Work Text:
The fluorescent lights of the office buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow over Seokjin’s desk. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, the faint click-clack of keys around him blending into white noise. He had just closed out of a high-stakes cybersecurity report, one that had taken him weeks to perfect. His boss had called him into the glass-walled corner office earlier that day, a rare smile on her face. “Seokjin,” she had said, “you’ve outdone yourself. The promotion is yours.”
The promotion. The word still echoed in his mind, a mix of pride and disbelief swirling in his chest. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly, and pulled out his phone. Without thinking, his thumbs moved on their own, typing out a message to the one person he used to share everything with.
I did it!!! We should go out and celebrate.
He hit send before he could stop himself. A second later, his stomach dropped. The name at the top of the screen—Yoongi—stared back at him, a relic of a past he hadn’t touched in a year. Seokjin’s breath hitched. He quickly told himself it didn’t matter. Yoongi had probably changed his number by now. He must have. People moved on, didn’t they? Seokjin had. Or at least, he thought he had.
He locked his phone and set it facedown on his desk, the screen dark and silent.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The sizzle of meat on the grill filled the air, the smoky aroma mingling with the laughter of his neighbors. Seokjin stood in the center of it all, apron tied neatly around his waist, tongs in hand. He had just been crowned the “Best Grill Master” in the neighborhood cook-off, a title he and Yoongi used to joke about endlessly. Back then, they’d dreamt of opening a small barbecue spot together, a place where they could feed people and make them happy. It was a silly dream, one they’d laughed about over soju and late-night snacks.
Seokjin pulled out his phone, snapping a picture of the golden-brown meat glistening under the string lights. He typed out a message before he could second-guess himself.
Guess who’s the best chef in town? (It’s me. I accept compliments in the form of expensive wine.)
He stared at the screen for a moment, half-expecting—or maybe hoping—for a reply. But the chat remained silent, the last message still his own from months ago. He sighed, slipping his phone back into his pocket. The silence was almost comforting, in a way. It was familiar, like an old habit he couldn’t quite break.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The bar was loud, the bass from the music thrumming through the floor and into Seokjin’s bones. His friends were crowded around the table, laughing and clinking glasses, their voices rising above the noise. It was his birthday, and they had gone all out—balloons, cake, and a bottle of his favorite wine. He should have been happy. And he was, mostly. But as the night wore on, the laughter began to feel distant, like he was watching the scene from far away.
He excused himself and stepped outside, the cool night air sharp against his skin. Leaning against the brick wall, he pulled out his phone. His fingers moved almost on their own, typing out a message he knew he shouldn’t send.
It isn’t the same without you.
He stared at the words, his chest tightening. Before he could overthink it, he deleted the message. A minute later, he tried again, this time with something safer, something that wouldn’t betray the ache in his chest.
Had a great birthday. Hope you’re doing well.
He hit send and waited, though he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. The screen stayed dark, the silence stretching on. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and returned to the bar, forcing a smile as his friends cheered his return.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The soju bottles lined the table, their contents long gone. Seokjin’s head felt heavy, the room spinning slightly as he slumped on his couch. It had been a long week—longer than most—and he had let himself indulge a little too much. His phone was in his hand, though he couldn’t quite remember when he’d picked it up. The screen blurred as he typed, his thoughts slipping through his fingers like water.
I miss you.
He sent it before he could stop himself, the words appearing in the chat like a confession. A second later, he added another message, his heart pounding in his ears.
Do you ever think about us?
The screen blurred again, and he realized his eyes were wet. He dropped his phone onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. When he woke up the next morning, his head throbbing and his mouth dry, the first thing he did was reach for his phone. The messages were still there, unanswered. He felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment, though he couldn’t tell which was stronger.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The moving boxes were stacked in the corner of his apartment, their contents neatly labeled. Seokjin stood in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips, surveying the space that had been his home for the past five years. It felt strange, seeing it so empty. He was leaving for a new city, a new job, a new life. It was everything he had worked for, everything he thought he wanted.
He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Yoongi’s name. This time, he didn’t hesitate.
Leaving soon. Just thought you should know.
He hit send and waited, though he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. A reply? A sign? The screen stayed dark, the silence stretching on. He sighed, slipping his phone into his pocket. As he turned to leave, he paused, glancing back at the empty apartment one last time. It felt like closing a chapter, though he wasn’t sure if he was ready to let go.
But maybe, just maybe, that was okay.
The room was dark, the faint glow of the streetlights outside casting long shadows across the walls. Seokjin lay in bed, the sheets tangled around him, his mind drifting in that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. The day had been long—packing, goodbyes, the weight of change pressing down on him—and he was exhausted. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, the sound sharp and intrusive in the quiet. He ignored it at first, burying his face deeper into the pillow. It was late, too late for calls, and he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone.
But something about the vibration felt insistent, almost urgent. Against his better judgment, he reached out, fumbling for his phone. The screen lit up, blinding in the darkness. Unknown Number. His heart skipped a beat, a strange, inexplicable tension coiling in his chest. He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the answer button. He could let it go to voicemail. He should. But something—curiosity, maybe, or something deeper—made him swipe to answer.
"Hello?" His voice was rough with sleep, barely above a whisper.
There was silence on the other end. Not the kind of silence that meant the call had dropped, but the kind that felt heavy, deliberate. The kind that made Seokjin’s pulse quicken. He sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around his waist, his grip tightening on the phone.
