Chapter Text
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“Human knowledge is never contained in one person. It grows from the relationships we create between each other and the world, and still it is never complete.”
Dr. Paul Kalanithi, When Breathe Becomes Air.
—————
“It’s delirium,” Min Yoongi says, careful to drop the ‘just’, as he finishes scribbling notes in his iPad.
He’s slow and there are one or two typos, and there’s a risk he might get called out again by someone in the medical records department about it. That’s their problem, though: they are the ones pushing ‘modernization’ so much when he was completely happy with the old, clipboard and pen way of doing notes and consultations. Things that work aren’t meant to be replaced.
The 78 years old patient trashes her arms and mumbles loudly, demanding Yoongi looks up. The woman is disoriented, glassy eyed, and a frown is set on her face even when her gaze travels wildly across the room. A younger woman, her daughter, who has been dozing in a chair by the bed, opens her eyes and touches the patient’s hand, reciting soothingly to her mother who she is, where she is at and the date, just like Yoongi instructed minutes ago. He reviews her medication chart again, intently, and aks, “Do you think you can get her off at least some of these meds?”
Yoongi is talking to Kim Namjoon, who’s been hanging by the door in an effort not to overwhelm the patient more, and he steps forward to take a look at the chart as well.
“Uhm. Maybe one or two. Let me see,” he whips out his own tablet to access the hospital's e-system and change the patient’s orders for the day. Meanwhile, Yoongi reviews the patient’s records again, before continuing filling his consultation.
It’s sorted after another couple of minutes, and Yoongi talks to the patient’s daughter once more, with just final indications. Namjoon, who’s the attending physician in charge, reassures the women they are doing everything they can so Mrs. Khang can recover and go home to her grandchildren as soon as possible. The daughter looks at Namjoon with hopeful, tired and a sprinkle of doubtful eyes, and bows her gratitude to him and Yoongi before rejoining her mother’s side.
Both men exit the room. It’s 7:45 am. Yoongi looks for the hand gel dispenser to sanitize his hands and feels Namjoon hovering behind him.
“It’s 7:45,” Yoongi says, depositing his iPad in his coat’s pocket, before turning to face the tall, muscular, brown-haired man who intercepted his arrival this morning with a text about an emergency consultation which, to be honest, did not seem urgent nor something a trained physician like Kim Namjoon, a Top 5 Neurologists Under 30 to watch in South Korea could not diagnose on his own, “and you know enough about delirium to switch around some meds and wait ‘till she stabilizes”
Namjoon huffs.
“But it pertains to your specialty, hyung. Delirium should be treated by a psychiatrist because that’s what psychiatrists do. It’s about respecting each other's boundaries, hyung.”
It’s not that Yoongi resents being whisked away to see a patient the moment he sets foot in the hospital’s ground. But it’s 7:50 now, and he barely had time to leave his briefcase in his office before following Namjoon to Mrs. Khang’s room. Not to mention he overslept, almost didn’t have time to make Jungkook breakfast and had to leave him money to buy lunch, which Jungkook seemed quite content about but means he’ll get an earful from Seokjin later and -
He studies Namjoon, the way he’s standing, producing off his full height, arms crossed, a scowl practically tattooed on his face as he is subtly biting the edge of his lower lip and it’s a surprise the fire alarms haven’t gone off considering the fire beaming from his eyes. Yoongi sighs.
“What happened?”, he asks.
Namjoon’s expression remains unchanged. “What do you mean, what happened?”
Yoongi is starting to feel a headache coming. Namjoon, for all his intelligence, manners and usually affable demeanor, can be obtuse when he wants to, “Just say it - or wait, no, don’t say it. Let’s go to the cafeteria, get coffee, and then, you say it.”
“I still don’t know what you’re - hey! Hyung!” Namjoon complains, but Yoongi is already walking towards the lift with a single, caffeinated purpose in mind, and it should bother Namjoon how he doesn’t have a choice but to follow him, but after all these years it really doesn’t anymore.
They swing by Yoongi’s office in the second floor before descending two flights of stairs to the cafeteria. Yoongi had to retrieve his travel coffee mug - Jungkook did a project about climate change for school last year, and he ended up so traumatized by what he called the planet’s impending doom that Yoongi implemented several changes in their daily life, like banning disposables in their house, getting them all reusable bottles for water and coffee and, with some effort, even got Seokjin to agree to ditch his Acura for a Tesla, of all things - and led them straight into the register to pay for the equivalent of their largest cup of coffee. Namjoon doesn’t buy anything.
