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Maybe it is something else. That something else that is currently blocking his airways, lodged in his throat, making him forget that it’s voluntary to breathe; that he doesn’t have to think about it, send an email to confirm transaction to his brain; that he needs to breathe in order for his entire being to stay alive.
And he has to stay alive.
But, Jungkook thinks that maybe it isn’t really what he thinks it is. Maybe it’s something else. Something entirely different, and less scary. Thinking about that ‘something’ else makes him breathe a little easier, convincing him that he’s right. This is something else.
Jeon Jungkook is not depressed.
The hollowness that seeps into his bones till his marrows are numb of it all—isn’t depression. He eats his meals. Meal. Because he forgets to eat in the morning and late in the night coming back from the military base. But he will never admit to the gruesome fact that he enjoys the sharp pangs of hunger that nip at the pit of his stomach when he sees someone eating his favorite snacks. He feels accomplished somehow for not giving in to it. He enjoys being hungry.
Enjoy is too joyful of a word for a depressed person. Therefore, Jungkook is not depressed. He smiles to himself. This reasoning, these thoughts, these harmless harmless thoughts, are not depression.
Sometimes Jimin visits him during their break and the sight of his hyung usually makes him feel lighter. The work in the military isn’t easy. But with someone as easy as Jimin, he could breeze pass through it. And breeze he does even if lately he works robotically.
“Hang in there, Gguk. We’ll get out soon. The others will be waiting for us as soon as we’re discharged. And we’ll eat at the restaurant you love so much.”
Hang in there.
Hang.
Interesting.
“I’m tired, hyung. You should go to your camp and sleep,” he brushes off Jimin’s arm over his shoulders and misses the hurt look that crosses his face. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He walks toward the direction of his own camp, his own room, his own rot, his own misery, his own to carry. The falling snowflakes that fall on his head, on the tip of his nose, and on his eyelashes, weigh him down—like a rock small enough to be carried but heavy in number. Everything is heavy in number.
And apparently, everything is heavy enough to weigh him down. The cavity in his chest is filled with rocks dressed in weightless snowflakes. Small enough to carry. Heavy in number.
He doesn’t get ten steps in with his winter boots before he hears running footsteps catching up to him. He knows it's Jimin, but even if it’s not him he wouldn’t budge. Even if it’s the sound of an approaching vehicle about to end his life and his stupid hollow heart that refuses to function and lungs that refuse to breathe.
“You know, I love you, right? A lot of people do, Gguk-ah.”
“Good night, hyung.”
“You lost some weight, Ggukie. Have you been eating right?” It was Seokjin who noticed first. But as soon as it was out in the air, the others filtered to him like moths.
Hoseok clings to him with the brightest smile and worried eyes. “Was the training too hard, JK?” He nuzzles deeper against the juncture of Jungkook’s neck and shoulder, keeping him locked in his arms and legs.
It’s getting harder to keep his smile unwavering; to keep it light. But the embrace, usually so full of warmth and comfort, threatens to suffocate him and to steal what little breath he could get in his lungs. It’s borderline claustrophobic, and it makes him manic. He doesn’t want to worry anyone anymore with his useless capability of chaos whether in and out of his mind. But it precedes his need to be alone without anyone touching him. Without Hoseok hugging him. Without Seokjin looking at him like he knows too well—as if he could see through Jungkook’s façade that is slowly falling apart.
And thinking about hurts. Because he never wanted them to stop touching. He never wanted them away. So, it says how far Jungkook is in whatever black hole he puts himself in. Because now, it's as if their touches curse him away, repel him like a demon—skin tearing, burning, and dissolving. And it hurts.
It hurt so much that he stopped breathing for a while.
And of course, they noticed. Of course, they love him too much not to. Of course, Jungkook lies.
“It’s fine, hyung.” ‘I’m fine’ goes unsaid because he thinks he can’t lie that far into his shit anymore. So, he just ducks his head and smiles to himself without meeting their eyes. But he knows they know.
Because of course, they do. They always do it’s almost unfair. He was supposed to feel grateful, but instead, the burning of unjust anger and simmering indignation overwhelms him.
