Every once in a while, I’ve written fiction that has a basis in reality. Because of the nature of this fiction, I call it “creative nonfiction.” Though it may seem like it’s not real at all, so I usually have to preface it as “really really really creative nonfiction.”
This is mostly actual creative nonfiction. The content is not real. It’s based off a dream I had. But the dream itself was real. I had it. So this, in a sense, is creative nonfiction. There's death and suicide alluded to, but nothing vivid (and not mine, LOL). And nobody dies in this story.
At least...in this version.
This is the story of you and me, and the world we lived in, and the light we had.
On the shore of an Eastern city, by the beach, there stands a huge tower with a mall inside. Downstairs, there are shops and services and amusements, and a huge space to perform in. Upstairs are training rooms and dorms. It is a place owned by a very prestigious Asian record label -- Avex or Johnny’s or SM or JYP, I don’t know, but I don’t care. Many different idols and bands live and perform here, safe from the outside world.
It’s here that you make your debut, with your bandmates.
The owner of the building decides that it’s a good idea to have female staffers on hand to assist the idols, to run errands for them and ensure they have everything they need. I’m not sure why I’m in Asia, or what brought me there, but I’m young and American and I apparently speak the language, so of course I’m picked. I meet all of the girl groups and boy bands, and for one boy in particular, it is love at first sight.
He’s the leader of your band. We never meet in private, only agree to date at the mall where everybody can see us, and never take things seriously. It’s not a ‘real’ relationship, per se, but we still love and respect each other while all the fans can still scream at him. And as I’m an employee of the mall, I’m protected from harassment. (Not to mention I’m sure all the pictures of him and me make the tabloids.)
I’m able to go up to you guys after performances in the green room, congratulate you, deliver all of the presents and letters and flowers the fans have left. And he and I are allowed to exchange formalities, and I become friends with the rest of the group -- including you. And somehow, we all manage to jive. I’m invited into the circle, into the rare nights in your dorms where you stay up late, eating snacks and laughing and generally being silly.
In the midst of all of this, you never learn my name. And you don’t ask why.
You don’t show up to practice, and I’m asked to collect you from the dorm.
When I arrive, you’re on the floor, in your sweatpants, staring at the ceiling. There is a blank look in your eyes. You haven’t moved in apparently three days.
I pull you up off the floor without asking, pull a protein bar from your stash, force feed it to you. Then, I drag you to practice. Asian staffers wouldn’t have done this. American staffers shouldn’t be doing this. But I tell you to go now, and we’ll talk later. And I make good on my promise. I visit him that night, with the rest of you. Your band is on a variety show, and we stay up and watch it, laughing together. Even though my hand is in his, I’m looking mostly at you, and you at me.
When they have fallen asleep, I fake a leave, then we sit outside. You struggle to find the words you want to say properly. You’re not sure they even exist in your language. You’re not measuring up, you say. It’s odd to me. You’re clearly the standout star of this band and yet you loathe your own existence, feel you are the weakest link in this many-membered team.
I cross my arms over my pink mall polo and simply listen, unsure as to how to respond. But you still nod a ‘goodnight’ to me as I head back to my own dorm. The next time we meet, you follow me out and we sit together, the same thing. We do this five or six times before I realize I don’t have to say anything. You just want to talk to someone, and nobody is listening, and I am here, the only Westerner in this goshforsaken building who knows a thing or two about mental illness.
I can’t prescribe anything, but I do tell you to see a doctor. You do. He says nothing.
That night, we escape the mall under the cover of night. The city blurs all around us as we enter a small shop, and over some sort of noodle dish -- ramen? -- we pour out our souls to each other. And we realize we are the same person. We both want to create music, but we’re being held back by the world around us. There’s too much pressure to be perfect, so we stay quiet and don’t say anything. Could it be possible, I ask, for us to create in secret, then to share what we’ve written? For an audience of one? You don’t even think about it -- you give me an immediate smile.
It’s only later while walking back to the mall that I realize I’ve been here before. I know how this story ends. And I’m quite certain I’m powerless to stop it.
You film your next music video by the beach, all the way to the west where there are no buildings. Later, you send me a picture of it. Wouldn’t this be a great place to end?
I barge into your dorm room at night. You’re sitting, looking at something on your phone, but I shove my phone into your face. What is this? Explain this to me! And you don’t say a word, and I know. I know exactly what you are planning, because I know how this story ends. Everybody knows how this story ends. And yet, something still doesn’t feel right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen, but I don’t remember that yet.
Instead, I do what any hot-blooded American girl would do: I try to talk you out of it. It mostly consists of me yelling at you about why would you do this and what about your band and somewhere in the middle, I get tired of yelling. I grab you and pull you close, and the next words out of my mouth are the three I should not be saying.
And in the midst of crying out, silently weeping what I’ve been holding in, I realize the truth. I can try to stop you, but I can’t win. I should know better than anybody else that if someone wants to go, nobody and nothing can hold them back. Even if they are stopped now, it’s just a matter of buying time before they leave this world alone.