There are always people in the cafeteria - mostly medical students, some residents, a couple of attendings sitting alone with their coffees and their phones or tablets. Yoongi finds them a free table, one where he can see who comes and goes through the main door, and motions for Namjoon to sit.
“So,” Yoongi ventures, and then takes his time with a big sip of his very black, very hot coffee, “What’s up?”
An almost growl of indignation escapes the back of Namjoon’s throat, “You know what happened.”
There’s an almost deja vu -like feeling in Yoongi’s mind. This has happened so many times since Namjoon became an attending that by now his mug should be bigger, because that’s how much caffeine is needed to put up with petty nonsense.
“Seokjin?” Yoongi inquires, “I haven’t seen him since yesterday. What happened?”
“He thinks he’s above everything and everyone, and continues to act under the impression that he knows best just because he’s better at using his hands than using his brain.”
“Mhm. He’s hot, though,” Yoongi muses. Namjoon growls again, resentful, so Yoongi tries to humour him for de-escalation. “Doesn’t make him anything more than an attractive highly trained monkey, I know.” He’s heard the speech a thousand times in every imaginative, ingenious, straight up poetic way Namjoon can word it, but the core message remains: surgeons are nothing but the handy workers, and internal medicine specialists and sub-specialists do all the heavy, actually meaningful and intellectual work.
The sound of chairs shuffling signals the dismissal of the medical students in the nearest table. Yoongi caught some of them staring. Mostly at Namjoon, and he can’t blame them. The man is a celebrity in their medical school, top marks of his class, top score in the KMLE, has been publishing papers since he was a third year medical student. He got accepted into all four residency programs he applied to. The hospitals all stopped short of begging him to work with them.
But Namjoon is oblivious. Hoseok complains endlessly, how infuriating it is, the way Namjoon aces through everything, landing at the top of every challenge looking bewildered, like it took five hundred times the effort, an unending flow of “I am just lucky”’s, “I never thought I’d make it”’s, and “I owe it all to my mother and friends”’s, a damn right Oscars’ speech at the ready every time, for someone who insists he is awfully underqualified when asked about his accomplishments.
Yoongi is fascinated, truly, by the not so subtle complexity under Namjoon’s behaviour, so utterly deferential yet ready to pounce once anyone but himself tries to play him down. A restless dance of ego and superego, hidden behind a chiseled face, deep dimples and warm eyes.
Namjoon groans. “You’re always defending him,” he points, accusatorily, scowl threatening to blend into a childish pout.
“I just called him a monkey,” Yoongi deadpans, “What are you two fighting about today?”
Namjoon frowns his lip, opens his mouth and his tongue crashes against the top of his mouth but he produces no words. Yoongi’s phone lights up with a chain of notification before Namjoon can muster up the answer.
[8:13 am] Hobi
hyung
hyungieee
theyre at it agaaaaaaain
i literally just came into my office
AND jin-hyungs going through my desks drawers
he’s looking for capoten!!! BP through the roof!!!
he’s so mad he’s red
RED
heavin
sweating
OMG HYUNG HES STROKING
WHAT DO I DO
what happens if he dies in my office
i need a doctOooooooor
a real one not like you no offense
i did not train for this
Yoongi wants to ignore the messages. It’s only the first of Hoseok’s meltdowns for the day. He has an average of five, three on a good day. He would be annoyed if it wasn’t case report worthy to see the man go from mad-hatter impersonator to acting like a steel-nerved professional. If anyone’s ever in the need for a femoral catheter even with a treacherous aorta, Hoseok’s the man.
It’s just he also doubles as an anxious chihuahua when he’s not wearing a white coat.
[8:18 am] Me
CPR asap
I know you took the course.
Seeing as you’re a fucking cardiologist.
Take it from a non-doctor tho.
He takes another sip from his coffee and feels Namjoon getting curious. He’ll probably blurt out his problem in two or three more minutes. Yoongi’s familiar with the way his breathing pattern slows and deepens as his pretend anger dampens.
[8:30 am] Kim Seokjin
I was looking for nicotine gum.
Reps give Hobi the good stuff.
