To Love an Idol

The taxi curved through narrow Seoul streets, the city flickering past in a blur of neon and fogged-up glass. I pressed my forehead against the window, letting the coolness seep into my skin. Outside, the sidewalks were slick with melted snow and glowing with reflections—shop signs in Hangul, the shimmer of headlights, a kaleidoscope of movement that didn’t care whether I was watching.

I wasn’t running away, not really. At least, not in the dramatic way people usually meant. No shouting match. No slammed doors. Just the quiet kind of leaving—the kind that settles in your bones over time until you wake up one day and realize you’re already halfway gone.

I’d been with Marc for almost six years. He was kind, dependable, always asked if I needed anything when he got home from work. But the spark, the ache of wanting, had dulled long before either of us admitted it. It ended almost the way it had begun: with an awkward hug, boxes packed carefully, and a coffee that neither of us finished.

That had been weeks ago.

Now I was in a city where no one knew my name.

Korea wasn’t completely foreign to me. I’d studied Korean for a few years, mostly out of curiosity. I could get by in conversations, even if my grammar was shaky. The company I worked at—an international branding firm based in Vancouver—had recently formed a joint venture with a boutique Korean firm that specialized in entertainment clients. My manager thought I was the perfect fit. He pitched it like an opportunity of a lifetime: six months abroad, fully paid housing, a generous stipend... and International experience that would elevate my role when I came back.

And maybe, underneath the bullet points and business jargon, they knew I needed a change.

Six months. That was the limit. Half a year to breathe somewhere else, to try on a life that wasn’t mine, before returning to the one I’d outgrown.

I traced the edge of the cab’s leather seat with my fingers as the driver took another turn in my upscale neighborhood. My apartment was only a few blocks away, tucked away in a sea of skyscrapers. It was clean, minimalist... Sterile, if I were honest. Like living in a hotel room where no one had ever stayed. But it was mine, for now.

The driver pulled up to the curb and I paid, offering a polite thank you in his native tongue. As I stepped out, the cold bit into my fingers, but I didn’t rush. I stood for a moment and looked up at the tall buildings around me, lit windows stacked like stars.

Tomorrow was Monday. Another week at the office. Another stretch of silent lunches, polite bows, and the distant hum of a language that made me feel like a tourist in my own life.

I wasn’t lonely exactly. Just untethered.

I didn’t want to go straight home. My boots took me to a bar I’d saved on my phone weeks ago, before I even landed in Seoul, but never visited. It was close by, hidden on a side street, down a short flight of steps. A green awning above the entrance, the sound of soft K-pop spilling onto the pavement.

Inside, it was warm. Dim lighting, wooden walls lined with vintage posters and dusty bottles. The kind of place people came to disappear into their own thoughts. A few patrons drifted past me on their way out, laughter slurred but bright. I wasn’t sure if it was the country, the city, or simply this pocket of it, but the rituals of drinking carried a weight I’d never witnessed before. Maybe I’d just been sheltered.

I slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered something familiar: a gin and tonic. The bartender gave a small nod and turned away to make it. Before arriving, I’d worried my Korean might stumble me, but so far I’d managed better than expected. People had been patient, meeting me halfway when needed, and it made the city feel less intimidating than I’d feared.

Around me, voices rose and fell in low conversation—mostly Korean, with the occasional English phrase slipping through. No flashy tourists, influencers or expats. Just locals winding down. A pair of middle-aged men clinked soju glasses at the end of the bar. Someone laughed softly in a corner booth. I took a sip of my drink and let the warmth coat my throat.

Then a song drifted through the speakers. Soft. Melodic. Piano and synth woven under a voice like velvet.

I knew the song. I’d heard it in shops, in cafés, seeping out of convenience stores. Back home they played K-pop too, but here, it felt different—everywhere, like part of the air itself. Out of curiosity, I’d started exploring more, letting myself get pulled into playlists and charts I’d never touched before. The same name kept appearing: VYRON.

And that voice… it had gotten under my skin. Honey-smooth, threaded with sorrow, like it carried secrets. It was the kind of voice that stayed with you long after the song ended. I didn’t know his name, but I’d caught myself replaying tracks just to hear it again.

Now I hummed along without thinking, soft and low, like muscle memory.

“That’s a sad one,” a low voice said beside me, his accent softening the edges of the words in a way that caught my attention.

I turned.

A man sat a few stools down, but the space between us felt narrow, like everything in the bar had been built for intimacy. He was tall and lean beneath an oversized hoodie, a ball cap pulled low, with sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose—odd, considering the sun had long since set and the bar was lit in nothing but amber glow.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The song.” He tilted his head toward the speaker overhead. “Sounds like heartbreak.”

I half-smiled. “Yeah. I guess it does.”

“You know it?” His voice was low and smooth. Lightly amused.

I nodded. “I’ve heard it a few times. I mean, who hasn’t?”

He nodded slowly, a smile playing around the edge of his lips.

