Archive of Our Own ^beta

It started with a late-night scroll and a half-empty tub of pistachio gelato balanced on his chest. Your head was tucked beneath Jungkook’s chin, both of you curled on his too-small couch with a movie playing you’d already seen. Twice.

You’d been talking about traveling more. Talking, mostly. Dreaming in half-sentences and vague someday promises. But tonight, the algorithm must’ve sensed your softness, because suddenly there it was on his screen—five nights in Bali, private villa, jungle view. “That looks fake,” you said, licking your spoon. “Looks perfect,” he replied, voice sticky with sleep and sugar.

A pause. He turned the screen toward you. “Should we?” He asked, making you tilted your head. “Like, actually book it?”

“Like, actually go.” He confirms. He grinned at your expression, already halfway through the checkout page. You didn’t even stop him—not when he put in his card details, not when he double-checked your passport number, not even when he clicked non-refundable. “You’re insane,” you whispered, laughter bubbling up. “So are you,” he said, kissing your hair. “That’s why it works.”

You didn’t know then what was coming. You didn’t know how something so warm could freeze over.

But for now, it was the two of you, mid-laughter, full of gelato and impulse. He pulled you into his lap when the confirmation email came in, read the subject line aloud like it meant something.

Trip Confirmed: Bali, March 12–17.

You kissed him before he could finish. You meant it.

The ramen shop was half-empty and too quiet. Steam curled from the bowls in front of you, untouched, the soft scent of pork broth and scallion heavy in the air like fog that wouldn’t lift. The lights overhead flickered once—too bright, too harsh—and Jungkook blinked against them like they offended him, like anything could be blamed except the words neither of you wanted to say.

You hadn’t sat next to him this time.

You always used to. He liked when your knees touched under the table, liked to steal your boiled egg with chopsticks so quick it made you yelp, liked the way you’d nudge his shoulder until he relented and gave it back, smirking like a boy who knew exactly what buttons to press. But tonight, he sat across from you, and the distance felt like a verdict. The chopsticks in your hand hadn’t moved in fifteen minutes.

He was stirring his broth absently, the kind of motion you did when your mind was far away, somewhere that didn’t involve the gut-wrecking weight of someone you loved looking at you like a stranger. He hadn’t even added the chili oil the way he always did. You used to tease him about how he drowned everything in heat. You used to be the soft to his sharp, the future to his present.

You didn’t know when that stopped being enough.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. You thought maybe he was waiting for you to. He’d always been like that—let things fester, let you name the problem first, as if it only became real once it left your mouth. And it wasn’t that you didn’t have words. You had too many. You’d been collecting them like sea glass in your throat, sharp and rounded, waiting for the right tide to bring them up.

So you said the smallest thing that felt big anyway. “We haven’t held hands in two weeks.” Your voice wasn’t accusing. Just quiet. Observational. Like a scientist cataloguing the dying of a star. Jungkook didn’t look up. He kept stirring, the slow motion of broth parting around the egg, and when he spoke, it was low. Not defensive. Just real.

“I didn’t notice.”

He winced a little as he said it, like he knew it landed wrong. But it was true. And worse—he wasn’t lying to hurt you. He just wasn’t looking the same way you were anymore.

You nodded. You didn’t flinch. The burn came later. The way it always did with him—delayed. Like a cut you didn’t feel until you saw the blood.

A couple laughed in the booth behind you, too loud, too young. You wanted to scream at them. Instead, you curled your fingers into your coat pocket and stared at the little bamboo plant wilting on the counter, wondering when it had started to droop. Wondering if they ever watered it. Wondering if love was something that could just dry out quietly, right in front of you, and no one would stop it.

He glanced up, like he felt you slipping. “Are we okay?”

It cracked you. Not because of the question, but because of how late it came. You used to be able to tell with a look, with a breath. Now he was asking out loud. Now he didn’t know.

And you . . . you were tired of knowing alone.

“I don’t think we are.”

You meant for it to be steady, but your voice faltered halfway through. Not shaking. Just honest. There was something so excruciating about being honest when the person you loved couldn’t meet you there.

He finally stopped stirring. The chopsticks hit the rim of the bowl with a quiet clink. The silence that followed was thick, like airless heat, like August in a city that never cooled down. “I’m not ready,” he said.

And just like that, it wasn’t theoretical anymore.

You looked at him. Really looked. His eyes were glassy but dry, his jaw tight. The hoodie he wore was yours. He hadn’t noticed. That made you want to scream.

You didn’t. You nodded again, like someone who kept nodding to keep from breaking.

“I just need more time.” He added softly.

And god, maybe if he had said that weeks ago, months ago, when you were still hopeful—maybe you would’ve stayed. Maybe you would’ve waited. But you’d been waiting. You’d been waiting in all the ways that didn’t look like waiting. In every canceled plan. In every unanswered question. In every time he kissed you like he loved you but couldn’t say it out loud after.

“I’ve already given you everything,” you said. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cruel. It was just the truth, bleeding at the edges of your mouth like something you couldn’t hold in anymore. Jungkook looked like he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t. He just stared at you like he was seeing the end and couldn’t stop it.

You finished your tea. Lukewarm. Bitter.

When the bill came, he reached for it. You didn’t fight him. That, too, felt like something you were too tired to fix.

He walked you home. It was a short walk. Five blocks that used to feel like seconds when his hand was in yours. Now it was five blocks of almosts. Almost saying something. Almost touching. Almost looking back.

At your door, he lingered. “If I could be who you need, I would.”

That was the part that broke you. Because he meant it. Because it wasn’t enough.

You opened the door. You didn’t invite him in. You didn’t kiss him goodbye. You just said, “Take care, Jungkook.” And you closed the door before he could see your eyes.

You didn’t cry that night. You didn’t sleep either. You just lay there listening to a playlist you refused to delete. You wanted to feel something sharp, something deep. Like if it hurt enough, it would count as proof.

You didn’t go back to the ramen shop. You didn’t text him. You didn’t ask him to try.

Two months later, your phone buzzed while you were brushing your teeth.

Check-in opens in 48 hours.

Your trip to Bali is confirmed.

Flight: JFK – Denpasar.

You stared at the screen for a long time. You closed the email and opened it again five minutes later, staring at the words like maybe you’d hallucinated them.

You hadn’t.

The trip was real. Still booked. Still paid for.

And in his name—plus one. You . 

You sat with it for a long time. The fact of it. The stupidity. The sadness. The memories of booking it in September, legs tangled with his on the couch, still laughing over a beach in Seminyak that some influencer had posted, both of you smug and in love and thinking nothing could fall apart.

Then it did.

You didn’t know what you expected. For it to have been cancelled automatically by the universe? For time to rearrange itself so you never booked it at all?

You hadn’t texted him since the week before Christmas. He hadn’t either. It had started to feel like you were both trying to win a game of silence neither of you were proud to be playing.

But now . . .

This wasn’t a text you could dress up with casual words. There was no “hey hope you’re well” that didn’t sound pathetic, or “so random but…” that didn’t feel forced. Still, you stared at your phone like it owed you courage. Your thumb hovered over his name in your recents.

JK

You hadn’t changed it. Couldn’t bring yourself to. You opened the message thread. The last thing you sent him was a Spotify link. Something stupid. One of the songs you both liked. No reply.

Above that, his last message,

made it back safe. thanks for the hoodie

let me know if you want it back

You’d never replied. You didn’t want it back. You wanted him back. You locked your phone. Unlocked it. Wrote one message.

hey. weird question, did you get a bali check-in email?

You stared out the window. The sky was grey. The street below smelled like wet asphalt. You felt ridiculous. Immature. Like maybe if you waited a few more hours, the problem would disappear.

But it didn’t.

You typed again. Slower this time. Deliberate. No exclamation points. No emojis. No hope.

hey.

did you get the bali flight email too?

You hit send before you could overthink it.

The moment it went through, your heart started pounding. You hated how fast your body remembered him. Your chest tight, your palms cold. The memory of what his voice sounded like when he said your name playing somewhere in the background of your mind like white noise.

The message stayed unread for twenty minutes. Then thirty. Then forty-five.

You’d just set your phone face down and told yourself to move on, it was fine, you were fine, it didn’t mean anything—when it buzzed.

yeah

didn’t realize it was non-refundable

A pause.

guess we were optimistic huh

Another pause. Longer this time.

do you still want to go?

You stared at that message like it might vanish. Like if you blinked too hard, it would slip away.

You didn’t answer right away. You got up. Walked to the kitchen. Made tea you wouldn’t drink. Sat on your counter and read the message again. You weren’t sure what he was really asking. If you wanted to go . . . or if you wanted to see him.

So you typed slowly. Carefully. Like every word had the weight of history behind it.

i think we already paid for it

would be a waste not to

Another moment. Then, you messaged again.

i can change the reservation if you don’t want to go

no pressure

He replied within seconds.

no

it’s fine

let’s just go

Then nothing. You waited. But that was it. No smiley face. No follow-up. Just a decision made in silence, like two people agreeing to walk into a fire without saying it out loud.

So that was that. You were going to Bali.

With him. And there would be no refunds.

You didn’t sleep. You tried—curled under the covers with the lights off and the humidifier running like a lullaby—but your body had other plans. Your mind kept playing games with the word fine . You and Jungkook were fine. You’d just see each other at the airport, board the plane, pretend you’d never broken up two months after booking the trip and four months before takeoff. What could go wrong?

By the time morning filtered through the blinds, you were already awake. Sitting cross-legged on your floor, suitcase open, laundry piled beside it. You’d packed and unpacked twice already. Nothing felt right. Everything either looked too nostalgic or not enough. You hadn’t worn your favorite linen set since the breakup. You weren’t sure if it would still feel like yours.

That’s how Yoongi found you—half-dressed, surrounded by fabric and chaos, your playlist looping in the background, somewhere between Phoebe Bridgers and Mitski.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, stepping over a heap of swimsuits. “Are you moving or going to Bali?”

You didn’t look up. “Same difference.”

He dropped a paper bag beside you. Coffee and a croissant. Probably from that place he liked with the barista who never spelled his name right. “You’re not eating,” he said casually, crouching across from you. “Which is your first red flag.”

“I had a banana.”

“You peeled it and stared at it for ten minutes.”

You cracked a smile—barely. “I was emotionally communing with the potassium.” You correct, as Yoongi huffed. He reached over and picked up a green bikini top, then the matching bottom. “Okay but why are you bringing five of these? Do you plan on changing swimsuits hourly?” He asked as you shrug. “Maybe I want options.”

“Maybe you want distractions.”

You paused.

He dropped the bikini back onto the pile and looked at you—really looked at you, the way only Yoongi ever could. He didn’t do pity. He didn’t do melodrama. But he knew you. Knew the version of you that held your breath when hurt, that smiled to cover the sting, that pretended every crack in your voice was from allergies.

“So,” he said finally, slow and careful. “You’re really doing this?” He asked, while you stared at the half-filled suitcase. “The trip’s paid for.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Maybe I just want proof that we were happy once.”

Yoongi didn’t say anything for a moment. 

“You really think flying across the world with your ex is gonna fix that?” He asked, cautiously. You sighed. “It’s not about fixing it.” You said, shaking your head. “Then what?”

You didn’t know how to say it. That some part of you was still stuck in the September version of things, when the trip was new and so was the love. That you were going not because you believed it would heal you, but because you couldn’t stand the idea of that trip going to waste. Like if you lost that too, then maybe the relationship really did end with nothing left behind. Instead, you said, “He replied like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t even thought about it. Like we didn’t almost book matching tattoos.”

Yoongi’s face softened. “You didn’t.”

“No. But we almost did.”

“You and your bad decisions,” he murmured, nudging your knee with his. “You really loved him.” He realized, “I still do,” you whispered.

That was the first time you’d said it out loud.

Yoongi blinked, like the words had landed heavier than he expected. “You think he still loves you?” He asked. You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t know—but because you did. Because you saw it in the way he texted “ let’s just g o” like it wasn’t the end of the world, like he was still trying to keep something alive without saying its name.

You zipped the suitcase slowly. “I think . . . we loved each other in different tenses.”

Yoongi sat with that for a moment. Then he stood, brushing nonexistent lint from his sweats. “Well,” he said. “You’ve got bug spray, sunscreen, and repressed feelings. Sounds like you’re packed.”

You let out a laugh, watery and quiet. “Thanks, mom.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “Just text me when you land. And don’t let him gaslight you into parasailing.”

“Too late. I already scheduled it.” You sheepishly said, as he groaned. “Of course you did.”

Then he was gone, leaving behind coffee, croissant crumbs, and the echo of all the things you couldn’t say.

You stood alone in your apartment, suitcase by the door, calendar blinking with a flight confirmation.

Bali. Two people. One hotel room. Seven days. And a love you weren’t sure you were ready to mourn.

The airport was humming, fluorescent and cold, already thinning the edges of your resolve before you even made it past security. You stood near Gate 27, phone clenched in your palm, pretending to scroll while your stomach twisted itself into origami. You’d arrived early on purpose, thinking the time alone would steel you. All it did was give you thirty extra minutes to rehearse how not to look broken when he walked in.

When he did—it hit you like a slap wrapped in silk.

Jeon Jungkook was the same, and he wasn’t .

His tattoo sleeve was now colored in, the bold black lines you remembered shaded with deep ochres and blues. His eyebrow piercing had company now—a silver hoop on his lip that you couldn’t help but follow with your eyes. His hair was a little longer, darker too, curling at the ends in a way that made you think of how you used to twist it around your fingers after midnight. And his frame—he was bigger. Broader. He filled out his hoodie like he’d started lifting religiously, like heartbreak had turned into some kind of physical repentance.

