The city didn't sleep. It pulsed, a neon heart beating to the rhythm of distant traffic and the ever-present hum of ambition. To Emaira, Mumbai was a beautiful, chaotic dream—a world away from the quiet, tree-lined streets of her hometown. An internship at a premier fashion magazine was her golden ticket, a step into a future she had meticulously planned.
But every plan she had ever made was built around a single, unchangeable axis: Kim Taemin.
For ten years, he had been the sun in her solar system. Not just a K-pop idol, but a religion. His voice was the soundtrack to her highest joys and deepest sorrows. His face, a masterpiece of artistry and ethereal beauty, was the last thing she saw on her phone before sleep claimed her each night. Her room was a shrine, a testament to a devotion that bordered on the sacred. Posters, albums, official merchandise—she owned it all, a collection curated with the fervor of a high priestess. She didn't just love him; she existed for him. He was the unattainable star she had built her entire lonely universe around.
Her first week in the city was a blur of new faces, intimidating offices, and the exhausting effort of appearing normal. Tonight, however, was for herself. A senior at the internship, a kind girl named Priya who had noticed Alvira's quiet awe, had invited her out.
"You can't live in Mumbai and not experience the rooftop bars," Priya had declared. "Especially this one. It's where the city's elite hide."
The bar was called 'Aether,' a name that suited its cloud-scraping altitude. It was all low lighting, soft jazz, and the clink of expensive glassware. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and wealth. Emaira felt like an imposter in her simple black dress, her fingers nervously tracing the condensation on her mocktail glass.
She excused herself from the group, needing a moment to breathe, to quiet the hum of social anxiety. She found a quieter corner near a floor-to-ceiling window that offered a breathtaking, dizzying view of the Queen's Necklace, the city's coastline glittering like a spilled diamond necklace.
And that's when she saw him.
A reflection in the dark glass.
At first, her mind refused to process it. It was a trick of the light, a phantom conjured by a decade of longing. A man stood a few feet away, his back to her, talking in low, hushed tones to another man in a sharp suit. He was tall, wearing a black tailored jacket that hugged broad shoulders, his posture radiating an effortless, coiled grace that was painfully familiar.
Her heart gave a single, hard thud against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of denial.
No. It's impossible.
He turned slightly, profile cutting a sharp, elegant line against the city lights. The perfectly tousled dark hair. The strong brow. The slope of his nose. That mouth—the one she had dreamed of tracing with her fingertips—was set in a serious, almost impatient line.
It was him.
Kim Taemin. Her Taemin. In the flesh. Not on a screen, not on a poster, but breathing the same rarefied air, mere feet away from her.
The world screeched to a halt. Sound faded into a dull, roaring silence. Her mocktail slipped from her numb fingers, shattering on the polished concrete floor with a crash that was deafening in the hushed ambiance.
He flinched at the sound, his conversation cutting off. And then he turned.
His gaze, dark and slightly irritated, swept over the source of the disruption. It landed on her.
Time stretched, thin and brittle. Emaira was frozen, a statue of pure shock. Her lungs seized, refusing to draw air. Up close, he was more than a photograph. He was real. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The subtle scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darkly citrus—wafted towards her, intoxicating. The sheer, overwhelming presence of him was a physical force, pressing the air from her chest.
His eyes, deep pools of obsidian she had spent a lifetime getting lost in, held hers. The initial flicker of annoyance in them shifted, morphing into a flicker of something else. Curiosity, perhaps. Or bemusement. She was a spectacle, a girl standing amidst the ruins of her own drink, staring at him as if she'd seen a ghost.
A staff member rushed over, apologizing profusely to him and beginning to clean the mess. Taehyung held up a hand, a silent, dismissive gesture that spoke of absolute authority. The staff member froze, then retreated.
He took a step toward her. Then another. Closing the distance she had spent ten years desperately trying to cross.
Emaira's mind was a screaming void. Every fantasy, every practiced speech for if she ever met him, evaporated. She was just raw, exposed nerve endings.
He stopped in front of her. So close she could see the individual lashes framing his beautiful, unnerving eyes.
"Are you alright?" he asked. His voice. God, his voice. It was deeper than in interviews, laced with a smooth, melodic baritone that vibrated right through her. It wasn't the bright, playful tone he used for fans. This was private, intimate.
She tried to speak, but her throat was sandpaper. All that came out was a strangled, breathy whisper. "I… you…"
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. It was a cool, assessing look. He was used to this—to people being struck dumb in his presence. But there was an intensity in her stare that was different from the usual fan frenzy. It was absolute, total recognition. It was worship.
He glanced down at the shattered glass, then back at her face, his eyes tracing her features—her wide, terrified eyes, her parted lips, the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat.
"You know who I am," he stated. It wasn't a question.
She managed a jerky nod, her entire body trembling.
He leaned in slightly, and for one heart-stopping second, she thought he might whisper a secret in her ear. Instead, his gaze dropped to the lanyard hanging from her purse—her intern identification.
"Emaira," he read her name aloud. Her name on his lips was a prayer, a blasphemy, the most beautiful and terrifying thing she had ever heard. He let it hang in the air between them, a tangible thing.
His eyes lifted back to hers, and the amusement was gone, replaced by something darker, more intense. Something that looked strangely like… recognition. As if he'd been waiting for her, too.
"Be careful, Emaira," he said, his voice so low only she could hear it. "It's a long way down."
He wasn't looking at the broken glass anymore. He was looking at her, and the dizzying drop right behind her.
Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone. He turned and walked away, melting back into the shadows of the exclusive bar with his companion, leaving her alone amidst the shimmering fragments of her old reality.
Emaira stood there, rooted to the spot, the echo of his voice and the scent of his cologne clinging to her. The world rushed back in, loud and garish, but it was different now. It had been fractured and remade.
He had seen her. He had spoken her name.
And in the deep, obsidian pool of his eyes, she had seen not just a star, but a darkness that called to the very same darkness living inside her. A decade of loving him from afar had ended in a single, shattered moment.
The obsession had just become a conversation. And it had only just begun.
To be continued...