Chapter Text
Had it been days? Weeks? Months?
You truly tried to remember, to recall what the feeling of his hands felt like, the soft ache of his voice in the early morning. You tried to piece together the memory of his I love you's and attempted to recall whether the emptiness had always felt like this - suffocating.
Had his stare always been so lackluster? You'd sworn you could've once been swept up in the depths of his emotion, happy to sink beneath the tumultuous waves. You would've died happy, curled around the treasure that you'd found there within the cavern of his chest. You'd found a home in him -- or so you thought.
You wondered idly whether it was normal for this to happen, for love to settle into half-baked embers. Perhaps this was just how things were. Perhaps the intensity of your love - like a kerosene rag soaked in gasoline - had skewed your perspective. Maybe this was okay. (Not great, but okay.)
"Soomi-ya, are you okay?"
The concern tore you from your reverie, snapping you back to reality.
Something like a smile arranges itself on your face - but he can tell it's strained. There's too much weight in the jut of your bottom lip, tension hugging the curve of your small jaw. He sees it - or the lack thereof - in your eyes, the warmth of your amusement hardly reaching the honeyed depths.
Though he's miles away, connected only by the quickest connection the hotel can muster, he wonders what your hands look like. Would they be coiled together, knuckles blown white?
"I'm fine, Jungkook-ah." Your expression falters, dips just barely, before returning in full force. Laughter sounds in what's meant to be reassurance and you breath in sharply through your nose, willing the sudden wetness from your eyes. You silently thank yourself for having gotten talked into a haircut earlier this week, the softened strands at your crown casting a safety net across your features.
"You don't seem fine."
It's not accusatory - only concerned.
What did you do to deserve someone like him?
There's another inhale, this time masked beneath a quiet clearing of your throat. Could you lie to him? Did you even have reason to? He was your best friend (and you were one of his seven). You knew you could tell him anything.
And so you did.
"I think... things are over. Or they're going to be over. I don't really know. It's like I'm all alone." You're rambling, tripping over your own words in your haste to get them all out before they're steeled once again behind the cage of your teeth. "I mean, I know I'm not. I have you. I have Minji and Yejin and... everyone else, but he feels so far away."
You want to explain how you'd thought you'd be together for- no, not ever, but a long time. You thought you'd have years ahead of you, two puzzle pieces haphazardly thrown together that somehow worked despite the awkward edges.
You thought you'd loved enough for the both of you.
"We haven't spoken in days." This draws a noise of surprise from the figure on the screen, whose arms fold neatly over his drawn-up legs, bottom lip bruised under the ministrations of his teeth. He says nothing more though - simply nods and continues to listen.
"It's like I'm living with a roommate. A really, really quiet roommate."
"I wish mine were quiet." You know he's trying to cheer you up and it works - a flutter of laughter dropping off your tongue.
Then silence returns, filling the spaces you don't know how to, and he sees more than hears the way you squeeze your fingers in your lap. You've always done this - some sort of defense mechanism in place to prevent you from feeling too much. You'd adopted it from him, honestly, so he couldn't fault you. When you spent so much time with someone, you were bound to steal the best and worst of them.
"I'm here for you," he finally breaks the quiet, leaning forward in his chair, head cocking to the side in that way you love so much. "I'll be home next Wednesday and we can figure things out together."
His words carry weight to them, as if he could anchor you there with him, keeping you from drifting under the current of your sadness. And maybe he can.
"Okay."
--------------------
You'd promised you would let him know if anything changed, wiggled your pinky finger at him through the FaceTime screen as he'd done the same. He'd laughed when you'd rolled your eyes, aware that deep down these little things were what helped get you through the harder days.
You'd lied - but you were sure this was for the best. After all, he was busy. It came with the territory of being an idol.
He didn't have time for all of your little problems.
(He did - you knew he did. He'd drop the world if it meant anything to you.)
So you packed your things with the help of Minji, carefully tucking clothes into boxes and stripping all indications of you from the slate grey walls. You smoothed the faded pink fur of your Cooky plush against your cheek, breathing in the familiar scent - a mixture of his cologne and something distinctly him.
Across the room, Minji hums as she slips yet another pair of shoes into a box. "Do you really need this many?"
You tear your attention from the handful of stuffed animals on the edge of the bed, Cooky still snuggled happily in the crook of your elbow. A hand flies to your throat, feigned affront evident in the width of your stare and garbled gasp. "Of course I do. What else will I wear when..."
There are a pair of Converse staring you down, what was once pure as snow now a muddy off-white. They're identical to the other pair in Minji's hands, though significantly more dirty.
"I wore those to DisneySEA! Namjoon-oppa nearly broke my ankle in them. I can't throw them away!"
You were a dreamer, a romanticist, someone who held onto everything from ticket stubs to sticky notes. You kept every stuffed animal you won (or was won for you). You never threw away anything so long as they held some sort of sentimental value. Even if it hurt, you held onto it.