He looked good. Of course he did.

And you—you were different, too. Your hair no longer screamed rebellion or late-night impulse decisions. The dark red was gone, buried under layers of caramel brown and soft blonde highlights that caught the light every time you moved. It was shorter now—cut just above your shoulders in a style you’d hoped would make you feel newer than you were. Your body had changed too—leaner, sharper. Not from health, but from grief. You went to the gym like it was church. You cried through planks and deadlifts and burpees while your trainer pretended not to notice.

The tattoos had come after. Above your elbow, a small phrase in cursive script. On your forearm, a snake wrapped around a bloom. On the back of your shoulder blade—something only seen if you turned away. You wondered if he’d notice. If he’d ask. If it would hurt.

He stopped a few paces away from you, gaze catching like a breath stuck in his throat. You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough like he hadn’t used it much lately. You nodded. “Hey.”

That was it. Two syllables each. But you heard the rest.

You look different.

So do you.

You look good.

I’ve missed you.

You swallowed it all.

Jungkook adjusted the strap of his duffel bag and glanced at your suitcase. “Still overpacking?” You exhaled something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Still traveling like you’ll outrun your issues?”

His mouth twitched, almost fond. “Touché.”

There was a moment of silence. People passed around you—families with toddlers, honeymooners in matching straw hats, businessmen on Bluetooth calls. You stood in the eye of it, perfectly still. You hadn’t seen each other in three months.

But here you were, boarding the same flight. Sharing the same room. Pretending you were fine.

“How’ve you been?” He asked, voice low. You could’ve said good , like people do when they’re lying. You could’ve said busy, or surviving, or I cried into my protein shakes for weeks after you left and sometimes I still dream you’re in my bed. But you didn’t. Instead, “I’ve been,” you said. He nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

Another silence settled, heavier this time.

You turned, slowly, toward the gate. “They’re boarding in ten. We should line up.” He followed, one step behind. He always used to walk beside you.

And as you handed over your boarding pass, as you stepped onto the jet bridge and felt the distance between you shrink, you realized, this wasn’t a vacation.

It was a test you never studied for.

And neither of you was ready for the answers.

It started before the wheels even left the tarmac. You weren’t supposed to sit together. You made that clear when you booked the flights again—separately, weeks apart, out of necessity not nostalgia. The resort reservation had forced you into tandem logistics, but you had drawn a line at seat selection. Let the algorithm sort it out. It felt easier that way. Mechanical. Impersonal.

But somehow, by sheer algorithmic cruelty or the ghost of your past relationship laughing from some digital purgatory, you found yourselves side by side in row 23, middle and aisle, pressed shoulder to shoulder in economy on the thirteen-hour flight to Doha.

The moment you realized it, you didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Jungkook only raised his brows—those same, impossible brows now shadowed by a silver eyebrow ring you hadn’t seen in person for months until today—and offered a tight, almost polite smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. You hated how yours nearly did.

You could smell his cologne the moment he shifted in his seat. Not the same one from before. Something woodier, spicier. He always smelled expensive, but this one was sharper, grown-up. You caught yourself cataloguing it like a scent sample you weren’t supposed to test. You looked straight ahead.

The plane filled slowly. A woman behind you argued with her toddler over snacks. A man struggled to fit a suitcase in the overhead bin and knocked someone’s elbow. The seatbelt sign pinged. You reached down to buckle yours and brushed his hand by accident.

It felt like static. You pulled away first.

The flight attendant came around with orange juice and headphones. Jungkook took both. You took water. Then came the long, slow crawl toward the sky, the way the plane tilted into its climb like it didn’t want to leave the ground. You stared at the screen in front of you, flipping through movies you’d seen before just to avoid landing on anything romantic. You settled on a documentary. So did he. You knew he wasn’t watching it when the screen kept idling on the selection menu.

“You cut your hair,” he said an hour in, like the words had been fighting to come out. His voice was hoarse. Dry. You didn’t look at him. “You got new ink.”

“Yeah.”

You let the silence hang. He didn’t fill it.

The new tattoo sleeve was hard to miss—colored now, vivid streaks of red and green down his arm where it used to be only black. You wanted to ask if it hurt. You didn’t. You were scared he’d say yes. Scared he’d say no. Scared you’d care either way.

Another hour passed. You cried during the documentary but blamed it on turbulence. Jungkook didn’t look over, but his hand tensed where it sat on his thigh. You remembered how he used to hold your leg when you cried during flights. You remembered how he used to wipe your cheeks before you could.

Now he just shifted and asked, “You okay?” You nodded. “It’s just a long flight.” You said, “You were always bad at flying.” He said, almost reminiscent.

“You were always worse at comfort.”

That landed. You didn’t mean to throw it like a dart, but there it was, stuck between you.

He turned his head toward the window, one arm lifted to scratch at his jaw. You caught the glint of the lip ring then—the new one, matching the old one above his brow. It suited him. You hated how much it suited him.

Hours passed. A meal came and went. He offered you his bread roll. You declined. He gave it to the man in the aisle seat instead, who snored through the second half of the flight with his mouth open.

When you finally slept, you didn’t mean to lean toward him. You hated how natural it still felt, the way your body remembered. You jolted awake after ten minutes and found your head tilted toward his shoulder, his arm tense against yours but unmoving. He didn’t look at you. But he hadn’t shifted away.

The layover in Doha was a blur of customs and awkward pacing. You bought a coffee. He bought gum. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you had to. Not when the air between you still hummed with everything left unsaid.

The final leg—another ten hours—was quieter. Darker. The plane was mostly silent now, lights dimmed for sleep. He watched a movie. You watched him reflected in the dark screen. His jaw had sharpened. His arms had bulked. He looked like someone who had changed. You weren’t sure you had.

You caught him staring once. Just once. You turned before you could see what was in his eyes.

He didn’t look away. Neither did the ache in your chest.

The resort glowed in the late afternoon light, a gilded slice of Bali carved into cliffs and coconut palms. Waves crashed softly beyond a sprawl of open-air walkways, stone fountains, and hibiscus plants bursting with color like someone had hand-painted them onto the air.

You were too tired to admire any of it. Your body ached from the two long-haul flights and a layover that had felt like purgatory. Your mouth tasted like airplane coffee and dried-out granola bars. Jungkook looked no better—hair mussed from sleep, hoodie twisted at the collar, dark eyes rimmed in travel fatigue. Still, the woman at the front desk looked far too excited to see you both.

“Welcome to Santayana.” Her voice was warm. Rehearsed. “Can I have the name on the reservation?”

Jungkook stepped forward first, adjusting the strap of the weekender bag slung across his shoulder. “Jungkook Jeon. And maybe also—” You gave your name quickly, not looking at him.

She tapped the keyboard with fast, rhythmic precision. “Ah, yes! You’re both here. The system automatically merged your bookings since they were under the same confirmation number and for the same suite category.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Your suites—Ocean Premier, both of them—were merged into one booking. King bed, private balcony, plunge pool, and breakfast included. Just let us know if you need a second toothbrush set or extra towels.” She smiled. 

You stared at her. Then at Jungkook. Then back at her.

“I had requested a separate room,” you said, careful, controlled. “Yes, but since no other suite in the same tier was available, we assumed you were sharing. Honeymoon season. Our apologies.” She was still smiling. “But we’ve sent a bottle of rosé and welcome fruits to the room.”

“ Honeymoon ,” Jungkook muttered under his breath, mostly to himself. His hand ran through his hair. You almost said something, but you held your tongue.

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll walk you to the buggy.”

You didn’t argue. What was there to argue with? A fully booked cliffside resort during peak travel season? A front desk staff who thought you were newlyweds? A man beside you whose mouth you used to kiss like it was a full-time job, who now barely made eye contact unless he had to?

The buggy ride up to the villa was short and too quiet. The air was soft and balmy, carrying hints of sea salt and crushed frangipani. He didn’t speak. You didn’t either. The only sounds were tires crunching on gravel and the cheerful hum of the bellboy explaining how to unlock the sliding door with the brass key card.

“Here we are!” The staff beamed as he stepped back. “One of our most romantic suites. If you need anything—candles, extra pillows, mosquito netting, spa menu—just call reception. Enjoy your stay.”

You thanked him flatly. Jungkook tried to tip, but the man waved it off like he couldn’t imagine taking money from a couple on their honeymoon.

The door clicked shut behind you.

The silence that followed was heavy.

It was a gorgeous room. That was the worst part. Vaulted ceilings. Handwoven tapestries. White curtains billowing softly against floor-to-ceiling windows. The bed—one singular, impossibly wide king—was framed by sheer drapes and scattered with hibiscus petals in the shape of a heart.

You dropped your bag on the bench at the foot of it and stared. Jungkook let out a long breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “This is . . . a choice.”

“They merged our bookings.” You said, unimpressed. “I didn’t do it on purpose.” He defended, as you raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say you did.”

You stood there for another moment, silence stretching until it frayed. “I’ll take the couch,” he said finally. “There’s no couch.” You pointed out. He glanced around. “Floor, then. Or the chair. I’ve slept in worse.”

You gave him a look that said you knew he had. You hated that you knew.

“Let’s just not make it weird,” he added, his voice low. Measured. “It’s a bed. It’s not—whatever it used to be.” You said nothing. You toed off your shoes. You walked to the balcony doors, slid one open, and stepped out into the thick, golden air. From up here, the ocean was molten silver. Palm trees swayed below, and somewhere nearby, you could hear the chirp of cicadas, the soft splash of a fountain.

Behind you, he stayed inside. You didn’t know what this week would be. But it already felt like a lifetime.

The restaurant sat at the edge of the property, perched just above the shore where waves licked the sand with gentle rhythm. Lanterns hung from wooden beams like fallen stars, and a live trio played something soft and string-heavy near the bar—just enough to make the silence between you and Jungkook feel like part of the ambiance.

You hadn’t spoken much since unpacking, and even that was a generous description. He’d found the room service menu and passed it to you without comment. You handed it back without looking. It had been his idea, eventually, to go down to the restaurant. “Seafood night,” he’d said, as if it mattered. As if the trip you booked a lifetime ago together wasn’t once planned around a lobster tasting course and a beachfront wine pairing you’d both been excited about. Back when things were good. Back when his toothbrush lived next to yours, not buried in the zip pocket of a travel dopp kit. Back when you could still laugh together without measuring it for meaning.

The hostess led you to a table by the water’s edge, candlelit and already set. You slid into your seat, letting your black-and-white dress settle like ink pooling on the stone. The fabric fluttered faintly in the wind, brushing your ankles. You hadn’t worn it since you bought it—since that day in SoHo when he held it up against your frame and said something like it looks like you stole a Monet and you laughed and didn’t realize that would become one of your favorite memories.

“You look nice,” he said quietly, after a moment. Almost uncertain. “Thanks,” you replied, not unkindly. “You look like you’re on the cover of a Greek skincare brand.” You added. Jungkook snorted. “I’ll take that.”

He did look good. Unfairly so. The white linen shirt was just slightly rumpled at the sleeves, the collar open to the top of his chest. His skin had started to catch the sun already, glowing faintly gold, and his hair curled slightly near his ears from the heat.

You opened the menu with too much interest, as if the grilled barramundi could save you. He tapped the table, glancing out at the sea. “Do you think they still do that fire dance thing?” He asked. You shook your head. “It’s Thursday. That’s Tuesdays.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. “You still remember all the details.” 

You didn’t answer. What was there to say? That of course you remembered? That the week you planned together was practically engraved in you, muscle memory and all? That you had to pretend to forget, otherwise it would crush you?

The server arrived with a smile and an accent you couldn’t place. “Two glasses of the Balinese rosé?” she asked. “Complimentary for the couple.”

“We’re not—” you began. “Sure,” Jungkook cut in, easy. “Thank you.”

She nodded and vanished. You looked at him, unimpressed. “You could’ve said no.” You said, flatly. “I could’ve,” he agreed. “But I wanted to see if you’d say it first.”

You stared at him. He didn’t flinch.

“So this is what the trip is going to be?” You asked quietly. “Games?”

“No,” he said, more gently now. “It’s just . . . hard. Seeing you. Talking like we haven’t already said everything. And not enough.”

The wine arrived. You drank before the toast.

Dinner was grilled lobster, buttered clams, charred eggplant in sesame sauce, and too many memories. You talked about the food, about the couple at the next table arguing softly in French, about the water being warmer than you expected. He mentioned work once—something about a campaign in New York—and you nodded but didn’t ask.

The music changed. The tide kept rising.

By dessert, it felt like you had lived three lives in the span of one meal. He scraped the last of the calamansi crème brûlée off his spoon and looked at you, really looked this time, and asked, “Do you think we could’ve made it if we hadn’t booked this trip?” You swallowed. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

You met his eyes across the candlelight. “We didn’t break up because of timing. We broke up because we stopped being kind.” You said, the hurt threatening to spill at your voice despite it’s evenness. He flinched. Just slightly. Like you’d touched a bruise.

The server returned with the check. Neither of you moved to grab it. “I’ll get it,” he said. “For old time’s sake.”

You rose before he could finish signing, sandals quiet against the stone path back toward the room. He followed. Of course he did.

Behind you, the sea kept whispering secrets into the dark.

The walk back to the suite was quiet in the way that only old lovers could manage—wordless but not silent, full but not loud. The path from the restaurant curved along the edge of the resort, lit by low lights tucked into the garden hedges, flickering gold against palm shadows. Somewhere beyond, the sea whispered in rhythm, crashing and retreating like it was breathing.

