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It's just an observation "We don't seem that close" as she's examining your selfie, the one that will end up on the SNS after you tweak all the colors and filters to your satisfaction. It's true, your hand would've gone around her narrow shoulders and the space between your bodies could've been less if the picture was to stay safely in your camera roll. The world will examine it with a magnifying glass and fans will repost it a few hundred times though.
You're close to a lot of women in the industry it would be weird if you weren't. You have no problem hugging them in the pictures.
You've been tempting fate already as is just to see how far the public would take it. You're Bonny and Clyde one day and twins another. The fans are confused but supportive and lately settled on labelling you as siblings. You wish you knew what you were. The thought tastes like yesterday tea - bitter and too cold.
"Do you really need another dating scandal?" You say it as carefully as humanly possible but something still slips in between and she catches it. Being mislabelled by strangers not the greatest concern of yours anymore but it stings.
"But we never got a dating rumour, Kibum-ah?"
You stretch languidly. "Because we have been marketed as siblings on national television?"
"That's not very convincing."
"They think I'm gay and you're into younger girls this days. And we already have a breakup song."
It's an inside joke, almost. After all she did hate almost all of her group title tracks and well. If you dared to say anything about it she could always remind you that you did, too.
Your only collaborative work didn't do all that well on charts but that's not the point. You liked it. It's out there, and neither one of you can erase it.
...
You know what it's like to steal gazes at someone too beautiful. You're so used to your members it doesn't phase you anymore, and anyway between the five of you you can look all you want. Sometimes even touch. But other people, unless you're going to do something about it you just steal short bursts of attention.
You've got your even share of troubles and tears and break ups to blush when someone is giving you appreciative looks, so you don't. You can feel her eyes and suppress the shiver, you haven't decided yet if it's wanted or not. She doesn't care and with a manicured nail caught between teeth unabashedly stares.
Being seen didn't use to feel so jarring, you fought too hard for the spotlight to not appreciate it. The life was going too fast and then you had your own heart troubles and she was into other pretty boys. And then nothing even fucking mattered anymore and how dare it?
You recently dyed your hair black and you look fucking good blonde, but black... she likes that. Fuck if you can tell where that knowledge comes from. You can feel her approval rolling off in waves and it makes you want to do stupid things. You're supposed to be too old for this shit, and if not then at least experienced, yet here you are. Staring back.
...
You're wandering european streets, so foreign and exotic. The store fronts and displays are in alien languages, shops looking so inviting and no one, not a single soul recognising your face.
There's a type of commotion, though, people whispering and looking back when someone too alluring passes by. It's not about you. You look too. He's so tall (everyone is tall next to you, nuna) and pale and his hair is so dark something twists inside of you at the image. You don't even notice what he's wearing, just the profile, dark eyes and a ridiculous earring. Someone discretely (not at all) takes a phone out to make a photo, but no one is shouting his name - he passes by and you exhale, blending in with the walking crowd.
You didn't know he was in Paris. Heart beating a little too fast you stop, nervous for no real reason. It's unfortunate, you conclude, it would've been better to not have looked; now you're out of breath, out of the tranquil mood, clutching phone case too tightly. You suddenly feel envious of the person smart enough to have taken a photo, even if they don't know exactly how precious it is.
Your phone pings, absent minded you check the notification. Did your manager want something? Wouldn't it be ridiculous to get a message from him?
It's just a reminder to take your medicine, you swipe it away hurriedly.
You're in the hotel, doing your evening routine when the message arrives "You didn't say you're in Paris?"
You stupidly, impulsively, send back your address and a suite number. That's the most brazen you've felt in years. Must be something in the air and the time difference.
You wonder if there will be a call from the reception. If you'll drink wine or nothing at all, afraid of losing time for this one chance that will never repeat itself. If it will be awkward between your pointy hipbones and his soft belly and height difference. How close will be too close too soon? How good will his mouth prove to be? If his hair will feel as fried and harsh as it looks under your fingers.
It doesn't worry you, what he'll choose, if he'll come or not. Either way you're bringing home only good memories.