And then—
"You still text me."
Seokjin’s breath caught in his throat. The voice was lower than he remembered, rougher around the edges, but unmistakable. Yoongi. His name echoed in Seokjin’s mind like a ghost, a memory he thought he’d buried. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His chest felt tight, his lungs refusing to cooperate.
"Yoongi," he finally managed, his voice barely audible.
"Yeah." Just that. No apology for the months of silence. No explanation for why he was calling now. Just his name, spoken in that familiar, grounding tone.
Seokjin swallowed hard, his mind racing. "I thought your number was deactivated." It was the only thing he could think to say, the only thing that made sense.
"It wasn’t," Yoongi replied simply, his voice steady.
And maybe it was the exhaustion, or the months of unanswered messages catching up to him, but Seokjin laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. It was bitter, tinged with something he couldn’t quite name. "You just ignored me, then."
There was a pause, long enough for Seokjin to regret the words. Then, Yoongi sighed. "Yeah."
Seokjin should have hung up. He should have been angry, should have demanded answers, should have told Yoongi exactly how much it hurt to be left in the dark. But the sound of Yoongi’s voice cracked something open in him, something he thought had healed. Something he thought he’d moved on from.
"Why now?" he asked, his voice quieter this time, almost fragile.
Yoongi exhaled, long and slow, as if he’d been holding his breath. "Because you were leaving."
The words hit Seokjin like a punch to the gut. He clenched his free hand into a fist, his nails digging into his palm. "So if I hadn’t said anything—"
"I would’ve let you go," Yoongi admitted, his voice soft but firm. And God, it was unfair how those words made Seokjin’s chest ache, how they unraveled the careful walls he’d built around himself.
Silence stretched between them again, thick and suffocating. A thousand things left unsaid, a thousand questions hanging in the air. Seokjin wanted to ask why Yoongi had disappeared, why he’d stayed silent for so long, why he was calling now. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled up in the mess of emotions he couldn’t untangle.
"Meet me," Yoongi said finally, breaking the silence. "If you want."
And Seokjin—who had spent so long pretending he was fine, pretending he didn’t care, pretending he didn’t miss the sound of Yoongi’s voice—didn’t hesitate.
"Okay."
The call ended, the screen going dark. Seokjin sat there for a long time, the phone still pressed to his ear, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t know what would happen when they met. He didn’t know if they could fix what had been broken, if they could find their way back to each other. But for the first time in a long time, he felt something other than emptiness. He felt hope.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Seokjin isn’t sure what he expected.
When he agreed to meet Yoongi, he thought this would be the moment. The one where they’d lay everything bare, where Yoongi would finally tell him why.
Why he left.
Why he never responded.
Why he’s suddenly here now.
But now, sitting across from Yoongi at a nearly empty café, he realizes there are no grand explanations. No easy answers. Just two people who were once everything to each other, now trying to pretend they’re not strangers.
Yoongi stirs his coffee, eyes downcast. He looks the same. A little tired, maybe, a little older. But still Yoongi.
Seokjin folds his hands together. He watches Yoongi’s fingers, how they tremble slightly before stilling.
"You ignored my texts," Seokjin says, breaking the silence.
Yoongi doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deny it. "Yeah."
"But you still had my number."
"Yeah."
It’s infuriating. How Yoongi won’t elaborate. How he refuses to give Seokjin anything.
"Did you ever want to reply?" Seokjin asks, voice quieter.
Yoongi finally looks up. His eyes are dark, unreadable. Then, softly—"Every time."
Seokjin exhales. His fingers clench in his lap.
"Then why didn’t you?"
A pause. A breath. Yoongi looks away again, back to his coffee, as if the answer is written in the swirl of cream dissolving into black.
"Because I’m selfish."
Seokjin’s heart clenches.
Yoongi swallows, like the words are stuck in his throat. "Because if I answered, I wouldn’t have stopped." He exhales shakily, running a hand through his hair. "Because I would’ve asked you to take me back, even when I knew I had nothing to offer you. And you—" His voice falters. "You deserve more than that."
Seokjin hates that his eyes burn.
"You don’t get to decide that for me."
Yoongi presses his lips together. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to justify it. He just looks at Seokjin with something so heavy in his gaze that Seokjin almost can’t bear it.
"Do you still love me?" Seokjin asks, even though he knows the answer.
Yoongi closes his eyes, exhales. When he opens them again, there’s no hesitation.
"Yes."
Seokjin’s breath shudders. His fingers dig into his palms.
"Then why are you letting me go?"
Yoongi’s expression cracks for the first time that night. His jaw tightens.
"Because I love you."
It’s the cruelest answer of all.
Seokjin lets out a small, choked laugh. It’s not funny. Not even close. But what else is he supposed to do? He grips the edge of the table, grounding himself.
"I would’ve stayed," he whispers. "I would’ve chosen you, every time."
Yoongi smiles, but it’s a sad thing, edges frayed and worn. "I know."
And maybe that’s why he’s doing this.
The silence stretches again.
Seokjin wants to beg. He wants to grab Yoongi’s hands, shake some sense into him, tell him that love is messy and imperfect but still worth it.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he nods. Blinks away the sting in his eyes.
"Goodbye, Yoongi."
Yoongi looks like he wants to say something. Anything. But in the end, all he does is watch as Seokjin stands, shoulders squared, and walks away.
And this time, Seokjin doesn’t look back.