You walked a few paces ahead, your black and white dress fluttering with each step, thin fabric licking at your ankles. The breeze was cooler now, brushed with salt, and you wrapped your arms loosely around yourself—not for warmth, but as if your body still needed holding.

Jungkook said nothing.

He hadn’t said much all dinner, either. He’d listened. Nodded at your small talk. Smiled when appropriate. But beneath his white linen shirt, under the new layer of muscle and sun, he was still the boy who didn’t know how to stay. And you were still the girl who had memorized all the ways he used to try.

His sandals scuffed gently against the path behind you. You knew his gait by heart—heavier on the right, a little longer stride. You used to match him without thinking. You used to reach back blindly to find his hand.

Tonight, you just walked. And he followed.

The scent of grilled fish still clung faintly to your hair. He smelled like clean cotton and the lemongrass soap provided by the resort—sharp and warm and unfamiliar in a way that made your stomach twist. You hated that you noticed. Hated that he hadn’t even looked tired, despite nearly twenty hours of travel and whatever ache he might have carried in his chest.

As you passed a stone bench near the koi pond, he finally spoke. “You always did like places near the water.”

You stopped walking. Slowly turned. He wasn’t smiling, not really. His hands were tucked into his pockets, shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing the colored ink that bled across his left forearm. The reds and blues were brighter now. You used to trace those lines when they were only black and gray.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Still do.”

The silence returned, but thicker now. It pressed between you, padded with memory. He looked at you then, properly—his gaze landing on the new tattoos on your arms, your sun-browned skin, the caramel sweep of your hair. “You cut it,” he said, almost like an accusation. You shrugged. “Felt heavy.”

That made him nod. Slowly. Like he understood.

You wanted to ask if his piercings hurt. If his sleeve itched while it healed. If he got the coloring done in one go or if he spread it out because he still couldn’t sit still for too long. But you said nothing. You couldn’t trust your voice.

Instead, you turned back to the path. The suite was just ahead, the lights from the balcony glowing warm against the sky. It looked like a postcard. Unreal. Like something the two of you used to talk about in the dark, tangled under shared blankets, your leg thrown over his thigh as he scrolled through travel blogs and murmured, One day.

Behind you, Jungkook started walking again. His footsteps were slower now, deliberate. He kept more space between you. 

When you reached the suite, you paused at the door, waiting. He pulled out the key card from his pocket and hovered it against the reader. The lock clicked, and he pushed it open for you. The air conditioning sighed out like a breath the moment you stepped inside.

You didn’t look at him when you walked past. Didn’t check to see if he watched you. But you knew he did. Of course he did.

And when the door shut behind him, sealing you both inside, the silence wasn’t empty.

It was full of everything that had been left unsaid.

The terrace door slid open with a low hush, letting in the sound of waves and the faint scent of saltwater. You stepped barefoot onto the stone floor, your arms wrapped around yourself more out of habit than cold, your long dress whispering around your calves. Somewhere below, the ocean roared in low pulses, steady and insistent like it had something to say.

You leaned forward against the railing, exhaled slowly, and let your head fall back.

The sky was ridiculous—stars flung like sugar across navy silk, the moon swollen and white as bone. If you looked long enough, it stopped feeling real. It felt like a backdrop. A movie set. Some over-budget advertisement for grief dressed as luxury.

Your phone buzzed.

You didn’t expect it. You hadn’t told anyone you landed. But when you saw Yoongi's name flash across your screen, you laughed a little.

Of course.

You picked up and whispered, “I’m not dead.”

“God, finally,” came Yoongi’s voice, loud and immediate. “I was five minutes away from calling the embassy and reporting a kidnapping.” He complained, “You don’t even know which embassy.” You snorted. 

“I was gonna try them all.”

You smiled. Pressed the phone closer to your cheek as you turned slightly, resting your hip against the railing.

“It’s almost 2AM in New York.” You said, “And yet, here I am. A good friend. Awake. Sleepless. Waiting to hear if you’ve been chopped into tiny pieces and fed to Bali’s crabs.” He sighed dramatically. “Not even a hello?”

“I said god, finally. That’s love, baby.”

You rolled your eyes and let your voice relax, soft and warm in that particular way it always got with Yoongi. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said back, quieter this time. “You good?” He asked. You hesitated.

Behind you, inside the suite, you could hear the soft clink of glass. Jungkook, maybe rinsing a cup. Maybe just standing at the counter like he used to when he couldn’t sleep. Maybe listening.

“Yeah,” you answered, drawing the word out like it weighed more than it should. “I mean. I’m here.” You shrugged. “How’s the room?” He asked, “Big.” You replied, “And the view?” He followed, “Stupidly pretty.” You sighed, looking at the waves crashing against sand under the moonlight and hung up lantern lights that added ambiance to the open-air bar. He paused, “And him?”

Your silence gave you away.

You heard Yoongi exhale. “That bad?” He asked, “No. It’s not bad,” you whispered. “It’s just . . .” You trailed off.

“Familiar?” He finished for you. 

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “Yeah. Too familiar.” Another pause. This one longer. You could hear the crinkle of sheets on the other end, like he was shifting to sit up in bed.

“Did he look at you like he used to?” He asked cautiously. Your eyes burned. You blinked, fixed your gaze on the horizon. “Yeah.”

“And did it hurt?” He inhaled sharply. You swallowed. “Yeah.”

Yoongi hummed like he already knew. “You didn’t tell him you dyed your hair, did you?” He asked, “Nope.”

“He notice?” He asked, and you could hear his eyebrows raising. “Of course.”

“Men are so predictable it’s almost boring.”

You smiled, barely.

Inside, the sink turned off. You didn’t look. Yoongi yawned—loud, long, theatrical. “Okay, well. I just needed to confirm you’re alive. If you do die, please make sure Jungkook is the first to know so he can cry and write a mixtape or whatever.”

“Yoongi.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

He went quiet again, just for a moment. “I know why you did this,” he said. “I don’t like it, but I get it.” He added as you exhaled. “I love you,” you said. It came out easy. Like air. Like muscle memory. He grunted. “I love me too.”

You laughed, quietly. Yoongi cleared his throat, “Don’t get pregnant.” He warned. “I’m not sleeping with him.” You defend flatly. “ Yet .” He giggled. 

“Shut up.”

“Love you. Bye.”

He hung up before you could argue. You stared at the screen a little longer, then slid the phone into your pocket and turned back toward the suite.

Jungkook was standing just beyond the open glass door, barefoot, shoulder leaning against the wall. A glass of water in his hand.

He didn’t say anything. You didn’t ask how much he heard. Instead, you said softly, “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shook his head. “Jet lag.”

You nodded, brushing past him back into the room. But you felt his eyes on your back the whole way.

You walked past him toward your suitcase, pulling out the black silk camisole and matching shorts you always traveled with—thin and light, barely there. You didn’t think about it when you packed. You hadn’t expected it to feel so revealing now.

He didn’t say anything when you slipped into the bathroom. Didn’t say anything when you came out, hair damp and pushed back, bare feet against the cool tile. He had changed too. White t-shirt. Black sweatpants cuffed at the ankle. A pair of small hoop earrings in, tattoos on his arm gleaming under the dim light. He looked soft like this. Still. Like nothing had happened and everything had happened all at once.

You paused on your side of the bed.

Jungkook was already lying down, one arm behind his head, the covers pulled halfway up his chest. His eyes were open, tracking the ceiling like it had answers. “I’m not letting you sleep on the chair,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “I wasn’t planning to.”

You nodded once, then slipped beneath the sheets. It was a wide bed. Luxurious. Big enough for two strangers to sleep without ever brushing knees. 

But you weren’t strangers.

You lay still, arms crossed loosely over your stomach, staring up at the ceiling too. The air was thick—too much quiet, too much memory. It settled over the room like fog.

After a few minutes, Jungkook exhaled. “I didn’t know you dyed your hair,” he said. Your heart lurched. But your voice stayed steady. “You weren’t supposed to.” You replied. He was quiet for a moment. “It looks good. Brighter.” He said softly, “Thanks.” You whispered, not trusting yourself or your voice. 

Another moment passed.

“You lost weight.” You didn’t respond. “I like the tattoos,” he added.

You closed your eyes.

They were all things he should’ve known when they were still together. Things he should’ve seen over coffee in the morning. In dressing rooms. At dinner tables. Things you should’ve told him while curled in bed like this, his arm draped over your waist.

Instead, he was cataloging the changes like a stranger trying to guess the story behind someone else’s scars.

He turned his head slightly toward you. “Do you want me to stay on my side?” He asked, voice steady but taut, like a diver holding his breath before the plunge, already expecting the cold of the answer.

Your throat tightened. You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Silence stretched again.

Outside, the wind rustled against the palms. Somewhere in the distance, a motorbike buzzed down a coastal road. The resort had gone quiet—most of the guests asleep or tangled in someone else’s sheets.

You lay on your back, trying not to remember the weight of his arm across your middle. The way he used to breathe against your shoulder. How you used to fit.

After what felt like forever, you heard him shift. The bed dipped, covers rustling. “I’m just fixing the pillow,” he murmured, voice hoarse from disuse. “Not trying anything.”

“I know.”

He lay back down, farther this time. That should’ve made it easier to sleep. But your heart wouldn’t quiet. Not with him this close. Not with this much unsaid.

After another long silence, you whispered, “Did you bring the necklace?” You didn’t know why you asked. But he answered.

“I never took it off.”

Your breath caught. You rolled onto your side then—toward the wall, not him—and didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t either.

But behind you, his breath synced to yours. Eventually, sleep came like it always used to—slowly, reluctantly, but only once the other was close enough to feel.

The temple was older than memory, carved from stone darkened by centuries of rain and ritual, its courtyards flanked with shrines that pulsed with incense and quiet reverence. The air smelled like wet earth and sandalwood, and even the wind moved differently here—gentler, as if aware it was stepping into something holy.

You didn’t speak much on the drive. The hour-long ride to Tirta Empul was spent in a shared silence that didn’t feel as suffocating as yesterday’s, just quieter. More resigned. There had been a few murmurs—asking the driver if he could turn the AC up, thanking him when he handed you a bottle of water—but between you and Jungkook, there was only the sound of the road and the soft Balinese gamelan music playing faintly from the front.

Your sarong had come loose while walking toward the temple gates. Jungkook noticed before you did, his hand brushing your waist before you could flinch. He didn’t say anything, just crouched down slightly and knotted the cloth at your hip, his fingers surprisingly sure. He stood and gave a small nod, eyes lingering on your shoulder just a moment too long before pulling away. You looked elsewhere, pretending to fix your earring, as if that moment hadn’t just winded you.

At the purification pool, the line moved slowly. Locals moved with quiet efficiency, lips forming prayers as they approached each fountain. Tourists, wrapped in borrowed sarongs and awkward awe, followed suit. You joined the queue, feet bare against the wet stone. Jungkook stood behind you. You could feel him, not close enough to touch but near enough to sense—like the way you know a storm’s coming before the thunder rolls.

The sun was already high. Your hair was tied back but the heat made your skin slick, your neck damp. When it was your turn, you stepped forward into the cold water. It reached your knees. You shivered.

The first spout, you cupped your hands, collected the water, poured it over your head. Again, again, again. With each step down the line, the water grew colder, heavier, as if it had learned something about you from the last spout and was punishing you accordingly.

You didn’t look back to see where Jungkook was.

At the sixth fountain, a priest waited. Unlike the others, this one didn’t rush. He watched you, then gestured for you to kneel slightly in the water. You obeyed, hands folded together, trying to still your breath. He dipped a flower into a small copper bowl, flicking water across your face, your shoulders, your heart. He looked at you kindly. His English was soft but clear, “Let go,” he said. “Let go of what no longer serves you.”

It hit like a stone in your chest.

You blinked once. Then again. The water on your cheeks wasn’t just from the fountain anymore. The tears came without warning—silent, almost shy. They mixed with the sacred water and slid down your chin, soaking into the collar of your shirt. You didn’t sob. You just stood there, trembling, blinking, breathing through your mouth.

Behind you, the water shifted. Jungkook was closer now, only one fountain behind. You didn’t turn, but something in the way the air moved told you he heard it too.

The words. Your tears. The ache you were so good at hiding, spilling over.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did you. But when you turned away from the fountain and stepped aside for him to take his place, his eyes flicked up for only a second.

He looked like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. You didn’t either.

The car ride back was quieter than the one there. No music. No words. Only the hum of the engine. The wet slap of your hair against your back. A plastic bag of fried banana snacks between you on the seat, unopened. Your hands were folded in your lap, a prayer you hadn’t meant to keep.

Jungkook kept glancing out the window, his profile hard to read. His fingers twitched once, like they were reaching for something.

But they stayed in his lap.

You watched the trees blur past and blinked away the sting in your throat.

Let go of what no longer serves you. You weren’t sure if you knew how.

The restaurant overlooked a stretch of terraced hills, mist rising off the leaves like breath. A low thatched roof shaded the small wooden table, already set for two. Condensation beaded the tall glasses of calamansi tea, and the server placed down a large woven tray of grilled fish, sambal matah, sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves, and thinly sliced vegetables marinated in vinegar and garlic.

Jungkook sat across from you, quiet. He’d wrung out his linen shirt after the water blessing and rolled the sleeves halfway up, tattoos peeking from his arms like inked confessions. His lip piercing caught the light every time he chewed on the inside of his cheek—a nervous habit you used to gently tap away with your fingers.

You didn’t say anything for a while. Neither did he.

You reached for a small piece of fish with your spoon. “This smells really good,” you said. It wasn’t a peace offering, but it was something. “Yeah,” Jungkook said. “You used to make something like this. That grilled mackerel with lemongrass and—”

“Lime leaf,” you finished. The corner of your mouth lifted. “You always picked out the lemongrass. Said it looked like dental floss.” You scoffed. He huffed out a small laugh. “Still does.”