For a few moments, we both just listened. The music swelled, the lyrics bleeding into each other.

I felt his eyes study me from behind his shades.

“Rough night?”

I hesitated. Then: “Rough year.”

He nodded, like he actually understood.

The song slipped into its bridge, softer now, fading into the walls, and I noticed his fingers tapping a rhythm against the side of his glass. Not nervously. Just… instinctively. Like his hands had their own memories.

A server dropped off a tray nearby, glanced at the man, and faltered. His eyes widened just a fraction before he swallowed it down, bowing quickly and retreating.

The man adjusted his cap lower, expression unreadable. I brushed it off.

“You seem to know this song too,” I said.

“You could say that. It’s different when you know what it’s about,” he added.

“Oh yeah?” I tilted my head. “You know the group personally or something?”

There was a flicker in the way his mouth twitched. “Maybe.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re being...vague.”

“I’m being careful.”

“Why?”

He lowered his glasses and looked at me—really looked—and there was something in his gaze that made my chest go still. Like he was seeing all the things I’d carefully kept hidden.

“Because people don’t usually look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”

My pulse jumped.

He had one of those faces that made your brain stall: sharp jawline, full mouth, lashes so dark and long it felt unfair. His hoodie was plain, but the gap at his collar hinted at lean muscle and sculpted lines. And his hands—I don’t know why I noticed, maybe it was the way he held his glass, casual but deliberate—were big, veined, graceful. Hands that made things. Music, maybe. Art. Something that required care.

I cleared my throat and looked away, but not fast enough. He saw the shift in my face. His smile returned, slower this time.

“What?” I asked.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said, amused.

I turned back towards him.

“I’m Hanna,” I said, almost without thinking.

A beat. Then, “Nice to meet you, Hanna.”

He held out a hand. I shook it.

And the contact, warm, steady, sure, sent a jolt up my arm, like touching a live wire under a calm surface.

He didn’t let go right away. Just long enough for it to matter.

The song ended.

The moment didn’t.

We sat like that for another thirty minutes, not really drinking, not talking much. Just existing in the same pocket of peace. Every once in a while, he’d ask me something small, and I gave vague answers, the half-truth kind. He didn’t push.

He didn’t say much about himself either. Just that he used to be in music. Just that he wasn’t sure what he was doing now.

I didn’t believe him completely, but I liked the way he said it, like it was the first real thing he’d said all night.

Eventually, I checked the time and sighed. “I should go. Long day tomorrow.”

He nodded like he expected it. “Can I walk with you?”

It didn’t feel like a line. It was the tone: calm, respectful. A question, not an assumption.

A man wearing sunglasses indoors should’ve been a red flag. But something about him—his quiet confidence, the warmth in his voice—held my attention. I told myself he was either a creep or a celebrity. Still, there was a strange sense of safety I felt in Korea, and for the first time in a while, it felt good to have a conversation with a local. So, I jumped at the chance to potentially make a new friend.

“Sure.”

Outside, the air hit colder than I expected, sharp enough to make me fold my arms across my torso. The night smelled like the city: exhaust fumes, fried food from a nearby stall, and the faint scent of winter starting to loosen its grip.

He pulled his hood lower and pushed his glasses closer to his face.

Then, without a word, he reached into the front pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a scarf. Soft charcoal gray, the kind that looked expensive. He held it out to me.

“Oh, no, I’m fine, really,” I said, half-protesting as I waved it off.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Keep it. I have plenty.”

Something in his tone, casual but just a little insistent, made it feel less like charity and more like care. So I took it. The fabric was softer than I expected, warm and clean and carrying the faintest trace of his cologne. I wanted to pretend I wasn’t cold, but the second it was around my neck, I felt my whole body exhale.

“So,” he asked after a block, “where’s home for you, I mean, your home country?”

I sighed and answered, “Somewhere that stopped feeling like home a while ago.”

He glanced over. “Yeah. I know that one.”

“Canada.” I just added with a tilt of my lips.

We stopped at a corner near my building. The glow from the streetlamp fell between us, soft and amber. As if he felt my unease to have him know where I lived, he nodded.

“Thanks,” I said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “For walking me out. And for… not being creepy.”

He laughed. “That’s a low bar, but I’m glad I’m above it.”

“You exceeded it, actually. Despite the shady glasses.”

“Oh, really?”

I raised a brow. “Yeah, well... you didn’t ask for my number.”

His mouth curved. “Should I have?”

I tilted my head. “I think if you wanted it, you would’ve asked.”

He held my gaze for a moment, longer than he needed to.

But instead of reaching for more, he just gave me a smile. Not a flashy one, something quieter. Like a secret he wasn’t ready to tell.

“Goodnight, Hanna.”

I took a step back, toward my building. “Goodnight, mystery man.”

And when I looked over my shoulder, he was already walking away.

Author’s note:

This story is being posted chapter by chapter ✨

New chapters go live every Tuesday & Friday📅

If you’re here early, thank you 🖤

What line or moment pulled you in?

M

xo