are doing: looking forward to retirement in a few years. What kind of work he is doing: recently promoted to senior marketing specialist at an agency that specializes in tourism. Does he like it: fine enough.
“I thought maybe you are a photographer,” Dongyoung says. He chases a stray strawberry slice across the cream-smeared plate with his plastic fork. “I looked you up a few years ago and found an article about a photography exhibit you did.”
“I majored in photography in university,” John explains. “It’s hard to earn a living as a photographer though. I still do it on the side, when I have time. I’ve been taking some pictures on this trip.”
Dongyoung wants to see. John has been carrying his camera with him everywhere, even here, so he puts it into Dongyoung’s careful hands and shows him how to click through the gallery.
While Dongyoung studies the photos flashing on the small display screen, John studies him. When they were younger, Dongyoung had already been an attractive guy. Not in the head-turning way that Taeyong and Yoonoh were, but more than handsome enough to debut. Now, he glows with idol beauty, even bare-faced and un-styled. He’s nearly thirty now, and it suits him. The baby checks gone, his eyes not so large, the finest lines that John suspects are only visible if you are as close to Dongyoung’s face as he is now.
“You have a lot of door pictures,” Dongyoung says, and John makes himself sit back a few inches.
“Yeah. They keep catching my eye lately. Maybe since I’m traveling. Other worlds and all that.”
Dongyoung reaches the end of the gallery and hands the camera back. “These are great. I think you could earn a living doing this.”
John laughs and sets his camera aside. “Maybe. Sometimes, I do think about diving back into freelance photography. I like having health insurance though. And some job security.”
Dongyoung considers him and then nods as if he’s decided something. He rises and starts to clear the cake box, plate, and forks off the table. John moves to help, but Dongyong waves him back down.
“Thank you for bringing this,” he says. “I have something for you too, actually.”
He vanishes into another room to fetch it, whatever it is. His latest album, John imagines, or the kind of small luxury item you present to an acquaintance because anyone would like it. Judging by Dongyoung’s massive apartment, he’s got money to splurge. Dongyoung is a sentimental guy, however, so maybe it’s old photographs or something like that. John left Korea with only a few dozen grainy images saved to his old phone. There were plenty of pictures floating online of the trainees who debuted, but John would like to see some of the others again.
When Dongyoung emerges, he’s holding a small envelope. It was probably once white, but age has yellowed it and worn smooth formerly crisp edges. The envelope bulges slightly from the paper folded inside. It’s sealed.
Dongyoung studies it, then he looks up. He hands the envelope over to John. It’s surprisingly soft.
“I wanted to give you this before you left,” Dongyong said. “I wrote it weeks before your last day. But I kept hesitating, and then it was too late.”
John remembers Dongyoung, nineteen years old and drowning in a baggy T-shirt, an envelope hidden under his sleeve. Nothing, he claimed. For something that was nothing, he sure treasured it all these years.
Carefully, John breaks the seal and removes the letter inside, which has also yellowed with age. Despite this, the ink of Dongyoung’s uncharacteristically crooked handwriting still shines.
Johnny hyung,
When you said you’re thinking about quitting, I understood. I’ve thought about quitting so many times too. You know that. More than anyone else here, I tell you everything. So, I’m sorry, but I want to tell you this too.
I don’t want you to leave. I need you here. The other guys are great, but none of them make me laugh like you, or listen as well as you, or are such a good friend to me as you. I’ve never had a friend like you before, and I don’t think I’ll ever have a friend like you again.
When I see how hard you’re working, it makes me work harder. You inspire me to take risks, to be more confident, to hang on another day. To me, no one is more determined than you. I can’t believe that this is your end here.
Every time I’ve thought about quitting, the reason why I stayed was you.
Hyung, you’ve saved me so many times, and I don’t think you have any idea. Maybe I should’ve told you sooner. Maybe it’s not fair of me to say this now, when you’re ready to move on.
I wish I could send you off with a smile. But I don’t know if I can keep doing this without you. I’m sorry to tell you all this so late. And I’m sorry for not having the courage to tell you directly and writing it down instead. More than anything, knowing that you may leave has made me realize just how thankful I am that your life intersected mine, even if this is the end of our path together.
So, no matter what you choose, whether you stay or go, thank you.
Your dongsaeng who loves you,
Kim Dongyoung
When John reaches the bottom, it takes him a moment to find his voice. He rubs his thumb over the valediction, Your dongsaeng who loves you.
Finally, he asks, “Do you remember what you wrote in here?”
“Yes,” Dongyoung says. “I agonized over that letter. First what to say, then whether to give it you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You had already made up your mind. I could tell. It seemed selfish to ask you to stay just for me.”
Even more carefully, John folds the letter along its old creases and slides it back into the envelope where it waited a decade. It’s so light, just a few pieces of paper altogether, but it’s heavy in his hands like a precious artifact.
“If you’d given me this letter,” John says, “I would have stayed.”
One simple act, one single decision, one flap of a butterfly's wings, and his world might have been so different.
He can imagine it easily. Standing in their dorm’s entryway, back to the door, reading Dongyoung’s letter while the pages were still crisp and white. Even in those final moments, if he read this, he would’ve stayed. He would’ve missed his flight, told his parents and the company that he changed his mind, and cried from relief.
Even now, ten years too late, it soothes an old wound deep in his chest to know that he was wanted, needed.
It wasn’t all a waste. His youth, his passion. It wasn't wasted if it meant something to his dongsaeng who loves him.
He has to set the letter aside next to Dongyoung's pink carnations to wipe his eyes. Dongyoung hands him a tissue
“You were wrong, you know,” John says. “You did it without me. I knew back then that you were bound to be great, no matter what.”
“Maybe.” Dongyoung smiles, small and sad. “But, hyung, I never stopped missing you. I never stopped wondering what kind of person I would be if I let myself be a little more honest back then.” He pauses. “Do you wish I'd given it to you then?”
Before this trip to Korea, John would've immediately answered no. He doesn't regret leaving; his current life is a good one. He is always well-rested and well-fed. He gets to spend so much time with his parents. He has a circle of kind people around him. His time is his own, and he can go anywhere without risking his security.
But now, he wonders whether another life would've been good as well, in different ways.
“I don't know,” he says because it's the most truthful he can be. “But I'm glad you gave it to me today.”
The afternoon ticks by, and then the evening. They talk and talk like they’ve rewound the clock to 2015 and they will fall asleep under the same roof. Eventually, however, it’s time for John to leave again.
“We need to stay in touch,” Dongyoung insists while John puts his shoes on. “I would’ve messaged you all the time before, but I was scared I’d end up begging you to come back. And then so much time had passed…I’m so happy that you reached out.”
“We will,” John promises. He’s never had a friend like Dongyoung either. There’s no way he can leave him a second time.
Sneakers tied, he straightens and then considers Dongyoung’s door. “Do you mind if I take a picture here?”
“Go ahead.”
John grabs his camera, powers it on, and peers through the viewfinder. It’s an ordinary door, solid wood painted a creamy white with an electric lock that gleams. With the living room light behind them, two shadows fall across the door’s face, distinct yet overlapping. Him and Dongyoung. Or, perhaps, the person he is and the person he might have been.
He frames the perfect shot and clicks.