Silence again, but softer this time. Like a bruise someone had pressed gently. You ate in slow, steady bites, the breeze tugging strands of hair across your cheek, your dress fluttering just enough for your sandal to brush his ankle under the table. You didn’t pull away. He didn’t either.

“You cried,” Jungkook said, suddenly. His voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t gentle either. You looked up, fork frozen midair. “At the temple,” he said. “When the priest said those words. I saw it. You turned your face away, but I saw.”

You swallowed, set the fork down. “I cry about things all the time,” You said. He hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around his glass. “I just didn’t expect it to hit you like that.” He muttered. “Why not?” You asked, and it came out more tired than you intended. “Is it so hard to believe I’m still trying to let go of things that broke me?”

He flinched at that. Not dramatically. Just a twitch of his jaw, a dip of his chin. “I didn’t mean—” He started, then stopped, like the words jammed behind his teeth. “I didn’t mean to break anything.”

“I know,” you said. You sipped your tea. “But you did.”

That silence wasn’t soft. It was the kind that made you focus on the sound of cutlery, birdsong, the faint chatter of a nearby tour group. The kind that reminded you how long it had been since you talked about anything real.

“You said you needed more time,” you said, gaze fixed on your plate. “But you didn’t ask me to wait. You just left.”

“I thought I was doing the right thing.”

You laughed, but there was no joy in it. “For who?” You asked, and maybe there was a little more bite to it than you had intended, but it slipped out anyway. Jungkook set his chopsticks down carefully. “I wasn’t ready for forever.”

“I wasn’t asking for a wedding date,” you snapped. “I was asking for you to stop disappearing when things got hard.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then looked down, like the table was suddenly more interesting than you. The air grew heavier between you, thick with things neither of you had the courage to name aloud.

“I missed you,” he said quietly. Your breath caught, sharp and shallow. He looked up then, finally meeting your eyes.

“I still do.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. You couldn’t. Because if you did, your voice would betray you, and Bali was too bright, too beautiful, to cry into a plate of fish you could barely taste. So instead, you said, “We should eat. The driver said we’ve got thirty minutes before the next stop.”

And when he didn’t push, didn’t ask for more, you felt a strange ache settle into your ribs—equal parts grief and relief. Because part of you had hoped he’d fight you on it. And part of you was scared of what would happen if he did.

The Tegalalang Rice Terraces stretched out beneath you like a painting come to life—layered and verdant, the light catching on each level of the field like sequins scattered across a slope. The earth was damp beneath your sandals, the heat thick but softened by the rustle of palm leaves overhead.

It should’ve been peaceful. The kind of place you could breathe deep and forget the ache. But of course, you couldn’t.

The guide—cheerful, relentlessly photogenic, and in possession of a selfie stick she wielded like a sword—gathered the group beneath a shady tree just off the narrow dirt path. “Couples first!” She chirped. “Come on, come on. This is the romantic stop!”

You and Jungkook both stepped back in sync. It was so automatic it felt rehearsed. “We’re good,” you said politely. “Just one, maybe?” She insisted, her camera already half-raised. “No, thank you,” Jungkook added, a half-smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She looks better solo anyway.”

That earned a few chuckles from the group, but also a glance or two—a middle-aged couple looked at each other, then at the two of you, then back again like they were trying to place a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.

You moved to the side, letting another couple pose on the edge of the terrace, arms wrapped around each other, wind brushing their hair. You took a few steps down on your own and snapped a photo by yourself—one hand shielding your eyes from the glare, the other carefully angling your phone.

Jungkook stood above you, watching. You could feel it. The way you always could, like a second gravity tugging at the base of your spine. He had a camera slung across his shoulder, but he wasn’t taking pictures. He just stood there, gaze tracing your silhouette, caught between wanting to speak and knowing he shouldn’t.

You climbed back up and passed him without a word, though your shoulder brushed his arm. “Want a picture here?” He asked quietly.

You paused. Not we . You .

“Yeah. Just a quick one.”

He took the camera from your hand, adjusted the lens like muscle memory, and snapped three shots in a row. You didn’t pose—you just stood there, staring out across the terraces, your hair wind-tangled, your sunglasses tucked into your neckline. When he handed it back, his fingers lingered on yours. Not for long. Just long enough to feel like something unsaid.

You didn’t look at him. You just said, “Thanks,” and kept walking. The group was ahead now, the guide waving everyone toward a lookout point near a tiny open-air café. A younger couple—maybe on their honeymoon—trailed behind, whispering something to each other as they looked at you and Jungkook. The woman gave you a sympathetic smile. The man nudged his wife and murmured, “They’re not together, right?”

You didn’t hear it.

But Jungkook did.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his linen pants and watched you walk ahead, hair swinging against your shoulder blades, sunlight kissing the nape of your neck.

And he hated that he couldn’t reach out. Couldn’t touch. Couldn’t fix what he broke.

Not here. Not yet.

The sun was melting into the ocean by the time you walked back up the beach, wet hair slicked behind your ears, sand between your toes, the faint burn of salt still stinging your skin. The villa’s private stretch of coast had emptied out for the night, lanterns flickering to life like quiet confessions along the garden path. You didn’t bother drying off completely—just shrugged on your robe over your swimsuit and padded barefoot toward the open-air bar.

The bartender was a quiet man with kind eyes and a good pour. You slid onto a stool, shivering a little in your damp clothes, and ordered a gin and tonic with a twist of calamansi instead of lime. Something sharp. Something honest. He nodded, as if he understood.

Behind you, the surf rolled in like a lullaby. Farther back, you could still hear the faint splash of water—Jungkook swimming slow laps in the pool, pretending like he wasn’t watching you from the deep end. He hadn’t said much since lunch. You hadn’t either. The morning’s ceremony had softened something between you. The way he’d flinched at the priest’s words, how your throat had tightened, how neither of you had looked at the other while the water dripped down your faces, purifying nothing and everything all at once.

The gin hit fast. You were halfway through it when Jungkook finally padded over, hair wet, shirtless, a towel slung around his neck like a question he didn’t want to ask out loud.

“Is that your first?” He asked, voice low. You didn’t look at him. “It’s my third.” You replied. A moment passed. Then a soft, breathy chuckle. “Rough day?”

You tilted your head, not smiling. “Just pacing myself.”

He sat beside you, closer than necessary. You didn’t pull away. “I didn’t know you liked gin,” he said after a while, tracing the edge of his glass once the bartender brought him a whiskey, neat. “I didn’t. You did.” You corrected. He looked at you then. Really looked. “Still do.”

You shrugged. “Tastes different now.”

The breeze picked up, warm and briny. You both watched the sky collapse into dusk, slow and cinematic, the way it always does in places where people come to heal or forget. The cicadas started their nighttime hum. Someone lit incense nearby. For a moment, you let yourself forget what came after this. “What are you thinking?” He asked, quietly. You took a sip before answering. “That I shouldn’t be here.” You answered as Jungkook’s brow furrowed. “In Bali?”

“In this,” you said, gesturing vaguely between you. “This limbo. Whatever this is.” You said, too sober to name it, but not sober enough to sugarcoat it. He was quiet for a while. When he finally spoke, it sounded like it hurt. “It’s not limbo for me.”

You looked at him. “Then what is it?”

“I don’t know.” His voice cracked, just a little. “It’s just . . . still you.”

You closed your eyes. God. You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have answered that text. You shouldn’t have packed that necklace. You shouldn’t have remembered how it felt to wake up next to him without all the history in the way.

“You left,” you said. Not accusing. Just stating a fact. “I know.” 

“And I didn’t stop you.” You added, sighing. “I know.”

You drained the last of your drink, eyes burning. “Do you know what it cost me not to?” You asked, rough and honest. His hand twitched toward yours but didn’t reach. “I think about it every day.”

The bartender silently placed another gin and tonic in front of you, then disappeared into the night.

You didn’t pick it up, not yet. But then you saw the slight glint behind Jungkook’s eyes, wide, calculating, and watching— observing. You chugged it like gin would help that dull ache behind your ribs, and he down his whiskey like he believed it’d help with his.

The silence settled between you. 

“Let’s go inside,” you said after a moment. But your voice was hoarse. It always was when you were about to cry. Jungkook stood, and for a second you thought he might reach for you again. But he didn’t. He just walked beside you, steps silent on the wooden deck, both of you smelling like salt and memory and something dangerously close to longing.

The door closed behind you. And the night, like so many before it, held its breath.

The jeep dropped you off just after three in the morning, headlights slicing through the mist that clung to the base of Mount Batur like second skin. You blinked against the cold, stiff from the drive and half-certain this was a mistake—booking a group hike, agreeing to a sunrise you’d have to earn, trying to live like the version of yourself who booked this months ago.

Beside you, Jungkook adjusted the strap of his backpack, exhaling into his fists. His breath fogged between you. He was in a windbreaker and shorts, still managing to look unfairly good for someone up before dawn. You hated that your body clock remembered the rhythm of his—how he stretches first, neck and shoulders, before he walks. How he doesn’t like coffee before a hike. How he always carries protein bars and forgets to eat them until halfway through.

He offered you one now, silently. You took it.

Your guide—an older Balinese man with a headlamp and a gentle voice—introduced himself and gestured for your small group to begin the climb. It was a mix of tourists: a German couple in matching Patagonia, a solo woman from Seoul, a man from Perth who said he was chasing every volcano in Southeast Asia. And then there was, “Jimin,” said the newcomer, sliding in on your left like he’d been there all along. “From New York. I’m at the Santayana too, I think I saw you guys at the beach bar last night.”

He had kind eyes, blonde hair hidden beneath a knit beanie, and the kind of smile that made you wary because it didn’t ask for anything. It just .  . . landed. And lingered.

“I’m not sure we count as you guys,” you said before you could stop yourself. Jungkook didn’t respond, but you felt the shift in him. Subtle. A faint straightening of his shoulders.

“I mean,” Jimin went on, totally unfazed, “You look like a you guys. Like a very once upon a time in Brooklyn sort of love story. The slow-burn, can’t quite quit you kind. Or am I wrong?” He comments, tone lightly, but very heavily implied. He glanced between you and Jungkook like it was a trivia question and he just wanted partial credit.

“No comment,” you muttered, then nodded at the incline ahead. “Focus on not slipping. The trail gets worse.”

Jimin smiled like you’d answered anyway.

The hike was slow but not difficult, at least at first. The moon cast a silvery sheen on the ground, and flashlights bobbed in the distance like low stars. Occasionally, your boots caught loose gravel, or someone’s breath hitched in the thin air. You kept a deliberate pace—neither near nor far from Jungkook, who kept his silence like a vow.

Then came the part where the path narrowed. Where footing mattered. Where exhaustion and altitude thinned everyone’s patience.

You noticed it before he did—Jungkook unscrewing the wrong bottle, lifting it halfway to his mouth. “Not that,” you said, reaching forward without thinking. Your fingers brushed his wrist. “It’s tap. You’ll get Bali belly.”

He froze. So did you.

You hadn’t touched him since the flight. Hadn’t said anything that sounded like care since you landed. But there it was. Instinct, raw and unfiltered, reaching out before you could bite it back. He looked at you like you’d pulled the air from his lungs. Like he’d been waiting for you to admit you still gave a damn.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “Thanks.”

He capped the bottle again, eyes down. You pretended to adjust the long sleeves of your top. Your fingertips still buzzed where they touched him. Beside you, Jimin gave you a look. Not smug, not surprised. Just knowing.

The last stretch of the hike was the hardest. Steeper. Rockier. The sun was bleeding into the sky by the time you reached the summit, casting a bruised gold across the horizon. Everyone scattered for pictures, for warmth, for a patch of space where they could pretend the altitude didn’t make them dizzy.

You sat on a rock, legs tucked up beneath you, cradling a cup of instant coffee the guide passed around. Your hands were trembling from the cold, or from everything else.

Jimin joined you again, sitting too close in a way that somehow didn’t feel invasive. Just warm. Grounded. “Sunrise is wild here,” he murmured. “Like the mountain knew it was the main character.” He gazed, taking in the view. You huffed. “Bit dramatic.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But it makes you think, doesn’t it? About what you’re carrying. What you’re still holding on to.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. He tilted his head. “So. Are you two together?” He asked, “No.” Your answer was immediate that he gave you a look. “That was fast.” He snorted. You blinked. “Why do you care?” 

Jimin shrugged, sipping his coffee. “I don’t. You just look like you still love him. And he looks like he’s been trying not to look at you all morning.” He pointed out, jutting his chin at Jungkook a few feet away. You swallowed hard. The wind hit colder here. Or maybe that was your heart.

“Still none of your business,” you said, but there was no real bite to it.

Jimin grinned. “Noted.” But he stayed. Quiet. Unbothered. He offered you a granola bar and didn’t say anything else for a long while.

A few meters away, Jungkook stood at the edge of the summit, watching the sun crest over the volcano’s rim. His profile was sharp against the rising light—tattooed arm folded across his chest, lips parted in awe or ache.

He didn’t turn around. But he didn’t walk away either.

The way down was always worse.

The rocks were slick with morning dew, loose and sharp underfoot, and the adrenaline that had gotten you up the mountain had long since turned into something heavier. Your legs felt like jelly. The coffee had worn off. The sun was fully up now—golden, relentless, and far too cheerful for the emotional minefield unraveling on this narrow trail.

You were walking a little ahead of Jungkook this time. Not enough to lose him, but enough to feel like space existed again. Just enough for plausible deniability.