Not worth a makeout session tho.
Also I know who you are with.
Seokjin sends the GIF of Kylo Ren screaming Traitor to emphasize his accusation. Yoongi makes sure the texts are left as “seen” and locks his screen.
“Is it him?”, Namjoon asks. His voice is soother, which Yoongi takes as a cue his frontal lobe is beginning to rein in his emotions. Also, Seokjin’s texts imply that while he’s mildly annoyed by whatever happened, he is not truly angry. “I’m telling you he’s a glorified brain plumber and you’re talking to him?”
Yoongi doesn’t show a reaction. He slips his phone into his trouser’s pocket and holds his coffee with both of his hands, maintaining eye contact with Namjoon. “Explain to me why you are so upset, Joon-ah.”
The bile that has risen to Namjoon’s throat recedes. His breathing pattern stabilizes again. Yoongi’s craft centers in his ability to observe and listen. Not everything is said with words, and often, the most essential things are shown in silence.
“There’s this patient,” Namjoon says, “Mrs. Lee, a mom of three, 36 years old. Developed double vision and headaches a month ago. A persistent toothache three weeks ago, but her husband is a dentist. A dentist - he could only convince her to get a check up when the hemifacial numbness started six days ago. I’ve seen enough cases like that - I ordered an MRI stat.”
Hoseok might call him a non-doctor, but Yoongi did go to medical school, and although he focuses on how the mind communicates with the exterior world and not precisely in its purely organic function, he knows where Namjoon’s diagnosis is headed.
“So young,” Yoongi breathes and Namjoon nods.
“Stage III glioblastoma in the fucking brainstem. 36 years old. The woman runs 10k every weekend. Her oldest daughter is 14 years old. There’s nothing else remotely sick about her, except a damn terror growing in her head.”
Namjoon looks at the table and Yoongi takes another sip.
No one teaches you how to handle mortality in medical school. There are no subjects, rotations; there are, sometimes, talks and workshops by the psychiatric departments, but more often than not, very few bother to take them. Attendings, residents, interns, nurses, most grow to think alike: it’s a job, it just happens to be one where people die all the time. You’re trying to prevent a painful, excruciating outcome, but death on it’s own will be an outcome to consider all the same, all the time. Yoongi thinks there’s not a more subtle curse than having to know and study someone else so thoroughly, query about their life, grill about their habits and family history and look over their body, in their most vulnerable physical and emotional condition, egging them on to put themselves in your hands, and then be reminded you are not supposed to get attached.
It’s practice, but everyone numbs gradually. Pain stops being a subjective experience when you have to constantly demand it be rated in a scale from 1 to 10, and you stop believing it exists at some point. Only what can be fixed or manageable matters. The patient and the problem blur into one, until the only thing you recall is the diagnosis and not who they are - or were.
Namjoon’s been an attending neurologist for three years. He’s one of the few that still calls his patients by their name, and asks how they are feeling outside of their symptoms. It comes at great personal cost.
“36 years old,” Yoongi repeats, and doesn’t miss the way Namjoon’s jaw clenches and the brief flashes of sorrow through his dark brown eyes, “and Seokjin won’t operate on her.”
Seokjin’s been an attending neurosurgeon for five years. He’s one of the youngest doctors in his department, and one of the most sought after. It’s a killer combination, unironically speaking: his intelligence, his dexterity, his outside-of-the-box and quick thinking and frankly, his looks. And he’s nice. The rarest trait of any neurosurgeon ever. He still exhibits most of their faults, though: narcissistic tendencies, inflated ego, quick to shoot down any opposing opinion against his medical dogma. But he’s nice, and caring, and smart, and he wouldn’t turn down throwing one last Hail Mary if it could be executed.
“He’s always boasting about his skills, his - his record, about being the “go-to guy”. ‘Ah, an inoperable tumor? Oh, we’ll see about that ’, locking horns with the orthos for the right to operate on the cervicals, and, now? Now that he has the chance - to do something meaningful, to put those overrated skills to use, to try for a miracle? Now he says “ I’m sorry, Joon-ah, but it’s too deep. 5 mm less, and I’d do it. You know, if it only was 5 milimeters smaller I’d do it ”. And that’s it.”
Namjoon holds his index finger in front of his thumb, almost like a pinch. Millimeters apart.
“Mrs. Lee doesn’t get a chance because of five fucking milimeters.”
