The Double

𝒮𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓃

The next day, I wake up early, right at dawn, and lie for a moment on the sheets debating whether to get up or go back to sleep. After the emotional eruption of the previous night, I'd thought my rest would be wrecked by nightmares but I slept better than I have in a long time. Out of habit, I check my phone. No texts from Taehyung, the same as always, because he had never thought about me as anything other than a job.

Right. Get up.

In the bathroom, I check my skin. As hoped the blotches are hone. My eyes are lit with a subtle golden light, a nice side effect from crying, as if I've flooded the impurities out of my eyeballs. I wash up, and after I remove the traces of tears from my cheeks, I'm refreshed in a way that I haven't felt in a while.

Back in the main suite, I make a coffee from the pod machine and pull out my laptop to transcribe and organize all the notes about my new task system. My breakdown last night was an eye-opener and I face the coming day with something approaching zest. Fuck Taehyung. He think I suck? I'll show him. He thinks I'm not trying? Screw him.

Fuck Ben, on principle.

I'm on a roll. Fuck you, Taehyung, and you, Ben, and you Ira, for making conversation hard even though I was an asshole to blame you for my shortcomings. not you, Duna. You're okay.

I might be fueled by negative energy but I tap away with frantic fingers, not even going back to correct my typos because I don't want to break my train of thought. I lose myself in my own words as I write, each idea leading to another and connecting again. I'm so involved that I don't even notice Ira entering the room—since she comes from the adjoining suite, the multiple door locks don't block her—until she sits beside me at the table. Even then it takes me a few seconds to get out of my mind space.

She says nothing but puts her tablet down the table in front of me. it shoes a photo of me from last night, and although I'm initially relieved to see that I look exactly like Duna because makeup is magic, I can tell from Ira's face the story isn't as positive as it could be. I skim the text.

Korean megastar Lee Duna was missing her mega-watt smile last night at a private exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art. It might have been the sore throat that prevented her from speaking, but sources say there's trouble in paradise in her rumored long-time relationship with superstar Kim Taehyung. Both are in Orange County starring in Operation Forgotten, a historical drama showing at the Royal Theatre.

"Who are the sources?" I ask. This is bad news because I thought Taehyung and I had been doing quite well, at least in public.

Ira says nothing, as usual.

Duna comes in, her eyes wide. "What happened?" she demands. When she sits, her right leg jiggles up and down in rapid speed.

"It was my fault," I say. Duna isn't herself.

"I thought you said you were getting along." Her leg moves faster, and Ira shifts her gaze to the floor.

"We are." I lower my voice to soothe her. Ira meets my eye but I can't tell what she's thinking so I'm on my own. "Duna, look at me."

She does with wide eyes that I don't like the look of.

"It was my fault," I repeat slowly. "I'm sorry. I'll do better."

This seems to get through because the leg shaking slows.

"It was an off night," I say. "I was nervous but I know what to expect now. It won't happen again."

As I say the words, I realize I mean them. Despite the dickish way he delivered the message, Taehyung was right. I've been a half person, just doing the bare minimum to get by because I haven't had the spirit to do more, not with Ben and my mom and life. I don't want that anymore. I told Duna I'd do a job and I'm going to do it, but in my own way. I've been too passive, a balloon buffeted by the wind.