Jimin was beside you. Or rather, he was orbiting you like a flirtatious satellite—sometimes at your elbow, sometimes a step behind, always saying something designed to make you laugh. Or, more accurately, to make Jungkook grind his molars to dust.

“So,” Jimin started breezily, sidestepping a root with the elegance of someone who knew exactly how good his thighs looked in athletic shorts, “What’s it like hiking with your ex? Is it like hiking with a ghost? Or more like . . . a sexy cautionary tale?” He asked, way to chipper for someone who had complained about the incline just a few hours ago. 

You choked on your water. Jungkook stumbled behind you.

You didn’t even have time to recover before Jimin added, “No offense. I’ve just never seen a guy flinch so hard when someone else offers you trail mix.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, biting back a smile. “ Ridiculously observant, sure,” Jimin replied, undeterred. “He’s glaring at the back of my head right now, isn’t he?”

You glanced behind you.

Jungkook’s jaw was set, hard enough to crack bone. His brows were drawn low over his eyes, but not in that playful, mock-annoyed way he used to look at you when you teased him. This was quieter. More tightly wound. A storm on pause.

“Maybe he’s just hungry,” you said diplomatically. “Maybe he’s just jealous,” Jimin said, softer. You said nothing to that. The trail was narrowing again, and you focused on your footing. Jimin didn’t push. Not yet.

But the moment it widened again—when you passed the German couple taking a selfie with the caldera behind them and the guide called for a short water break—Jimin leaned in and asked, far too casually, “So what did he do? Cheat? Or lie and say it wasn’t cheating?” He probed, as you chuckled. “Jimin,” you said sharply.

He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Too far. Sorry. I just assumed, with how angry your silence looks.”

Your teeth scraped over your bottom lip. You didn’t say a word.

Jungkook had stopped a few feet behind you, unzipping his jacket like it might help him breathe. He wasn’t looking at you, but you knew he could hear every word.

Jimin looked between you both again, assessing, grinning like the cat who not only got the cream, but also set fire to the barn it was stored in. “He’s got great shoulders,” he said, louder now, squinting at Jungkook as if just noticing. “Terrible at hiding emotion though. It’s like watching a puppy get left behind in a park.”

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered, elbowing him lightly. Jimin shrugged. “I like puzzles. And this one’s got heat.”

He passed you a granola bar—again, too casually. Again, Jungkook’s eyes flicked to your hands. You didn’t take it. You weren’t hungry. But Jimin didn’t seem offended. “You’re going to be fun to drink with,” he said. “Tell me there’s a bar near the hotel.”

You didn’t respond, but your smirk answered for you.

The rest of the hike blurred. Dirt and stone, the guide pointing out monkeys in the distance, the Seoul woman slipping and catching herself with a sharp gasp. Jungkook didn’t speak. Not to you. Not to Jimin. Not to anyone. His silence stretched like rope between you both—taut and fraying.

By the time the group reached the base and the jeep was in sight, the mood had shifted again. The couples were laughing, exhausted. The Perth guy had offered to email drone footage to everyone. But you? You were sweating through your tank top and trying very hard not to look at Jungkook.

“You okay?” Jimin asked, loading his backpack into the jeep. “You’ve got that post ex sighting glow. Very Sundance Film Festival of you.” He commented. You turned to him, one eyebrow raised. “You’re a hazard to humanity.”

“I’m a delight ,” he countered. “And I’m buying you a drink later. Consider it a reward for not pushing anyone off the mountain.” He smiled.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Jungkook pause mid-step. You swallowed a laugh. Jimin grinned. “I’ll be at the beach bar by six. Don’t ghost me.”

He climbed into the jeep, humming something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “Jealous Guy” by John Lennon.

You waited a moment. Just long enough for Jungkook to catch up beside you. He didn’t look at you. You didn’t look at him. But the heat simmered now—low and undeniable, a war neither of you had agreed to declare, but one you were both clearly losing.

“Didn’t know you were into guys like him,” Jungkook said quietly, when the others were out of earshot. Your lips curled, knowing whatever Jimin wanted to do had worked. “I didn’t know I still affected you.”

And then you climbed into the jeep, leaving him standing in the volcanic dust with nothing but his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

The beach bar at sunset was a cliché—and you were willing to forgive it for that.

It was built low into the sand, half open-air, with smooth teakwood furniture that looked like it had been there forever, and long white curtains billowing from the rafters like sails. Laughter spilled lazily from other tables. A server passed you with a tray of coconut cocktails and Aperol spritzes. There was a DJ in the corner playing something that sounded like summer in a European airport lounge, and it should’ve been tacky, but somehow it wasn’t.

Jimin looked exactly the way he belonged in a place like this. Sun-bleached blond hair tousled from the hike, sleeves rolled carelessly up to his elbows, one linen button threatening to come undone from the curve of his chest. There was a small white flower tucked behind his ear—something one of the local guides had handed him after the hike—and he didn’t take it out.

“Did you really order a gin and tonic before I even got here?” he asked as he slid into the bar stool beside you, propping his elbow on the counter like it had known his arm all its life. You took a long sip, then made a soft, satisfied sound. “At this point I need a drink to survive you.”

He grinned like you’d paid him a compliment. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He said, “You would,” you muttered, glancing toward the ocean. The tide had come in more since this afternoon. The water glittered under the last sweep of sunlight, lapping just short of the boardwalk where guests lounged in hammocks or wandered barefoot with drinks.

Your white linen tank top stuck to your back slightly from the walk over, and the matching trousers clung to your hips with a kind of breezy elegance that had made the women at the table beside you glance over more than once. You’d left your hair a little damp from the shower, parted in the center, strands curling loosely where the wind had found them.

You looked every bit like someone who should’ve been smiling. Laughing. Taken. But your mouth has forgotten how to curve upward naturally these days. Especially on this trip.

“You okay?” Jimin asked suddenly, and not playfully this time. His voice softened. Concern tucked itself into the folds of the question like a note left in a jacket pocket.

You hesitated for a moment, “Do you want the real answer or the one I give people I don’t know well?” You asked, jokingly, but the truth slipped out heavily. He leaned in. “Give me the real one. I’ll pretend not to know you after if it makes it easier.”

You gave a soft laugh, despite yourself. “I’m fine,” you said. Then after a second, “I think I’m just tired of pretending I’m not grieving something.”

Jimin didn’t reply right away. He just nodded, like he knew better than to fill the silence too fast. His fingers tapped lightly against his glass. “That guy—Jungkook,” he said eventually, voice low, “He watches you like he’s trying to remember what you look like before he loses you again.”

Your throat went tight. You didn’t answer.

“Is that what happened?” Jimin asked gently. “He lost you?”

You didn’t get to respond—because that’s exactly when Jungkook appeared. Not at the bar. Not with a chair. Just there. Standing a few feet away in the sand, backlit by the ocean and the peach-blush skyline, looking like something out of a dream you hadn’t let yourself have in weeks.

He was wearing khaki shorts and a pale polo shirt, nearly sheer in the light, clinging to the sharp lines of his chest and the soft dip of his collarbones. The sleeves cut high around his biceps, and his tan had deepened in the last few days just enough to make everything unfair.

But your eyes didn’t stop at his face. Or his chest. They caught on the glint of gold at his throat.

The necklace.

That necklace.

Thin gold chain, the small diamond-stone charm catching every last shard of sunlight. The same one you’d bought together one miserable spring evening when things were still good, when he held your hand for no reason and kissed your wrist while you flipped through jewelry trays like you had all the time in the world. You both wore them everywhere, even under suits, under dresses, tucked beneath layers like a secret.

You hadn’t worn yours in months. You couldn’t. It sat in your jewelry box, untouched. A tiny grave. A timestamp of when things were still whole. But Jungkook was wearing his now.

That broke something open in you. It wasn’t fair—the way he still looked like yours. It wasn’t fair that your heart reacted before your mind did, before the bruised part of you could raise a hand and stop it.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you for a moment longer than he should’ve, then at Jimin, then back again. There was something unreadable in his eyes—tight, pulled, unsteady. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Dinner reservations,” he said, voice low. “They’re holding our table near the hotel.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize we were invited.” He said, light and breezy. Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver. “ You’re not.” It was barely a moment before Jimin laughed, unbothered, tilting his head to look at you. “Rain check, then?” He asked. You blinked out of it. The necklace. The glint. The way your ribs still hadn’t figured out how to close again.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Rain check.”

You rose from your seat, the linen of your trousers swishing with the movement. Your drink was still half-full, forgotten. Jimin watched you go but didn’t follow.

As you stepped onto the sand to join Jungkook, your shoulder brushed his by accident. He flinched—not visibly, but you felt it, like the way he’d flinch when you used to kiss the side of his neck too softly. Like it hurt.

Neither of you spoke as you walked up the beach, barefoot, side by side. The wind tangled through your hair. The waves came close, as if they, too, were leaning in to listen.

You didn’t look at the necklace again. But it glinted every time you tried to forget.

The restaurant sat on the edge of a quiet cove near your hotel, all low flickering lanterns and dark wood accents, the hush of the ocean never far behind. A little too intimate for your taste—soft jazz curling in the air like cigarette smoke, tables spaced for privacy, not conversation. You’d picked it before the breakup, back when the idea of candlelight and a seafood tasting menu with wine pairings was romantic, not a tightrope.

Now it felt like a dare.

Jungkook hadn’t said much on the walk over. He didn’t have to. The second he appeared on the beach in that sheer white polo—casual, slightly see-through, sleeves rolled like he didn’t know what that did to people—you already felt the evening tip into dangerous territory.

But the necklace. That’s what gutted you.

It rested just above his collarbone, gold and thin and quiet. A single diamond in the center, barely larger than a pinhead, catching every stray glint of light like it had something to prove. The one you bought together in the West Village last winter. The one that was meant to match yours. You hadn’t worn yours in months—it was still in the ceramic dish by your sink, tangled, untouched, and radioactive. Too fragile to part with. Too painful to put on.

He’d worn it tonight like it meant nothing.

Or like it still meant everything .

You sat across from him now at the corner table, your white napkin folded once in your lap, wine glass untouched. You had dressed carefully—intentional, but not too sharp. The dress was cream linen, open at the collarbones, cinched at the waist, legs crossed in elegant, neutral defiance. You looked calm. You looked well. You looked like you hadn’t spent last night curled away from him in bed, aching like a bruise just under the skin.

He was scrolling through his phone idly, only half-looking at the menu. You weren’t sure if he was avoiding you or the sound of the waves behind you.

When the waiter appeared, you forced your voice steady. “The seafood tasting, please. No crab.” You said, as Jungkook glanced up. “Make it two.”

“And the wine pairing?” the waiter asked politely. You nodded. Jungkook didn’t. “She’ll have mine too,” he said quietly. “She needs it.”

That earned him your first real look of the evening—brows arched, a small, bitter smile curling at the edges of your mouth. “I’m not sure what that means, but okay.”

Jungkook shrugged. “Didn’t mean anything. Just figured it’d help. With .  . . appetite.”

You wanted to ask, Are you referring to the necklace? Or the walk? Or the fact that I laughed at Jimin’s joke for too long?

Instead, you turned your gaze to the candle flickering between you. The first course arrived—something with scallops and citrus foam—and you managed three bites before the waiter swept in too fast and cleared your plate. A reflex, maybe, but it felt like a violation. Like something intimate had been snatched before you were ready to let go, ironic .

“She wasn’t done,” Jungkook said. Not loudly. But low enough, firm enough, that the waiter paused mid-step.

“I’m sorry, I thought—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in, waving a hand. “It’s fine. I wasn’t.”

The waiter hesitated, then murmured an apology and disappeared. Jungkook leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely. The candlelight softened his jawline but not his stare. “You always hate when people assume.” He said, as you took a sip of wine, swallowed hard.

“You always talk like you still know me.”

“I do.”

“No. You did . Past tense.”

That landed. His jaw clenched, his mouth parted slightly like he wanted to argue, but didn’t. Outside, the waves hit the rocks in slow rhythm. Salt was thick in the air, clinging to your arms, your lashes, the hollows of your throat.

“I’m not wearing the necklace to hurt you,” he said eventually, after the third course. “I forgot I even had it on. I—”

“You never forget jewelry,” you said, sharper than you meant to. “You noticed when I wore that bracelet from my college ex for six seconds.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You’re right. It’s not. But neither is walking into a dinner like that and pretending it’s just fabric and metal.” You sighed, hands gesturing at the necklace with a tired expression. “I didn’t come to dinner to fight.” He said softly. You exhaled, pressed your palms flat on your thighs beneath the table.

“I didn’t come to Bali to fall apart either.” You countered. 

The silence that followed was blaring.

The waiter returned with lobster served over saffron risotto. Jungkook picked at it. You didn’t touch it at all. Somewhere near the dessert course, a couple across the room clinked glasses, all tanned limbs and shared glances. You tried not to watch. You tried not to notice the way their pinkies touched on the table like a secret.

Then the waiter came back again, too cheerful. “Congratulations, by the way,” he said to you both. “It’s always nice seeing honeymooners.”

“I’m sorry?” You blinked. The waiter’s smile faltered. “Oh—I mean, we just assumed. You two look . . . close.”

You looked at Jungkook. Then at the necklace. Then at the space between your chairs that might as well have been miles.

Jungkook spoke first. “We’re not. Not anymore.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you said, too quickly. When the bill came, he paid without question. You let him.

You didn’t speak as you walked back along the stone path toward your villa, the ocean whispering in the background, your shoes quiet on the earth. He stayed half a step behind you the whole way, like he didn’t trust himself to walk beside you anymore. It wasn’t until you got to the door that he finally asked, almost under his breath, “Would it have been easier if I hadn’t come?”