“Why do you like this place so much?”
A cool breeze plays through Hoseok’s hair. He shivers as he takes the view from the rooftop of the hospital: below them, the busy streets of Seoul are thriving on the mid-morning racket, above and at the sides the modern and the historical buildings blending together into a landscape of tradition and progress. It’s a quarter to nine, and Hoseok has his first patient scheduled in fifteen minutes. And he’s cold.
But Seokjin is unmoving, his upper body flexed over the handrail, basking on the ephemeral rays of sunshine between passing clouds. His chin is resting over the backs of his hands, and Hoseok can see it: the charm, the aura, the straight line of his nose, the almond-like form of his eyes, the fluttering of his eyelashes against the cool wind of autumn, and the full, peach lips pressed together into a fine line indicating all-consuming thoughts.
Hoseok’s been Seokjin’s friend for twelve years, six months, one week and four days, back from his days as a medical student, as they bonded over their shared concern for a stray dog that wandered inside campus on a rainy day. Hoseok had tried to find it shelter. Seokjin brought it inside his dorm.
Seokjin’s voice sounds lazy. “It’s easier to think up here.”
“Hyung, there’s less oxygen in the air.”
“Yah, don’t you find light-headedness liberating?”
Hoseok cringes. “I find it ominous.”
They’ve been friends long enough for Hoseok to read subtleties about Seokjin. He’s tired, and he didn’t go home last night: he’s still wearing the same scrubs he saw him in yesterday’s morning, hair roughly slicked back. Not unusual, sadly; Seokjin still is one of the youngest doctors of his department, and that means he gets the late evening emergency surgerys that have a knack for complications.
“Did something go wrong in the OR?” Hosek asks. He’s not as good as Yoongi with comfort, but he will offer it, damn it.
Seokjin gets tired of his current position and straightens up, stretching out his arms towards the sky, extending his back dangerously backwards and Hoseok hurries to steady him. He starts laughing, and Hoseok is minutely confused until he remembers this is Seokjin, hyperlax joints and incredible flexibility.
Seokjin rests his hand on Hoseok’s arm, a gesture of gratitude for the consternation. “Reruptured aneurysm. It was tough. Still don’t know if he’ll make it - but I hope so. I think I got there in time.” Hoseok nods, hopeful too, and if Seokjin says there’s a chance he’ll believe it, “But that’s not - Namjoon’s being a jerk, actually.”
Hoseok wishes he could defend his other friend. They’ve known each other since day one of medical school, both shipped out to Seoul by their parents with just a few bags of clothes, modest allowances and all of their families’ expectations. Both had other goals, and in another life, maybe they would have made it: choose their dreams instead of their parent’s, commit to a life with less exhaustion and more rewards, and get out to explore the world. But this is what life dealt them, and in that small, asphyxiating dorm they had decided at least they would always have each other.
But that was before Seokjin and Yoongi and that dog, and then their pact had grown to include them, as well: Seokjin with his squeaky laugh and bad jokes, Yoongi with his observing eyes and piercing words. So Namjoon is his longest friend - he had friends before Seoul and Namjoon and Seokjin and Yoongi, but they all were lost when medicine demanded all his time, reigned over his thoughts, incapacitated him of normal conversations - but Seokjin is a friend too, and so he knows for a fact that he’s not supposed to take sides during their arguments.
Yoongi’s great at being Switzerland, but truly, Hoseok regularly feels like Liechtenstein: uncomfortably close to neutrality, prosperous but small and double-landlocked between higher powers.
“Aish, don’t say mean things, hyung,” Hoseok scolds, “You’ll make up, you always do.”
Seokjin makes a noise of exasperation that comes close to a wail, the dormant drama actor he had almost decided to be, in another life as well, coming forth, “He’s mad I won’t cut short a woman’s six months left to live. He’s, for all intents and purposes, demanding I euthanize a 36 years old woman because it’s better to “give it our best shot” instead of, I don’t know, actually dealing with the fact not everything can be fixed. She’s gonna die regardless. Wouldn’t she be better off giving her children lasting memories? Putting her life in order, not spending the rest of her days hooked to a ventilator because her stupid doctor guilted his awesome, but still not God neurosurgeon friend into poking at her brainstem and nuking it?”
