Jungkook steps out in the cold into the small convenience store whose contents have fed him the last couple of days. It is winter in Seoul, Korea, where he once knew of his love and how he would go about loving her. These days, he hasn't a clue. His love, Yeri, is back now with her parents. He is here alone, free from the untidy bits of idol life for the moment. He found himself confronted in this manner with the conviction that the girl in the world whom he has supposed to be the least sordid had left him. Every day, like a vulgar adventurer, he drags himself into action-- to any form of kinetics. He wondered whether Yeri is unhappy as he is. He distinctly remember one time Yeri telling him coldly, "I don't believe you're unhappy; I believe you like it." "Did I say I was unhappy?" Jungkook asked with a face grave enough to suggest that he might have been. Unhappy people often turn nostalgic and talk about the past. It remains a crucible rather than an escape. Yet we must look for comfort where we can find it. "My dear friend, you deserve to succeed," he once very kindly said to her. "You say that so sadly that it's the same as if you said I shouldn't." He questioned her eyes with the clear trepidation of his own. Jungkook had the air of a boy who knows he has been part of the talk of the K-pop world for that year and is full half a head taller in consequence, but who also has a painful suspicion that in spite of this increase of stature one or two persons still have the perversity to think him diminutive. He was stricken to think one of them was Yeri. Then, like a man who in the midst of his misery is seized by a happy thought, he stood still. He couldn't move, strange as it may seem; she had the power, in an extraordinary degree, of making him feel this need for inertia. He often cries when he talks to himself about her.