Minji had noticed this when you packed up the photos of you and Seunghoon, meticulously arranging the frames within the brown box. She would've thrown them against the wall and left it for him to clean up, if it had been up to her.
She knew not to push you, though. She knew this was hard enough already.
"Okay, okay," she relents with a pronounced roll of her eyes, hands none-too-gently shoving the second pair of sneakers away. "But you seriously have too much stuff. I've put away at least fifteen white shirts and they all looked the exact same!"
You say nothing in response, a small little smile quirking the edge of your mouth as you tape the box closed, inspecting your handiwork.
"Yah - I'm serious! We're roping the boys in and Marie Kondo-ing your apartment."
"Good luck with that. Kookie will vote to keep all the shirts." After all, it was his fault. Another habit borrowed from your best friend - collecting a million plain tee shirts. "And none of the other boys will care enough to make me toss them."
Behind your back, Minji scowls albeit playfully and tosses a pair of fluffy white slippers at your head. "You're the worst."
"And you love it," you singsong back, setting the slippers in question back into the box she's working on.
"I do."
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"I'm sorry."
You're not quite sure why you're apologizing, why the words trickle off your tongue like tears. You'd meant to stray strong, to bury the sadness among the cobwebs and forget about them. You believed you'd be able to ignore the gaping, Seunghoon-shaped hole in your chest.
He's sitting by the front door, ankle resting casually against his knee. Fingers curl together and you fight the desire to interrogate him - ask him why he seems so unaffected.
(You know the answer.)
Still, you can't help but feel what you imagine is the second breaking of your heart.
What you'd thought would be a golden happily ever after is anything but, sunshine giving way to a dull Sunday afternoon and rain that comes heavy enough to drown you.
"It happens." The words are like a jagged edge, slipping between your rattling rib cage and slotting itself exactly where your heart shudders. The way he meets your gaze, stares right through you, is like a twist of his hand, and you momentarily forget how to breathe. How could this be so easy for him?
In, out. Just in and out.
You stand feeling small in the massive doorway, hands balled into fists at your side. You can feel Minji's eyes on your back as she waits by the car. You know if she made any indication, she'd be there in a moment, gathering you up in her arms and whisking you away.
But you need to do this by yourself - for yourself.
When you turn away from him, from his half-empty expression, you can feel the remnants of his love buried beneath your skin. They're little splinters of better memories, of rose-coloured glass. You know they'll leave scars.
"Goodbye," you muster up the courage to murmur the words before you're gone, taking the steps as quickly as you can.
You try not to wish, to hope - but you do anyway. Just one sign this is tearing him apart like it is you.
He says nothing.
You've made the right choice.
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In your old bed, with your old sheets, you drift. You're not sure what time it is or when you last ate, but you remember.
You remembered coffee after you'd left what was no longer your home, wrapped up in the comforting embrace of your friend. You'd felt the way she'd come apart alongside you, holding you as you'd cried yourself hoarse in the parking lot.
You remembered the way she and Yejin had appeared on your doorstep the next night, an assortment of goodies carried between three bags. Among other things, they'd brought pickled radish and mandu and a giant bottle of your favourite lemon tea. They'd hugged you when you'd started sobbing quietly, shoulders curved inwards as you attempted to stifle the noise. (They'd regretted choosing a romcom to watch.)
You remembered last night when Jungkook had called, clearly concerned by the lack of response to his adorable selca and short video of Jimin wrestling a half-asleep Taehyung. He'd sounded tired and you could tell by the way he exhaled and the rustle of blankets that he was settling in for the night.
You'd felt bad, guilt gnawing at the column of your throat, when you told him you were fine. "I'm just tired," you'd murmured, cheek pressed to the cool silk of your pillowcase. You'd tried to still your breathing, regulate the ache that weighed in your chest. He always knew when you were lying.
"Me too," Jungkook had returned with a yawn. You'd imagined his big doe-eyes in the dark, the little mole beneath his lip in full view as he pouted. Such a little bunny.
"Then hang up."
You hadn't meant it as dismissively as you're sure it had come across but you'd certainly felt it when he exhaled, the sound amplified within the quiet of his room and the cocoon of his blankets.
"I just wanted to check up on you." He'd spoken softly, as if he was the one hurting you, and your vision had blurred. The heaviness on your shoulders had twisted and turned, coloured this time by shame, sinking into your spine and drawing you deeper into your bed.
You were such an asshole.
"I'm sorry, Kookie."
He'd hummed in response and then you'd drifted into silence - the quiet bringing comfort in the still night. You'd continued to lie there, un-moving, phone screen a dimmed light as you thanked your lucky stars for someone like him.
When his breathing had evened out, you'd remained on the line until sleep came calling. Only now could you happily drift beneath sandman's dust, finding solace in your best friend on the other line. "Thank you."