You turned the key in the lock, held the door open without looking back. “No,” you whispered. “Just . . . different.”

And then you disappeared inside, not waiting to see if he followed.

The villa was dark, save for the soft amber glow leaking from a single bulb by the sliding door. Everything inside was quiet. Even the cicadas outside had dulled their buzz to a low tremor, as if the whole island knew something had come undone.

You stepped barefoot onto the terrace, your dress exchanged for a thin sleep shirt you didn’t remember packing, sleeves rolled halfway up your arms. The air smelled like rain and ocean minerals, and underneath it all—jasmine, just barely blooming along the edge of the trellis.

The sea was a velvet blur in the distance, moonlight skimming across the waves like silver ribbons pulled taut. But your eyes didn’t go to the ocean. They went to the ceramic dish on the small table by the lounger—the place you’d dropped your earrings and hotel key and sunscreen earlier without thinking.

And next to it, somehow, impossibly, was the necklace.

You hadn’t remembered taking it out. But there it was—delicate gold chain pooled like a noose beside your sunglasses, glinting with that traitorous speck of a diamond in the center. The twin to the one Jungkook wore at dinner. The one he’d touched absently halfway through the fourth course, like it had weight.

Like it had meaning.

You picked it up carefully, the chain curling warm against your skin from the heat still stored in the ceramic. It felt heavier than it used to. Like memory had density now, like longing had somehow made metal a living thing.

Your hand shook.

You sat down slowly on the lounger, bare legs pulled up to your chest, necklace coiled in your palm like something venomous.

You hadn’t cried at dinner. You hadn’t cried when he paid. You hadn’t cried when you unlocked the door and told him no, just different. But now, with this thing in your hand, your throat began to close.

You remembered buying it.

The jeweler had been a tiny woman with tortoiseshell glasses and weathered hands, her store wedged between a vintage vinyl shop and a Greek bakery. You’d both tried on half the case, laughing, disagreeing about which setting looked better against Jungkook’s skin. You told him he should wear gold more. He told you he didn’t care about jewelry, but bought it anyway because you liked how it looked on him. You kissed in the snow outside afterward. He carried the box home like it was something sacred.

You remembered that version of him.

The one who was soft. Playful. The one who didn’t flinch when you wanted permanence. The one who made you breakfast the morning after fights and bought groceries based on your cycle cravings.

Your thumb rubbed across the diamond now, slow, like you were trying to smooth out the ache. But it didn’t help. Nothing did. Not the wine. Not the way you’d bitten back the impulse to ask him to stay. Not even the white linen dress that still smelled like him from the brief hug he gave you when you both knew better.

Your phone buzzed beside you. Once. Twice. You ignored it.

Then it buzzed again—longer this time. A call.

You glanced at the screen and nearly dropped the necklace. Yoongi’s name flashed your screen. Of course.

You let it ring once more, then answered. “Hey,” you said quietly. There was no delay. “Where the fuck have you been?” He asked in the way only an anxious person who waited for hours could. Your breath hitched. Not from the words, but from the sound of him. Warm, grounding. Dry-edged. Laced with just enough concern to make your ribs hurt.

“I texted,” you offered, weakly. “You reacted to my story of a cat in a bucket,” he snapped. “That’s not the same as responding to seven texts and two missed calls. Are you okay?” He asked, rough, but caring nonetheless. You swallowed. Your voice cracked before it even formed.

“I had dinner with him.”

Yoongi was quiet. The wind moved through the line like a second voice. “I figured,” he said finally. “You said you were trying to keep things neutral.”

“I did.”

“And?”

You looked down at the necklace again. Watched it swing slightly from your hand like a pendulum, like it might hypnotize you back into that table across from Jungkook where everything still felt unsaid.

“He wore it.”

Yoongi didn’t need you to explain. “The necklace?” He asked anyway. You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “Yeah. The one we bought together.” You replied. “You still have yours?” He asked, his breathing labored like he was bracing for impact.

“I’m holding it.”

Another pause. You could hear him exhale through his nose, like he was pinching the bridge of it.

“God, baby,” he said. “ Why are you doing this to yourself?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard. “Because I still love him,” you said. “I hate him, and I love him. And when the waiter called us honeymooners, he didn’t correct him. He just said we’re not anymore. Like I was a season he already survived.” You muttered, eyes welling up, but tears never falling.

Yoongi made a sound that was both a groan and a growl. “Okay. New rule. You don’t go to dinner with men you’ve seen naked unless I’m within three hundred feet and armed with a fork.” He demanded. You almost laughed. You didn’t. Your eyes just welled. “He looked good,” you whispered. “I bet,” Yoongi said. “He always did. That wasn’t the problem.”

“No,” you agreed. “It wasn’t.”

The silence returned. Softer this time. Gentler. Like Yoongi was holding space, not just listening but witnessing. Finally, you said, “I don’t think I’m over him.” Yoongi sighed. “That’s okay. He’s not over you either. That’s the part he’s trying to out-wait.”

Your throat went tight. “I can’t do this again.” You admit, trembling in that same vulnerability Yoongi has seen since the breakup. “Yes, you can,” he said. “But you don’t have to. Not alone.”

You let that sit. The weight of it. The truth of it. Your fingers loosened on the necklace, but you didn’t let it fall. Instead, you sat there quietly, listening to Yoongi’s breathing on the other end, the ocean in the distance, the hum of grief and love and memory thrumming between your fingers like wire.

Maybe tomorrow you’d bury the necklace.

Or wear it. Or hurl it into the sea like a martyr. But not tonight. Tonight, you just held it. And let yourself ache.

The villa is quieter than it’s ever been. Outside, Bali is already awake—roosters calling in the distance, palm leaves rustling in the sea breeze, mopeds weaving down winding roads. But inside, it’s the quiet that stings. You’d barely touched your dinner last night, stomach twisting too violently to let anything settle. Jungkook hadn’t forced it, hadn’t pried, hadn’t even spoken much after your exchange. Just paid the bill and walked beside you in silence, shoulder brushing yours once on accident. Or maybe on purpose. You didn’t ask.

You hadn’t said much when the door closed behind you.

You’d gone straight to the terrace, gold chain still clutched in your hand like it would burn a hole through your palm. When you came back in, Jungkook was already in bed, facing the window.

Now it’s morning. You’re awake before the sun finishes climbing, eyes swollen from sleep or salt. You don’t check your phone. You don’t speak.

You pad across the villa’s stone floors barefoot, careful not to wake him, and slide the door open with the softest hush of wood on wood.

That’s when you see it. A tray on the patio table. White linen napkins, a plate still steaming. Cut papaya, a folded omelet glistening with sambal, a slice of toasted bread from the resort bakery with a tiny pot of butter softening beside it. There’s a handwritten note tucked under the rim of the teacup.

Your stomach knots. You don’t have to read it to know. But of course, you do.

I figured he wouldn’t remember you like omelets with sambal. Get out of your own way. —Y.

You almost laugh. Almost cry. Definitely sit down, legs folding under you gracelessly as you rest your elbows on the table and just . . . stare at the food.

It’s perfect. Annoyingly perfect. The sambal is the one you always hoarded from Indonesian takeout back in Manhattan. You once told Yoongi that if anyone ever wanted to marry you, they’d have to bring a jar of that stuff to your proposal.

You pick up the fork. Your hand trembles. Behind you, the bedroom door creaks open. Bare feet shuffle. Then stop. You don’t turn. You know it’s him. You hear the inhale, the hesitation. And then, finally, his voice—rough from sleep. “Did someone send food?”

You nod without looking. “Room service.” You reply. A moment of silence passed. “You order it?” He asked, as you shook your head, “Nope.” Another pause. Then Jungkook crosses the patio slowly, the sound of his footsteps uneven over the stone. You feel his gaze flick down to the tray, the note, then to your face.

“Yoongi?”

You finally look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are still puffy. He’s wearing the same damn necklace. Of course he is. You pick up the omelet with your fork. “He remembers how I like my eggs.”

There’s a flash of something behind his eyes. Regret, guilt, disbelief—something that lingers like smoke. “I used to remember.” You chew. Swallow. Shrug. “You used to a lot of things.”

That lands hard. Jungkook doesn’t say anything. Just sits across from you, like this table isn’t the new no-man’s land. Like the toast doesn’t crack between you two like glass.

You both eat in silence.

You pretend you can’t feel the heat of his eyes on your fingers, on your collarbone, on the side of your face where a single tear from last night still dried in the corner of your skin.

You pretend the sambal doesn’t sting more today.

The sky was a canvas of blue so rich it almost felt fake, like someone had over-saturated the world. Sunlight scattered like gold dust over the ocean’s rolling skin, and the boat rocked beneath your feet in a gentle lull that felt like the earth was trying to keep you calm.

You weren’t calm.

Not with the black bikini sticking to your skin like a second, thinner, more revealing version of yourself. Not with your skin still flushed from the morning heat, or the way your shoulders glistened with sunscreen and salt and whatever shimmer was in the body oil you’d thrown on in a fit of vanity or recklessness or both. You hadn’t worn this bikini for Jungkook. You really hadn’t.

But he hadn’t stopped looking since you walked out of the villa. He hadn’t said anything—God forbid he say anything. But you felt the weight of his gaze as you towel-dried your hair and pulled your cover-up over your hips and greeted the group at the pier. His silence was its own language by now. A language you’d grown fluent in before either of you knew what to call it.

The boat revved with a guttural purr and the rest of the group—some couples, some solo travelers, a honeymooning pair from Sydney, and Jimin, of course, Jimin with his sand-colored curls and teasing mouth—whooped and laughed as you all headed out to the smaller islands.

You sat near the railing, legs dangling over the edge, eyes on the disappearing horizon. “Careful,” Jimin said, voice a touch closer than expected. “We wouldn’t want to lose you to the sea.”

You turned to look at him. He wore a linen shirt wide open over swim trunks, sunglasses perched halfway down his nose, smile easy and amused. He held out a bottle of water to you. Cold. Condensation dripping. Your fingers brushed his when you took it. “Thanks,” you said, then added, dryly, “Wouldn’t be the worst place to vanish.”

He laughed, loud and genuine, and sat beside you. “Are you always this cheerful on vacation?” He asked, as you shrugged. “Depends on who I’m vacationing with.” You replied. You didn’t need to look behind you to feel Jungkook’s stare boring into your back like a sunbeam too strong, too hot, and far too late to move out of the way.

The first snorkeling stop was at a reef just off the coast of Nusa Penida , the kind of place you’d seen on postcards and screensavers and never thought you’d actually float above. The water was crystal—no, not even that word worked. It was holy, almost. Sacred in its clarity. You stood at the edge of the boat, mask in hand, heart racing more from the tension in the air than the prospect of swimming.

“You coming in?” Jimin called, already poised at the edge in nothing but his trunks, his smile wicked. “Or should I just carry you in?” You opened your mouth to quip something—anything back—but a hand appeared in front of you. His. Palm out, waiting. Without thinking, you took it.

The jump into the water shocked the breath out of you. The sea swallowed your gasp, cool and sharp against your skin. You broke the surface laughing, wiped the water from your eyes just in time to see Jimin splash down beside you.

When you climbed back onto the boat for the beach lunch, Jungkook was silent. You didn’t say anything either. You didn’t have to. It hummed in the air between you. Loud. Louder than it had been all trip.

The sun had dipped lower by the time you got back into the water at the next island, this time gentler, shallower, your limbs tired from the swim and the weight of everything unspoken. You were floating face-up, the sun a blur behind your eyelids when a ripple of water reached your side.

Then, him. “Hey,” Jungkook said, voice low, half-swallowed by the sea. You opened your eyes.

He was too close. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to take up your entire horizon. His hair was wet, slicked back but a few strands clung to his forehead. Droplets slid down his neck, caught in the gold chain he hadn’t taken off since he put it on this morning.

The necklace. That necklace. Yours had been abandoned at the bottom of a travel pouch, hidden like something venomous.

You blinked, once, then again.

“Jimin’s not your type,” he said. The words felt too sharp for how soft the water was around you. You let the silence stretch before answering. “You think you still get to say things like that?” You asked, no real bite in it. Just genuineness. Truth, and honesty.

His jaw ticked. There it was—the muscle in his cheek that always gave him away. The one that said too much when his mouth said nothing at all. He didn’t look away, just kept floating beside you, the tension tethering you to him like some invisible undertow. You smiled then. A small one. Crooked. “It’s funny you think you still know my type.”

“It’s not funny,” he said. “No,” you agreed. “It’s not.”

The sun dipped lower. Someone from the group called for another picture. You closed your eyes, tilted your head back toward the sky. Jungkook didn’t swim away. He stayed, a shadow in your periphery, water lapping at the edge of everything you didn’t say.

And that, somehow, was worse.

The rain didn’t pour. It lingered. A kind of gentle drizzle that made the air thick and the palm leaves sweat. You stared out at the overcast sky from under the thatched awning of the tour pickup center, arms crossed, foot tapping. The van that was supposed to take your group three hours up to Sekumpul Waterfall hadn’t even been turned on. One by one, other guests peeled off with their towels and excuses. Too rainy, too long a ride, too early. They’d rather swim in the hotel pool and call it a day. When the driver finally announced they needed a minimum of six people and only two had showed up, you turned to Jungkook with your brows raised.

He just shrugged, flipping his keys around his finger like a damn movie character. “I’ll drive us.” He said. You blinked at him. “You have a license here?” You asked, “Not the point,” he said, already moving toward the street, rain jacket flapping in the wind. “The point is, you want to go.”