Because being angry is easier than whatever this is that Jungkook is about to die drowning in.
And it’s uglier, crueler, and he knows he’ll hurt more of the people he loves than himself in the process but finds it fine. Would people understand him better if they were hurt the same way? What an uncomely thought.
“It’ll be over soon, JK. Don’t be sad anymore,” Hoseok tuts.
And oh, they think he’s sad.
Sad.
Three letters to sum it all up. But Jungkook thinks he could be writing an endless essay just to describe and find a way to describe this. Because he knows for a fact that when his mother got sad, she cried it off for a few hours and bounced back pretty much the same day. When his high school friend told him he was sad he couldn’t eat his favorite snack after a grueling exam, he didn’t say that he wanted to stop being alive as well. When Taehyung said he was sad Jungkook didn’t make it to that one afterparty they were invited to, he didn’t trace his jagged-bitten nails across his torso and arms until they leave that beautiful scarlet trail behind. And when ARMYs say they were sad for them for having to endure this government-mandated shit for more than a year, they sure didn’t want to die.
“I’m not sad, hyung.”
The burning coils of anger consumed him one day just like he predicted. He’s perpetually tired regardless of the amount of sleep he gets. Because he does sleep. He even tried sleeping a little earlier that his hyungs take notice. Asleep by 8pm; awake at the death throes of 3am; asleep until 7am. He supresses as much as he could, but like the broken glass that he is, it slips through the cracks, the uncontrolled emotions—that urge to blame anyone but himself.
It's justified. It should be. He doesn’t know how else to blame himself anymore. He was blamed enough.
“I don’t fucking care! I don’t even wanna go to that stupid concert.”
He’ll regret it later and rot in his self-deprecation. Later.
“You don’t mean that. You know how much this means to your Yoongi-hyung,” Namjoon tries. Oh, he tries hard to see the reason why Jungkook is being the way he is. Being difficult. Being a little shit. Being so rude as to dismiss his favorite hyung’s debut solo concert.
“I don’t fucking care,” he repeats. He finds it truthful. He stopped caring a while ago. He pointedly glares at Yoongi who looks stricken. His gentle hyung does not deserve this. But Jungkook doesn’t either. No one deserves this, but why is he the only one suffering? And he’s tired. He’s always tired. And it hurts.
Namjoon stands. “Joonie-ah, stop—”
“You don’t mean that,” Namjoon repeats himself. This time more solemn. Unbelieving. “Gguk-ah, what’s wrong?”
“Fuck you. Stop patronizing me.”
He regrets it as soon as it leaves his dirty mouth and quickly storms out of the room that is slowly closing in on him.
It burns too fast and leaves just as quickly. Jungkook is left with his breath knocked out of him as he struggles to claw his way out of this shit he buries himself under. He knows it's futile, but if he doesn’t at least try, he’ll die.
The thought is peaceful. It comes naturally. And he leans into it consciously.
But as he struggles to breathe one last time, faces that are not his flash in his mind. And oh god.
This ugly thing that he was scared to admit, with tears in his eyes, spit and drool rolling off the side of his face, vision whitening—he might be a little depressed.
He wakes up in his room. Which is weird because he remembers not making it past the living room. There isn’t even room for confusion to fully set in before hot shame envelopes him, ripping a sob out of him. The sheets move. The bed dips. And there are hands on his face, on his knees and an arm trying to hug him from behind. Somewhere in his haze, he notices that they aren’t talking at all. Just sighs and sniffles and exaggerated kisses on top of his hair.
“I’m s-sorry. I-I d-don’t—J-Joon hyung. I d-don’t- I’m s-so sorr- sorry—”
“Breathe, Jungkookie. I know. Just breathe, baby.”
These gentle touches, these faces, these loving voices. How could he not trust them? How could he be so afraid of them? How could his mind conjure up this horrid image that his hyungs would dismiss him; would not understand him?
“Just a little longer, our Ggukie,” finger tickles his underchin before he registers it was Taehyung engulfing his entire being like he could hide all of Jungkook. “In the meantime, we’re always here. Always.”