Imperfect

“She's not pretty.”

“She's not skinny enough.”

“She's not even Korean.”

“What does he see in her?”

“If he'd date her, he doesn't have very good taste.”

“Does he even think of his image?”

“What a bitch.”

“Does he even think of his fans?

“What does he think he's doing dating someone like her?”

“She's not perfect enough for our Chansung-oppa.”

Jesslyn was far from perfect. She didn't consider herself beautiful, or skinny, or any such thing. She was rather tender-hearted, loving, enjoyed curling up with a good book and a strong cup of coffee. She had ventured to Korea two years prior to teach English, to experience the culture. There was no sightings for love, no need to chase it. Just a need for something different.

Then, Chansung had came along. He was tall, vibrant. The side of Jesslyn he brought out was something anyone rarely saw. Teeth beamed and her bell-like laugh would ring. She was lively, more bright when he was there. Simply put, Chansung made her happy.

It was kept secret, hush-hush. Chansung didn't want to burden her with the celebrity life. She didn't mind; attention was something she dreaded.

But photographers, dreaded paparazzi were fast to catch wind of Chansung's hidden woman. They were quick to aim and shoot. Swift in striking down their little piece of perfection. Little segment of happiness that they sanctioned in their lives.

Then, they started. The jabs, the insults, the crucial verbal slashes that flattened Jesslyn's already lower self esteem. Fans—fans of the rudest kind. They pointed out all her flaws, her biggest weaknesses. Jesslyn knew she wasn't the skinniest; she tried to be, but Chansung was quick to tell her she was perfect. She believed it. She believed she was beautiful for a while, that she was good enough for him. But when they started, even when she was far away from those written swords, they still rang in her ears.

Even Chansung's hyungs began to say:

“Is she worth it?”

“I know you like her, but maybe its time to let her go.”

“She's consuming too much of your time.”

"The fans don't like her. That's going to hurt us."

“Chansung, she is not worth it.”

Jesslyn was far too imperfect.

Slight curls to golden strands, cat-eye eyeliner to frame gorgeous blues. A top that hid the curves that Changsung loved and others objected. He was taking her out, one of his few days off to relax and he was spending it making her happy.

When she stepped outside, the day cool and near perfect, a small smile came to subtly painted lips. Then, there they were.

Those that created those written swords. Four of them with their ebony hair and porcelain skin. Skinny figures and almond eyes. They began to scream at her, everything that they and their cohorts from around the world wrote. Their cruel hands shoved her, tore at her hair. She tried to brush them off, begged for them to leave her alone in their native tongue. They persisted.

“Yah! What the hell are you doing?”

Chansung's hand grabbed Jesslyn by the arm, pulled her behind his tall frame. He yelled right back at them; they looked so innocently hurt by his reprimands.

“Let's go,” he finally said, leading her away from the creators of the written swords. They stabbed at her fragile heart and mind. But she followed after Chansung to his vehicle, unable to hold helpless tears. Ruining her painted-on perfection.

“I'm so sorry, Jess.”

“Its fine.” She wiped at her eyes, smudging black. “Chansung...”

“Hm?” He kept his eyes on the street, jaw clenched in dwindling anger.

“I can't do this anymore.”

Chansung's hand reached over and grabbed her's. She squeezed his with a bone-breaking grip, but he didn't mind. “Jess, I'm sorry this happened.”

“I know you are, but...I think I need to go home.”

He looked at her before the car slowed and pulled off the street. He shifted into park. A beautiful sigh escaped his lips. “Do you really want to?”

“I don't know what I want,” Jesslyn answered, unable to meet his eyes. “Everything has just gotten out of control...” She swallowed hard. “You used to make me happy, but...”

“I don't anymore.”

“No...you still do. Its just...the fans and the hate...Why can't they accept it? They say they care so much about you and the others, so if I make you happy, shouldn't that be okay? Why can't...what did I ever do to them?”

Chansung had leaned over, his fingers stroking through her hair as she spoke. “You didn't do anything,” he replied. “They're crazy. Selfish. You only made me happy.”

“But do I make you happy now?” she asked.

“Of course.” Chansung smiled, teeth glinting. “I don't care if the fans can't accept you—they have to eventually because I don't want to let you out of my life yet.”

“And I don't want to leave your—our—life yet. But I feel like I'm being more of a burden than anything.”

Chansung's eyebrows knitted together. “Jesslyn, you are not a burden. You never were and you never will be. This isn't you fault.”

She inhaled shakily. “I'm miserable here.” There, the final truth. What more could she say?

Jesslyn loved Chansung, really. But the way the fans and media treated her, like she was some sort of slime or vermin that had blemished their perfect idol. She was far too imperfect. They would not stop until they were bored or she ran away. How long would it take them to become bored with toying and slashing at her? Weeks? Months? The emotional damage was already sufficient; how much more could she take?

“I'm sorry, Chansung.” Her voice was quiet as she looked at the dash, unable to meet his gaze. It held too much hurt for her to bear. “I...this lifestyle isn't for me. I love you, but I can't do this. Your fans...they're what make you who you are and if you don't have their support...what will happen to you? I can't stand to be the reason fans and the rest turn their backs on you. This world you're in is for the perfect and I'm too...imperfect for this.” More tears fell from her aqua eyes. Both hearts shredding in the chest cavity. “Please, understand.”

Chansung felt a pain gripping at his heart, but he tried his best not to let it show. Instead, he turned back to her and gently placed a kiss on her cheek, the taste of her tears prominent on his lips. “I understand,” he said. “But remember to me, you are perfect and always will be.”