The Weight of a Shadow

My name is Min-jun from Gangnam district, Seoul in South korea. I'm a Night-shift convenience store clerk / Aspiring Illustrator. I knew it was pathetic to spend my entire rent savings on a designer scarf she’d only wear once for a "Winter Aesthetic" post, but the thought of her neck being cold in the Seoul wind felt like a blade against my own skin.

​The store is quiet at 3:00 AM, the hum of the refrigerators the only company I have. I pull up her latest live stream on my phone, propping it against a stack of instant ramen cups. There she is. The blue light of the screen hits my face, and for a second, I feel like I’m actually in the room with her, rather than behind a plastic counter in a basement-level Seven-Eleven.

​She’s complaining about the lighting in her new studio. I immediately open my notes app, jotting down the specific brand of ring light her favorite creator uses. I can pick up extra shifts at the warehouse on Sundays, I tell myself. My back already aches from stocking shelves, but the ache feels like a badge of honor. It’s a physical manifestation of my loyalty.

​I sent her a "Donation" during the stream—about 50,000 won. It’s my grocery money for the week.

​"Oh, 'Junny-S'! Thank you for the stars!" she says, giving a distracted wave to the camera before looking back at her mirror.

​My breath hitches. She said it. Junny-S. She doesn’t remember Min-jun from the back row of Art History class, the boy who sharpened her pencils for three years. To her, I’m just a username and a recurring payment. But the way the "J" sounded when it left her lips... I’ve already replayed that ten-second clip forty times. I’ve analyzed the angle of her eyes; she looked slightly to the left, which in my mind means she was trying to recall where she’d heard the name before. She’s searching for me in her memories. I know she is.

​I spend the rest of my shift cleaning the windows of the store until they are invisible. I imagine her walking by and seeing her reflection perfectly. I want everything she touches, everything she looks at, to be flawless because of me.

​My bank account sends a low-balance alert to my phone. I swipe it away, disgusted by the interruption. Money is just paper. Her "thank you" is eternal. I’m not a fan; I’m the foundation of her success. Even if she never looks down to see what she’s standing on, I’ll be here, holding the weight.