The irony of the reversed argument is not lost to Hoseok; much of their previous petty squabbles centered around when and if any invasive form of treatment is needed for the “shared” diseases between their specialties. Seokjin is usually eager to wield his scalpel, and Namjoon is often distressed by it.
But what catches Hoseok’s attention is the patient herself, so he asks, “36 years old?”
Seokjin furrows his eyebrows before dipping his head yes , and the cool wind of october runs through them, unbothered, a billow of clouds covering the sun once again. Hoseok grows restless, and he swears the oxygen levels descend even more.
“His mother was 36 years old when she died.”
“I know,” Seokjin presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, the fatigue and lack of sleep weighing doubly, the guilt peeking in, “I wish I could help him.”
Him.
Hoseok nods and hangs an arm around Seokjin’s shoulders, pulling him briefly into a hug.
Beneath them, Seoul’s streets are bristling with life, prevailing even in the shadows of the autumn. Hoseok remembers the friends he grew up with, the dreams he used to harbour. How easier life is when death is only the end of the journey.
When the door closes in his face, Taehyung doesn’t wince. He stares through it, with his mind’s eye: can see the third year resident walking away from the door, mumbling under her breath, throwing herself into the lower bunk bed of their dorms, and pulling the ridiculously thin covers over her head.
The door isn’t locked. She was too angry and tired to remember to lock it. He could just swing it open and demand she hears him, really hears him, and does something. Taehyung contemplates. He spent last weekend holed up in the NICU because he couldn’t remember some drug’s pediatric dosing formula, and would like to be able to leave the hospital today and shower and for once not be so utterly exhausted he could catch up on some very backlogged reading.
But if he opens that door - and is taking every strand of self-control not to kick it down - he might or might not get yelled at, but will for sure get punished. And punishment means staying up for whatever hours it is deemed necessary, interminable paperwork and having to buy dinner for everyone on call tonight.
He might get punished and still not be able to get help for his patient. So he doesn’t open the door. He turns around and walks out of the dorms, towards the stairs and into the pediatric wing of the hospital.
He whips out his phone and writes,
i’ll have to go talk to him
The words stare back at him from the screen.
Taehyung grew up unfamiliar with mistreatment. His fellow residents cringe when he calls their everyday life that. They whisper behind his back, he knows. “Pretty rich boy”, they mutter, and it continues to baffle him how that can be thrown as an insult. He said as much, out loud, in his third month as an intern: what’s wrong with that? , and then he didn’t leave the hospital for four days. He snuck a few moments of sleep everywhere, but was continually chased down and forced to be awake. He’d read it somewhere, about how sleep deprivation is a form of torture. Around here, it’s treated like normality.
His text goes unanswered, and so he busies himself with the last of the paperwork for his shift, does one last solo round and when it’s his time to leave, no one stops him. He’s free.
He walks the bridge connecting the pediatric wing to the main hospital. But instead of taking the lift to the first floor, he takes it to the seventh floor, the surgery floor.
And Taehyung awaits.
His shift ended two hours ago, and he hasn’t slept in 30 hours, but he stays. Nurses accost him, and he’s thrown out of the operating rooms area, but plants himself firmly at post-op. Everyone’s giving him the stink eye, and he hears the nurses discuss why is there a pediatric resident in their floor. But Taehyung ignores them. He’d kill for a change of clothes, a shower, something to eat, but he’s staying.
He didn’t realize he had zoned out until there’s a hand waving in front of him, and another one on his right shoulder, and he is not quite sure for how much time Park Jimin’s been speaking, but suddenly he is aware of the sound of his voice.
“ - out of here before the nurses put you in their black list forever, TaeTae. You may never need to beg for an OR at ass o’clock in the morning, but they rotate services, you know? You might have to face some of them later -”
“What?” Taehyung can’t make sense of anything.
“Yeah, some of them aren’t scrub nurses, so they might be moved back to the floors, and you don’t want to get on their bad side -”
“No,” Taehyung agrees, or he thinks he does, he’s not sure what Jimin’s saying, “No - I mean - not about the nurses, what are you doing here?”
Jimin cocks up an eyebrow and squeezes Taehyung’s shoulder before retiring his hand. He then gestures to the place, opening up his arms and posing grandiosely as he winks, “This is my turf, honey-boo. The question is, what are you doing here?”
“Waiting for Dr. Kim-sunbaenim.”
