Somewhere Only We Know(75)

I had tried to keep my identity a secret at first, but my cover was blown almost immediately. Even without the pink hair, people recognized me in America now. It had frustrated me at first, but I had turned it into yet another way to connect with fans. I decided to make the appearances an exclusive show for Lucky fans—only giving out twenty tickets per “secret show.” It was a lottery and people were informed of the location day-of. They even had to leave their phones and cameras at the door.

The first time I had gone onstage here, last month, I was terrified. It seemed cliché, the K-pop star who performed in front of sixty thousand–seat stadiums being nervous about being solo on a small stage.

Playing my own music required a level of vulnerability that was brand-new to me. I had felt naked.

But I also felt the same energy from my old shows as Lucky. Like I did that last night in Hong Kong. The adoration and love had poured through. I felt it in the air as keenly as I did one year ago.

It had been exhilarating. This was only my third time performing and I wasn’t anywhere near getting sick of it yet.

“Thank you,” I said to the woman. “And thanks for coming to see me.”

She bit her lip. “I am trying really hard to keep my cool right now.”

I laughed, relaxing considerably. “You’re being very cool.”

“Can I do one uncool thing?” She fished for something in her bag. “Could I get your autograph?”

It was an issue of Remixed magazine. The issue from a few months back that had a special photo spread.

AS LUCKY WOULD HAVE IT

The headline still made me smile. The article opened with the photo of me at Victoria Peak. The one Jack had printed out for me.

The Reigning Queen of K-pop Spends a Day in Hong Kong Before She Takes Over the World

When this issue came out, the photos had blown up and so, I assume, had Jack’s prospects.

I had to assume, because, aside from a few emails and texts, we didn’t talk much anymore. Overhauling my career was no joke, and then moving to the US further distanced us.

It was sad, at first. But life moved on. Months passed like days. And my days were so hectic, so packed, that I blinked, and it was a year later.

The photos were special because they gave an exclusive look into my life, not through a paparazzi or fashion editorial lens, but something more intimate and thoughtful. With very few words to accompany the photos, the images captured me in very real, unstaged moments—on the brink of conquering America. It somehow told a story about me via one day spent in Hong Kong. He saw me.

It was the work of a gifted photographer. I had almost laughed when I saw the spread—photography was so obviously Jack’s passion. And he was so good at it. He only needed to recognize it.

I was pretty sure I had something to do with that, and it made me incredibly proud.

I signed the magazine and handed it back to the girl.

She gave me a thumbs-up sign. “Good luck!” She giggled nervously after saying it. “No pun intended.”

I laughed. “Thanks.”

“Oh, and also!” She stood there a beat longer, shy suddenly. “I’m a huge, huge fan. All your fans—we’re so proud of you. We’ll follow you anywhere. We want you to be happy.”

I could only nod through the lump in my throat. My fans had proven to be amazing after everything went down. I had worried about losing my base, the virtual army around the globe that supported me without fail. Instead, they had rallied behind me.

And while I was doing all this for myself, I was also doing it for them. What I had been doing before started to lack balance. It had only been for my management label and for them. To keep them happy and excited. Or so I had thought. But what had been made clear after The Later Tonight Show performance was that my fans wanted me to be happy. It was a symbiotic relationship.

Jack was right—a bit of selfishness went a long way. But for me, I knew that being purely selfish wouldn’t be fulfilling. To sit in a dark café alone playing music for myself? That wasn’t me, either. This new era of my career was finally including both. It was deeply satisfying that I could do both.

The jazz band ended their set and the crowd applauded politely. I finished the last of my water and headed to the stage.

What was noticeable and astonishing the first time I did this with my fans was the silence. They didn’t scream my name or attempt to rush me. Like the time I performed at the karaoke bar, I had an unspoken agreement with everyone there. They wanted to help me practice in this safe space.

After spending a few minutes tuning my guitar, I tapped the mic. The sound echoed pleasantly through the bar.

“Hi, I’m Catherine Nam.” I tilted my head down and played the first few notes on my guitar. It vibrated through me.

Then it was me on that stage with my cautious guitar plucking, my words and notes ringing out into the air.

Every feeling from that day was in this song. Encapsulated neatly, or not-so-neatly, into three minutes and forty-eight seconds. Each time I sang it, I felt it. I lived it. Time had passed quickly but when I performed this song, it hadn’t passed at all.

When it was over, I took a deep breath that echoed out into the speakers. I looked up to see people clapping and cheering loudly.

The noises of the bar rushed in around me and I felt cocooned in the warmth of it. Tinkling glasses, laughter, the buzz of voices deep in conversation. The scent of alcohol and bodies and a fragrant candle burning somewhere. I took a moment before I started my next song, soaking in the feeling of this show.