Firstly, Ness is your biggest fan.

Secondly, he is an idol.

Some days, he desired he could have the sort of bliss that those photographers who take photos for fansites in the front row have, or the girls screaming your name have, or the residents of the media-blind world have. It’s a dumb thought. Ness is aware he is more privileged than any of them; it is he who is granted the highest honor to pray at the crown’s perch; it is he who has been blessed lips for clandestine moments in changing rooms, he who has hands to reverently grace inked skin.

Your love has ebbed away now, left drained in long blue dye streak-stains in a sink in your shared hometown. I want to be an idol, you whispered then, and Ness could only echo that he wished the same. He grasped your bare hands closely and secretly wished instead that he could hold them forevermore. You were so young and rash back then, and he can’t help but recall how nice it felt to laugh and sing and cry under Germany’s sun. Korea isn’t the same; you’re a sharp blade now, and Ness can’t help but tighten his palm.

You broke up with him a few weeks ago. It was a rough, turmoil-stricken relationship which lasted far longer than it should’ve.

“Thank you, everyone!” Ness’ smile is battle-worn and distasteful—he’s practiced it so much times that it feels like nothing anymore. He waves towards the sea of pink and blue glowsticks as if he is not shattered on the inside, as if his body does not ache of grief. His thorn-lashed throat provides the next words for him automatically; he is not all there mentally, “It’s been a pleasure performing for all of you!”

You are seraphic under the spotlights—ethereal everywhere, but Ness knows that of all the superlunar realms, the stage catches your essence most. The audience knows nothing of your divine retribution. Ness is special in that way. They yell regardless:

Encore, encore!

He gives a miserable, tired glance to his ex. Would their manager let them do another song? It’d probably be up to your word.