The smile in Jimin’s face dims. He looks around, suddenly aware of how many people are there, if any of them heard him. But the nurses and other doctors seem preoccupied with their own ministrations, so Jimin just squeeze’s Taehyung’s arm delicately, hesitant.
“ Which Dr. Kim?”
Taehyung cranes his neck, reminding Jimin where they are. “Dr. Kim Seokjin,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Yah!” Jimin wails, and then a nurse - or two, or three - are yelling, and Jimin’s face is red and he’s bowing and apologizing and pushing Taehyung out at the same time. Tae doesn’t have time to act - he’s so tired his body is slow, but this is Jimin, so he allows himself to be pushed into the hallway, Jimin still apologizing and promising someone to bring some sweets tomorrow, and “sorry for the inconvenience” and “yes, i’ll deal with it” and Taehyung finally snatches himself from Jimin’s grip, frowning.
“Deal with what?” he asks, annoyed. He has every right to be there, waiting.
Jimin remains strung-up. “Why are you waiting for Dr. Kim?”
Taehyung crosses his arms. “I want to talk about a patient with him.”
The door from post-op opens, and someone’s pushing a gurney out. Jimin and Taehyung side-step, flattening themselves against the wall of the hallway. Neither speak until the patient transporter’s back is out of sight, and only then does Jimin seems to remember how to breathe. He tugs at his surgical cap, yellow and dotted with his latest boy band obsession symbols.
“Tae, for the last time - you’re not supposed to go to the attendings. There’s a chain of command. Have you talked to your third year resident about this?”
“She wasn’t cooperating.”
“What…? Ok, nevermind.” Jimin sighs and rubs at his temples, pondering their options. He looks at Taehyung somewhat accusatory, but once again, Taehyung’s eyes show nothing but determination. “You know, we don’t really know Dr. Kim. He’s been nice to me, even though - well, you know. Even though he knows we’re friends. But we don’t know if he’ll want to hear you.”
“I just want to talk about a patient, what’s wrong with that? Why wouldn’t he hear me out? You say he’s kind, everyone says he’s nice, and he’s a great surgeon, which is what my patient might need. What’s wrong with that?”
What’s wrong with that , he’s been asking for almost three years. What’s wrong with being a pretty, rich boy? What’s wrong about bypassing superiors who don’t do their jobs? What’s wrong about waiting for the hospital’s top neurosurgeon for a consultation? What’s wrong with wanting the best for his patients?
What’s wrong with him? What did he do?
Jimin’s eyes soften. He’s been losing weight again, Taehyung can tell. The bags under his eyes are hidden behind concealer, but there’s a shade of purple showing still. He wants to ask Jimin, What’s wrong? What’s wrong with you? There’s so much wrong, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.
“He’s friends with him. Good friends. It’s unheard of attendings listening to residents, even less from a different specialty, even less when it’s the half-brother of their good friend.”
What’s wrong with that?
“This isn’t about Namjoon. This is about my patient. Namjoon - he’s a doctor as well, he’d understand. He can hate me for what our father did, but he can’t hate me for trying to be a good doctor.”
Can he?
Hasn’t he?
Isn’t everything about Namjoon, anyways?
[7:20 pm] Yoongles
Hey, hyung
You are coming home tonight, right?
[7:45 pm] Me
correct
dont worry.
just going to check on my patient from last night and i'll be out
hows Kookie
[7:47] Yoongles
He’s fine.
Won’t stop asking about you though.
I’ll come pick you up.
You barely slept last night.
[8:00 pm] Me
No
I’m fine.
tell him not to worry
not gonna make you come back here
but thank you.
I’ll see you both in a bit.
Need me to pick up anything?
[8:03 pm] Yoongles
It’s 8 pm.
Just need you home.
Be careful, Jin.
Don’t take too long.
[8:05 pm] Me
Are you being sappy because you had coffee with my enemy instead of me?
If yes, I approve.
If not, I like that even better.
[8:06 pm] Yoongles
I’m fucking worried you’ll fall asleep while driving and crash into a lamppost.
Kookie would be devastated.
And I love my kid.
So come home, please.
And be careful.
[8:17 pm] Me
after all these years
still so emotionally unavailable
also wtf thats MY kid
see ya soon
-
[09:10 pm] Kookieboy
jin
come home
please
-