“You can’t just say that like you know me.”

He glanced back at you once, dark hair curling damply across his forehead. “I do.”

You didn’t respond. Mostly because he was right, and also because there was no part of you that wanted to stay behind with everyone else and sip on overpriced smoothies while the sky bled silver.

You found yourselves on a rental motorbike minutes later. You hadn’t even planned for it, hadn’t packed for it—just had your small sling bag, a water bottle, and the kind of mood that teetered on the edge of self-destruction. No helmet. No plan. Just you behind him, legs on either side, palms warm on his waist. And the road.

The rain came in waves. It wasn’t heavy enough to turn you back, but it was enough to make your shirts cling and your hair stick to your temples. You tucked your chin near his shoulder and shouted, “You sure this thing can handle three hours?”

“I trust her!” He yelled over his shoulder, patting the dashboard like it was a living thing. “But if we die, we die vibing.”

“ Vibing? ”

He just laughed. You hated how much you liked the sound. There was too much of him. The heat of his back against your front, the way his body leaned into curves before you could anticipate them. You tried not to hold on tighter than necessary, but every bump in the road reminded you that you weren’t as composed as you pretended to be.

You stopped at a roadside warung for food—rice wrapped in banana leaves, sambal that made your nose run, grilled corn rubbed in chili salt and butter. You didn’t talk much. He handed you a bottle of water, and you reminded him, again, to not drink just any kind.

“You’ll get Bali belly,” you said, nudging his with your elbow. “Don’t be stupid.”

He paused, fingers hovering over the seal of a random off-brand bottle, a look of something falling on his face, expressing too much, and saying too little. It wasn’t a question. Just a quiet, soaked realization dropped between you like rainwater off a leaf.

You didn’t say anyrhing. You just turned your back to him and folded your empty banana leaf into a perfect square. But later, when he went back to the counter, you saw him exchange the bottle for a sealed one from a more reliable brand.

Back on the road, the ride got quieter. Fewer honks. Fewer shops. Just wet jungle, moss-dark stones, and roads that curved like ribs around the mountain.

He pulled the bike to a stop once—nothing official, just a patch of gravel overlooking the valley. You both dismounted, legs a little stiff from the ride. Your shirt was stuck to your spine and you were shivering slightly, arms crossed under your chest. Jungkook didn’t say anything. Just unzipped his jacket and held it out. You stared at it. “I’m fine.” You reassured, “You’re cold .” He pointed out. “So are you.” You countered. “I run hot.” He said, but he was persistent, handing it to you, further stretching his arm.  

“Sounds fake.” You deadpanned. He only took a step closer. The air smelled like wet leaves and rain-pierced soil. “Take the jacket.” He insisted. Your fingers brushed when he handed it over. You hated the way your breath hitched. You hated the way it smelled like the two of you when you used to share sheets and shampoo and sleep.

Still, you put it on.

He looked away.

The path had narrowed the higher you climbed—loose gravel and slick earth swallowed beneath your sandals as jungle sounds cocooned the two of you in a silence that was anything but peaceful. The air was heavy with petrichor and palm, and your thighs ached from the hike, but there was no one else on the trail. The drizzle had turned steady, painting your skin in cool streaks, and every few steps, you had to pause to breathe, to blink away the heat gathering behind your eyes. The sound of the waterfall was near now, a rushing hush that grew louder with every turn.

Jungkook had barely spoken since you left the rest stop, since you’d paid a vendor for two plastic-wrapped mangosteens and offered him one without looking him in the eye. He’d taken it, murmured thanks, and you’d walked ahead with your mouth full of citrus bitterness and things you still couldn’t say.

When the trees parted, and the clearing spilled open, you stopped short.

The waterfall was taller than you’d imagined—hidden deep in the heart of the hills, like it had been waiting. Sheets of white water plunged into a shallow pool below, spraying mist into the air like breath exhaled after a long-held secret. Moss climbed the rocks like ivy, a temple of green and time. It was stupid, probably, to feel like your ribcage could burst from just a view, but you stood there for a long time, rain and waterfall indistinguishable, heart beating too fast. Like it remembered something you didn’t.

Behind you, Jungkook stopped too. Quiet. You didn’t turn. You just said it, voice low and calm, like you were asking the sky for permission. “Do you ever wonder if we gave up too fast?” The moment you said it, you regretted it.

Because the words had always lived at the back of your throat, tucked between swallowed pride and sleepless nights, but never out loud. Never like this. Not when his hair was wet and curling at his temples, not when your clothes clung to you like a second skin, not when the air smelled like new beginnings and every version of you that had once wanted forever.

There was a pause. Long. Too long.

He stepped forward, not close enough to touch, but close enough to hear the shift in his breath. When he spoke, it was barely above the water’s roar.

“No,” he said. “I know we did.”

It should have been a relief, but it landed like a stone in your chest. You turned to look at him—already expecting it, already knowing—and there it was. His face was unreadable. Lips parted like he was going to say more, but he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped around you. Walked toward the pool. Not far, not fast, just . . . away.

You stayed there, ankle-deep in regret, hands still open at your sides. You could’ve called after him. You could’ve made it worse. You could’ve told him the truth, that it never stopped hurting. That you hadn’t just lost a person—you’d lost a future.

But you didn’t.

You let the waterfall roar in your ears. You let your pulse slow. And you watched him stand at the edge of the pool, hands on his hips, back tense, jaw locked. A man trying not to break.

The rain kept falling. You didn’t move.

The rain doesn’t just fall—it crashes. Thunder rumbles somewhere far off, the kind that rolls in like a slow threat, while fat droplets slice through the humid stillness of the jungle. You’re already halfway down the rocky path back from the falls when it begins in earnest. The incline is slick, your feet barely catching against the stones, and Jungkook’s hand catches your elbow without thinking when you stumble.

You don’t thank him. He doesn’t let go.

Just ahead, tucked beside a faded trail sign carved in a language neither of you can read, is a crooked bamboo shelter—no wider than a bus stop and just tall enough for the two of you to crouch under. The wood smells like mold and wet grass. Rain drums against the thatched roof like a quickening heartbeat. He ducks under it first, then reaches out again, palm up, waiting for you.

You don’t hesitate this time.

You duck under the roof just seconds after him. It’s not much—three walls, a slatted bench, a roof that leaks a little in the corner—but it keeps the worst of the storm out. It’s close. It’s too close. You’re both dripping, water trailing down your arms, your collarbone, the small of your back. He runs a hand through his hair to wring it out. You cross your arms over your chest—not out of modesty, but to keep from shaking. The air is wet, thick, and cold now. You shiver once, hard, and he notices. Without a word, he shrugs out of the light jacket he had tied around his waist earlier and drapes it around your shoulders. You don’t thank him. He doesn’t ask for it. It’s instinct.

For a while, neither of you speak. The rain is loud on the roof, hammering in waves. His knees are close to yours on the bench, thigh almost brushing, but not quite. Your breath fogs in the air. You stare out into the gray jungle, trees blurring together in the mist, leaves trembling under the weight of rain.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, “You were always braver than me.” You blink at him. “What?”

His voice is softer now. “Back then. With us.” He doesn’t look at you. “You weren’t afraid to ask for what you wanted. You weren’t afraid to say it out loud. I was.” He said. You turn slowly to look at him. “I was always more afraid.”

He glances at you this time. His hair is wet, stuck to his forehead, his lashes clumped together from the rain. His lips part like he wants to say something more, but doesn’t. Maybe he knows he doesn’t need to. Maybe the look on your face is enough.

Your heart is thudding like it wants to escape. The space between you could be closed with one breath, one lean forward, one lapse in judgment. Your hands itch. Your mouth aches. Every inch of you feels wired to a history you’ve tried to bury.

He shifts, just slightly, and you feel it—that pull. That old gravity. Like you’re caught in it all over again.

He turns toward you. You turn too. He leans in first, slow, tentative, not assuming—but hopeful. Like he’s asking a question with his mouth, one he’s too scared to say out loud.

You move too. Because you want to. Because you’re tired of pretending you don’t. But just before his lips can touch yours, you flinch. It’s small. Barely there. But enough.

He stops. Eyes searching yours. Not angry. Just hurt. Quietly devastated.

Because you remember. You remember what he was like. What you were like. The last time you were on a three-hour drive, his hand was on your thigh, your mouth was on his neck, and his voice broke when he said your name, low and ragged, a wait till we get home groan that had you aching for days. You remember the way he looked at you the first time you put on the necklace he gave you—stunned, possessive, like he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. You remember how he said he needed more time, even though you’d already given him everything.

And now here you are, sitting next to him in the middle of nowhere, soaked to the bone, and there’s nothing stopping you but memory.

You turn away, just slightly. “I’m sorry,” you say, barely audible. He exhales, long and quiet. “Don’t be.”

But he doesn’t look at you again.

He leans back against the bamboo wall, eyes on the rain, jaw tight. You sit next to him in silence, jacket wrapped around your shoulders like armor.

The storm keeps raging. But this—this between you—is the real thing that hasn’t passed.

Not yet.

The scent of grilled satay drifted through the night like incense—sweet, smoky, thick with promise. The market buzzed with the gentle chaos of color and chatter, a hundred moving pieces under woven lanterns strung like stars. The rain had finally let up, and you’d changed out of your wet clothes from the waterfall hike into a loose cream blouse and denim shorts, damp still at the hem. Your hair smelled like rain and hibiscus shampoo, and it stuck to the back of your neck in stubborn curls. Jungkook was somewhere behind you, you thought, and maybe that should have mattered. Maybe it did. But you didn’t want it to—not tonight.

Because tonight, for once, you felt like laughing.

Jimin handed you a grilled corn cob, charred and slathered in sambal butter. “For the lady,” he said in that exaggerated gallant tone, one brow raised like a dare. His shirt was patterned with koi fish and half-unbuttoned, skin golden under the lights. The blond suited him too well—it made him look mischievous, like he was always two seconds from trouble, or a kiss.

You rolled your eyes but took the corn anyway. “I’m not above bribery.” You said. “You’re not above a lot of things,” he said, deadpan, then turned to haggle with a woman selling carved bracelets. “I’m getting us matching ones. To remember Bali by.” He declared. You snorted. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m charming .”

“You’re annoying.” You corrected teasingly. “Semantics,” he quipped.

The air was thick with spice and humidity, but you didn’t mind. Every so often someone from the group would break off, weaving through food stalls and ducking into clothing shops, but you and Jimin wandered together, pausing to point at durian pyramids or sizzling grills. You didn’t notice when Jungkook caught up—only when Jimin’s eyes flicked to something over your shoulder, his expression sharpening just slightly.

“He’s watching,” he said quietly, smile never leaving his face. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to. “Let him.” You shrugged. 

“He looks at you like he still loves you,” Jimin said, casual as if commenting on the weather. “It’s kind of romantic, actually. Tragic. Like one of those old Wong Kar-wai films. Everything lush and unspoken.” He added. You took a breath, shaky through your nose. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

But your voice cracked at the edge. It was soft, almost buried under the sound of a motorbike sputtering past, but not enough for it to be drowned. Still, Jimin had heard it. Because from somewhere behind you, just outside the haze of your attention, a stillness settled. A kind of too-quiet. Like a held breath.

Jimin’s gaze flicked again. He didn’t need to say anything this time. You turned, slow. Jungkook stood three paces away, a plastic bag from a fruit stall crinkled in one hand. His curls were pushed back, and he was wearing that dark green linen shirt you once borrowed in Bangkok because you’d spilled wine on yours. You’d slept in it that night, tangled in his arms. He never asked for it back. Now he looked at you like he could still feel that memory on his skin.

You froze. “How long have you—”

“Long enough,” he cut in, voice quiet. He glanced down at the bag in his hand, then back up like he wasn’t sure what to do with either. “You left your water bottle. I was just . . .”

You nodded. Of course. Of course he was.

Jimin took one step back, the shift graceful, almost imperceptible—like he knew this wasn’t his moment anymore. He offered Jungkook a nod, and then he turned away toward a fruit stand without another word. The space he left behind felt too open. Like standing on stage under a spotlight with no script.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel—” You began, but Jungkook shook his head. “You weren’t. I just—” His jaw tensed. “I didn’t know it was that easy to forget.”

Something hot and cold bloomed in your chest, all at once. “It’s not.” You said. He looked at you for a long moment. Just looked. Like he was trying to remember every version of you he’d ever loved, every laugh and fight and forgiveness that had once fit between his fingers.

“I didn’t mean to listen,” he said. “But I couldn’t not .”

You wanted to say something clever, to deflect with humor or indifference. But you couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when you still remembered the way he’d kissed you in the kitchen when your rice had burned, or how he’d always reached for your hand under tables, like it was second nature.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you whispered. “But you did.”

Maybe you did.

You didn’t speak for a while. The crowd pressed on around you like a tide—voices rising, oil popping in pans, a busker playing something soft and lilting on a bamboo flute. But inside that tiny pocket of space between you, time felt stilled. Broken open. Like the night had taken a breath and paused just long enough to make you feel everything you’d been trying to forget.

You reached for the water bottle, fingers brushing his. And for a second, just one breath-long second, it felt like you were back in a life that hadn’t broken yet.

Then he let go.

“Enjoy the rest of the night,” he said. Voice polite, quiet. But he wouldn’t look at you again.

And then he walked away.

Later, when the group started gathering for cabs back to the hotel, you noticed Jungkook wasn’t among them. His name on the chat group showed he’d booked a separate ride. You didn’t ask why.

You didn’t need to.

The rain was deafening. It drummed against the roof like war drums—loud, punishing, merciless. The kind of storm that made you feel like the sky was punishing you for something.