I pull back. Your eyes are the same as the day I found you staring at the ceiling. I know you’re sick. So do you. But I relent. I look you in the eye, and I say that, while I don’t understand, I accept that I cannot stop you. I accept your decision with a smile, knowing that once I leave this room, I will never see you again.
You do not say a single word as I do.
The next morning, around noon, I get a text message from your sister. Have you seen him? He’s not answering my texts. And I know.
I’m standing in the middle of the mall, near the sliding doors that lead outside to the boardwalk and the beach. Everything is happy around me, but I’m left with a decision. I can continue to respect your wishes, or I can go after you and try to save your life. I wrestle with this for too many minutes before I find myself staring down at her text message.
And I decide I have to at least try, for her. So I can say I at least searched for you. Since I know where to find you, I pocket my phone and simply run to the doors. I’m planning on simply glancing for you, not seeing you, then running back inside and messaging her. Innocent as ever. Unknowing of the journey you are on.
I make it two steps outside.
I scream your name.
I don’t even make it most of the way through your name before my voice is swallowed up by the sudden snowstorm that has arrived outside.
I’m bowled over, screaming, freezing in my polo and jeans, trying to grab a hold of the glass doors. There’s a commotion behind me, and I’m pulled back into the mall, and there are staffers around me with towels and asking if I’m all right.
I can’t stop the sobs, and I bow, and I scream, “Please -- please save him!”
It takes about five minutes for the staffers to assemble the resources we need. They ask if I’m coming with a tone that means no, but I pull out my big-ass coat and whip it on. I’m going to find you, whether you’re dead or not.
There are about ten of us, and we climb onto one of those dune buggies and are off. This has to be the worst snowstorm to hit the area in years. I can’t even see the city from my perch, but I pull my hood around my face and give the man driving instructions as to where you probably are. I keep my mind busy by singing your songs to myself, unwilling to think about the truth.
We stop before we get to the place you specified in your text, finding a figure kneeling in the sand. The snowstorm has stopped you from reaching your final resting place.
The staffers surround you with blankets and pull you onto the buggy, laying you down and stabilizing you. You’re unconscious, but breathing, and their concern is warming you before you lose a finger or worse. I sit above you while we ride back, making sure you don’t fall off. I know that when you wake, you’ll be mad at me, but I hope it’ll be the wake up call the staff finally need to get you proper help.
It’s cold, and I don’t have gloves, but I still hang onto you. When my hand brushes up against yours, you grab it, slowly, and somehow, I can feel you know it’s me.
When we arrive back, they take you away to safety, and I’m left standing alone in the mall. And the world begins to turn on me, and the story replays over again, and my brain snaps to judgement. This isn’t real. The world starts turning. I’m at the mall -- them I’m at work -- then I’m in a meeting --
and I wake up, in my own bed, out of a coma, still reaching for you.
This is mostly actual creative nonfiction. The content is not real. It’s based off a dream I had. But the dream itself was real. I had it. So this, in a sense, is creative nonfiction. There's death and suicide alluded to, but nothing vivid (and not mine, LOL). And nobody dies in this story.
At least...in this version.
This is the story of you and me, and the world we lived in, and the light we had.
On the shore of an Eastern city, by the beach, there stands a huge tower with a mall inside. Downstairs, there are shops and services and amusements, and a huge space to perform in. Upstairs are training rooms and dorms. It is a place owned by a very prestigious Asian record label -- Avex or Johnny’s or SM or JYP, I don’t know, but I don’t care. Many different idols and bands live and perform here, safe from the outside world.
It’s here that you make your debut, with your bandmates.
The owner of the building decides that it’s a good idea to have female staffers on hand to assist the idols, to run errands for them and ensure they have everything they need. I’m not sure why I’m in Asia, or what brought me there, but I’m young and American and I apparently speak the language, so of course I’m picked. I meet all of the girl groups and boy bands, and for one boy in particular, it is love at first sight.
He’s the leader of your band. We never meet in private, only agree to date at the mall where everybody can see us, and never take things seriously. It’s not a ‘real’ relationship, per se, but we still love and respect each other while all the fans can still scream at him. And as I’m an employee of the mall, I’m protected from harassment. (Not to mention I’m sure all the pictures of him and me make the tabloids.)
I’m able to go up to you guys after performances in the green room, congratulate you, deliver all of the presents and letters and flowers the fans have left. And he and I are allowed to exchange formalities, and I become friends with the rest of the group -- including you. And somehow, we all manage to jive. I’m invited into the circle, into the rare nights in your dorms where you stay up late, eating snacks and laughing and generally being silly.
In the midst of all of this, you never learn my name. And you don’t ask why.
You don’t show up to practice, and I’m asked to collect you from the dorm.
When I arrive, you’re on the floor, in your sweatpants, staring at the ceiling. There is a blank look in your eyes. You haven’t moved in apparently three days.
I pull you up off the floor without asking, pull a protein bar from your stash, force feed it to you. Then, I drag you to practice. Asian staffers wouldn’t have done this. American staffers shouldn’t be doing this. But I tell you to go now, and we’ll talk later. And I make good on my promise. I visit him that night, with the rest of you. Your band is on a variety show, and we stay up and watch it, laughing together. Even though my hand is in his, I’m looking mostly at you, and you at me.
When they have fallen asleep, I fake a leave, then we sit outside. You struggle to find the words you want to say properly. You’re not sure they even exist in your language. You’re not measuring up, you say. It’s odd to me. You’re clearly the standout star of this band and yet you loathe your own existence, feel you are the weakest link in this many-membered team.
I cross my arms over my pink mall polo and simply listen, unsure as to how to respond. But you still nod a ‘goodnight’ to me as I head back to my own dorm. The next time we meet, you follow me out and we sit together, the same thing. We do this five or six times before I realize I don’t have to say anything. You just want to talk to someone, and nobody is listening, and I am here, the only Westerner in this goshforsaken building who knows a thing or two about mental illness.
I can’t prescribe anything, but I do tell you to see a doctor. You do. He says nothing.
That night, we escape the mall under the cover of night. The city blurs all around us as we enter a small shop, and over some sort of noodle dish -- ramen? -- we pour out our souls to each other. And we realize we are the same person. We both want to create music, but we’re being held back by the world around us. There’s too much pressure to be perfect, so we stay quiet and don’t say anything. Could it be possible, I ask, for us to create in secret, then to share what we’ve written? For an audience of one? You don’t even think about it -- you give me an immediate smile.
It’s only later while walking back to the mall that I realize I’ve been here before. I know how this story ends. And I’m quite certain I’m powerless to stop it.
You film your next music video by the beach, all the way to the west where there are no buildings. Later, you send me a picture of it. Wouldn’t this be a great place to end?
I barge into your dorm room at night. You’re sitting, looking at something on your phone, but I shove my phone into your face. What is this? Explain this to me! And you don’t say a word, and I know. I know exactly what you are planning, because I know how this story ends. Everybody knows how this story ends. And yet, something still doesn’t feel right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen, but I don’t remember that yet.
Instead, I do what any hot-blooded American girl would do: I try to talk you out of it. It mostly consists of me yelling at you about why would you do this and what about your band and somewhere in the middle, I get tired of yelling. I grab you and pull you close, and the next words out of my mouth are the three I should not be saying.
And in the midst of crying out, silently weeping what I’ve been holding in, I realize the truth. I can try to stop you, but I can’t win. I should know better than anybody else that if someone wants to go, nobody and nothing can hold them back. Even if they are stopped now, it’s just a matter of buying time before they leave this world alone.
I pull back. Your eyes are the same as the day I found you staring at the ceiling. I know you’re sick. So do you. But I relent. I look you in the eye, and I say that, while I don’t understand, I accept that I cannot stop you. I accept your decision with a smile, knowing that once I leave this room, I will never see you again.
You do not say a single word as I do.
The next morning, around noon, I get a text message from your sister. Have you seen him? He’s not answering my texts. And I know.
I’m standing in the middle of the mall, near the sliding doors that lead outside to the boardwalk and the beach. Everything is happy around me, but I’m left with a decision. I can continue to respect your wishes, or I can go after you and try to save your life. I wrestle with this for too many minutes before I find myself staring down at her text message.
And I decide I have to at least try, for her. So I can say I at least searched for you. Since I know where to find you, I pocket my phone and simply run to the doors. I’m planning on simply glancing for you, not seeing you, then running back inside and messaging her. Innocent as ever. Unknowing of the journey you are on.
I make it two steps outside.
I scream your name.
I don’t even make it most of the way through your name before my voice is swallowed up by the sudden snowstorm that has arrived outside.
I’m bowled over, screaming, freezing in my polo and jeans, trying to grab a hold of the glass doors. There’s a commotion behind me, and I’m pulled back into the mall, and there are staffers around me with towels and asking if I’m all right.
I can’t stop the sobs, and I bow, and I scream, “Please -- please save him!”
It takes about five minutes for the staffers to assemble the resources we need. They ask if I’m coming with a tone that means no, but I pull out my big-ass coat and whip it on. I’m going to find you, whether you’re dead or not.
There are about ten of us, and we climb onto one of those dune buggies and are off. This has to be the worst snowstorm to hit the area in years. I can’t even see the city from my perch, but I pull my hood around my face and give the man driving instructions as to where you probably are. I keep my mind busy by singing your songs to myself, unwilling to think about the truth.
We stop before we get to the place you specified in your text, finding a figure kneeling in the sand. The snowstorm has stopped you from reaching your final resting place.
The staffers surround you with blankets and pull you onto the buggy, laying you down and stabilizing you. You’re unconscious, but breathing, and their concern is warming you before you lose a finger or worse. I sit above you while we ride back, making sure you don’t fall off. I know that when you wake, you’ll be mad at me, but I hope it’ll be the wake up call the staff finally need to get you proper help.
It’s cold, and I don’t have gloves, but I still hang onto you. When my hand brushes up against yours, you grab it, slowly, and somehow, I can feel you know it’s me.
When we arrive back, they take you away to safety, and I’m left standing alone in the mall. And the world begins to turn on me, and the story replays over again, and my brain snaps to judgement. This isn’t real. The world starts turning. I’m at the mall -- them I’m at work -- then I’m in a meeting --
and I wake up, in my own bed, out of a coma, still reaching for you.