You stood near the bed, arms crossed, trying to breathe through the ache in your ribs. Jungkook paced across the room, hands in his hair like they might hold his head together.

“I don’t get you,” he said. “I really fucking don’t.”

You turned. “That makes two of us.”

His eyes snapped to yours. “One minute you’re fine, and the next you’re—what? Giving me the silent treatment? Acting like I’m the villain in some story I don’t even remember signing up for?”

“You did sign up for it,” you shot back. “You just stopped showing up halfway through.” You bit, tone seething and dripping in bitterness. “Oh, come on,” he scoffed, voice rising. “Don’t give me that. You think you were some perfect fucking girlfriend?”

“No,” you said, laughing without humor. “I think I was someone who stayed .”

“You left me!”

“Because I had to!” You shouted. “Because staying meant bleeding dry in front of someone who couldn’t even look me in the eye anymore!” His jaw clenched. He turned his back to you, fists at his sides. “You always do this. Make me out to be the one who ruined everything.”

“You did ruin it!”

He turned back around, face flushed, furious. “I was drowning! I didn’t know how to love you the way you needed!”

“I didn’t ask you to be perfect, Jungkook,” you cried, voice cracking. “I just asked you to fucking try.”

“I was trying!” He yelled. “Every day! Even when I hated myself! Even when I couldn’t look at you without feeling like a fucking fraud!” He added, chest rising up and down, hands flailing. “Then why did it feel like I was the only one holding on?” You asked, leveling your volume with his. Louder, even. 

“Because you were! Because I didn’t know how to hold on and still be me!”

You froze. The words hit like a slap. Your breath caught. Jungkook looked at you, eyes wild, chest heaving. “I was afraid,” he admitted, quieter now. “Of not being enough. Of needing you more than you needed me. Of looking at you and seeing a future I wasn’t ready for and knowing I’d ruin it anyway.”

Tears burned in your eyes. “I never needed you to be perfect.”

“I know,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But I wanted to be. For you.”

You blinked. And something in you snapped. “Then why didn’t you fight for me?” You snapped. His voice cracked. “Because I thought you’d be better off without me.”

“That wasn’t your choice to make,” you whispered, shaking your head.

The room went quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes after a hurricane’s passed through and flattened everything. “I hated you,” you said, shaking. “For a long time. For how easy you made it look. For how fast you let me go.”

His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“But the truth is,” you continued, tears falling freely, “I never stopped loving you. I just started pretending I didn’t.”

Jungkook moved slowly, like he was afraid to breathe too loud. “I loved you the whole time,” he whispered. “Even when I left. Even when I didn’t call. I never stopped.” You laughed through your tears. “Then what the fuck were we doing? Killing each other just to prove we’re not in pain?”

He stepped forward. “We are in pain.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him. His eyes were red. His hands were shaking. “I wake up,” he said, “And for three seconds, I forget we’re not together. Then it hits me all over again. Every. Single. Day. ”

“I can’t look at anyone else without wondering if they’ll ever make me feel like you did,” you said. He reached out slowly. His fingers brushed your cheek, tentative.

“I miss you,” he whispered. “I miss you too.”

You broke.

It wasn’t a graceful collapse. It was a desperate, ragged surrender. You fell into each other like a tidal wave, all limbs and wet cheeks and too much time lost. He kissed you like it was the only way he remembered how to speak. You held him like you were afraid he’d disappear again. You didn’t know what this meant. If anything had changed. If it was too late.

But in that moment, with the storm raging outside and both of you sobbing in each other’s arms, one thing was finally clear.

You still loved each other.

And that truth—however painful—was the only thing that could still hurt this much.

The kiss didn’t fix it. It wasn’t supposed to. It wasn’t forgiveness, or closure, or anything with edges clean enough to name. It was just need—raw and aching, born from months of silence and blame and the unbearable weight of pretending it didn’t still hurt. You kissed him like it was muscle memory. Like your mouth remembered where it fit long before your heart ever caught up.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were still crying. Soft, uneven breaths, like your lungs couldn’t quite decide what they were allowed to do now.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

The rain had softened, but only a little. It still pounded against the windows, steady and relentless, like it was trying to drown out the silence inside. The power had flickered twice during the fight and finally gone out altogether—leaving the room dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of the emergency generator light above the door.

Jungkook stood in front of you, hair damp with sweat and rain, shirt wrinkled from where you’d clutched it. His chest rose and fell like he’d just come up for air after being underwater too long.

“I don’t know what we just did,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t want it to be the last time.”

You looked at him—really looked. At the man you’d spent so long building your life around. At the version of him you hadn’t let yourself want in months.

“It can’t be like before,” you said quietly. His jaw tightened. “I know.”

“I’m not going to hold my breath waiting for you again.”

“I don’t want you to,” he said. “I don’t want to be someone you have to shrink yourself for. Or wait on, or worry about breaking in your hands.”

You sat down on the edge of the bed slowly, like your body was suddenly too heavy to stand. “Then what do we do now?”

He crossed the room and knelt in front of you. His hands rested gently on your knees. His thumbs traced soft, slow circles over the skin there. When he looked up, his eyes were glassy. “We rest,” he said. “Just for tonight. We stop trying to be fine.”

You let out a long breath. “I’m so tired, Jungkook.”

“I know.” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against your legs. “Me too.”

It wasn’t the sweeping kind of reunion you used to imagine late at night. There was no grand music swelling, no declaration that fixed everything in one go. There was just this—quiet surrender. Shared exhaustion. The soft click of two people finally laying their weapons down.

You shifted back onto the bed and pulled the blanket over your legs. It was still warm from earlier, and the rain made the walls feel closer, more forgiving. Jungkook climbed in beside you like he wasn’t sure he was allowed, but you didn’t stop him. You just curled into the space where his body still remembered yours, and let him hold you.

No kissing. No more crying. Just breath.

At some point, he whispered, “I didn’t know how to be with someone who saw me that clearly.” You whispered back, “I never wanted to scare you.”

The thunder rolled faintly in the distance. The storm had moved somewhere else. You stayed like that for a long time, limbs tangled under thin sheets, wrapped in the heavy hush that only comes after truth is spoken aloud.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. You didn’t know if you could forgive everything, or if he could either. But for the first time in a long time, you weren’t pretending.

And that, at least, was something real.

You woke to the sound of rustling. Not loud. Not frantic. Just the soft, deliberate slide of fabric, a zipper being coaxed open, the quiet shuffle of someone trying not to wake you. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, and the world outside your window was a dull silver—clouds still swollen and heavy, but softer now, gentled by the hush that follows a storm.

Jungkook was by the dresser.

His back was to you, shirtless, wearing the same jeans from last night. His hair was damp, curls clinging to the nape of his neck, and his shoulders—broad, tired—were bent slightly forward like he was bracing for something. His duffel bag lay open on the floor next to him. Clothes folded. Neat. Intentional.

You didn’t say anything. You just watched, the breath in your lungs caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

He was leaving.

Of course he was. Because that’s what Jungkook did. 

He shut down, shut you out, and left before you could watch him unravel. You’d spent the better part of your old relationship learning the sound of doors closing. Learning that silence could be a goodbye if you listened closely enough.

Last night had been something soft. Rare. But you knew better than to believe in it. In the light after the thunder.

Your eyes burned, but you blinked it down. Swallowed hard and let the disappointment settle, slow and familiar, right where it always lived—beneath your ribs, behind your sternum. A permanent resident. A silent, unclaimed space.

Jungkook turned around, and stopped. He looked at you—really looked—and something in his face cracked. “Shit,” he breathed. “ No , no, no . That’s not what—fuck. I’m not leaving.” He breathed out, but you didn’t move.

He took a step toward the bed, hands raised like you were something wild and startled that might run. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t packing. I mean, I was. But not like that. I was just . . . looking.” He said. Your voice was low, tight. “For what?”

“That shirt,” he said quickly. “The one you got me in Bangkok. The ugly one with the koi fish and the half-English quote on the back. You called it cursed. I—” He laughed, helpless and uneven. “I wanted to wear it today. I don’t know. I just . . . I woke up and it felt like a shirt day.”

You stared at him. He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to make you think—”

“You were by the dresser,” you said, voice shaking. “Zipping up your bag. I thought—” You stopped. Your throat closed up. “That I was doing it again.” His voice broke. “Leaving before I could ruin it.”

You didn’t answer.

The silence stretched, taut and too loud.

Jungkook walked over slowly and sat on the edge of the bed. Not too close. Not touching. Just enough that you could feel the heat of him, the weight of him beside you.

“If you asked,” he said, barely above a whisper, “I’d stay this time.”

You turned to him. His eyes were a mess of hope and fear. Like he already knew the answer could hurt. Like he would still give it all anyway. You looked at him for a long moment. And then you said, softly, “I’m asking.”

The relief in his face was instant and devastating. His shoulders fell, breath catching like he’d been holding it since last night. And he reached for you—slow, gentle, like a question.

You let him.

His hands found your waist, your back, your cheek. You let your forehead rest against his. Closed your eyes and tried not to cry again. “I’m not good at this,” he whispered. “At staying. At asking for help.”

“I know,” you said. “But I’m still here.”

He let out a broken sound and kissed your temple.

You sat like that for a while—limbs wrapped up in quiet, in softness. In something real.

The group decided on a visit to a coffee plantation—not quite spiritual, not quite a thrill, just somewhere in the middle, which felt safe after the storm of the previous night. It wasn’t your idea, but you didn’t fight it. It was low-stakes. And when you and Jungkook stepped out of the shuttle, the distance between you was noticeably smaller than yesterday—your shoulders didn’t touch, but they might’ve if you shifted just an inch.

You were both trying, in the most human, fumbling ways. He kept glancing at you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you again, and you kept catching his hand hovering a breath away from your lower back, like muscle memory was overriding his caution. And you? You were letting him hover. Letting him try.

The plantation was set on sloping hills, mist curling between rows of coffee trees and shaded arbors strung with fairy lights that probably looked better at dusk. A local guide gave a cheerful, heavily-accented spiel about the history of the plantation, explaining the difference between Arabica and Robusta, and offering samples brewed from beans that had passed through a civet’s digestive tract—a detail that would’ve made you gag on a different day.

Jungkook, to his credit, played along. He asked questions—earnest, innocent ones that made a few people chuckle. “Wait, so the cat shits it out and we still drink it?” he asked, wide-eyed, holding up a tiny demitasse like it contained actual poison. “Is this safe? Are you sure this is safe?” His face twisted when he sniffed it, and you tried not to laugh, but the snort escaped before you could stop it.

He looked at you then, eyes crinkled with quiet pride. Like he’d won something. Or maybe just gotten to hear you laugh again, unguarded and real.

“I swear it’s not that bad,” you murmured, still chuckling. “You used to drink black coffee so strong it gave me heart palpitations.”

“Yeah, well. You used to say it was my worst trait.” He handed you the cup. “Try it.”

You hesitated. Then you did.

It was bitter. Complex. Weirdly smooth.

“It’s not awful,” you admitted. “Still can’t believe you actually drank this on purpose.”

He leaned in a little closer. “Remember when you told me my taste in coffee was a cry for help?”

“I stand by that.”

“But you still drank mine anyway.”

There was a flicker of memory—two winters ago, your shared apartment, his stupid mug with the chipped rim. Cold mornings and tangled blankets and the way he always left your cup just a little sweeter, knowing you hated bitter things but liked holding warm ones. He would press it into your hands wordlessly, still shirtless and half-asleep, like it was instinct.

Something about that flash made your chest hurt in a way that wasn’t painful, just… tender. Like pressing on a bruise you weren’t sure had healed.

You didn’t say anything. But he must’ve seen the shift on your face, because he glanced down at the empty cup in your hands and then back up again, expression softer now.

“Hey,” he said gently, and you realized too late you’d gone too quiet.

But before you could answer, someone called out: “Jungkook! Come here—we’re doing couple photos!”

You both turned. It was one of the older women from the group, holding up her phone and waving you over toward a wooden platform overlooking the rows of trees. Someone else added, “You two haven’t done one yet! Come on, don’t be shy!”

Jungkook blinked. You opened your mouth to protest, but he said—very calmly—“Sure,” and took your hand before you could pull away.

It wasn’t romantic. Not really. The way his fingers brushed yours was careful, like a question.

You let him hold on.

He stood beside you, stiff but smiling. Someone yelled, “Act like you like each other!” and Jungkook let out a hoarse laugh. “We do!” he said, too fast, too earnest. “I mean—we’re just awkward. You know. Photo awkward.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned slightly into him. “We’ll give you one photo,” you said to the group. “One.”

The guide counted down, and you both smiled for the camera. It felt bizarre, like you were posing for something that used to be easy.

And then Jimin sidled up after the click, holding a cup of his own. “You two looked like you were posing for a coffee commercial.”

“We were,” you deadpanned. “For cat poop espresso.”

Jimin grinned. “Very romantic. Can I be your photobomber next time?”

“You already are,” Jungkook said under his breath.

But you were smiling again. And this time, it stayed a little longer.

As the group dispersed, heading toward the gift shop and tasting area, you and Jungkook lingered on the platform for a beat too long. He wasn’t holding your hand anymore, but you could still feel where his fingers had been. You turned your face toward the trees, inhaling deep—wet leaves, roasted beans, the faint, sweet smoke of something burning slow in the distance.

“Hey,” he said again, softer now. “Thanks. For… just being okay with that.”

“It was one photo,” you replied, but you weren’t annoyed. Not really. “You didn’t even blink.”

“I practiced,” he said solemnly. “In the mirror. After you dumped me.”

You snorted. He smiled like that was the goal.

Neither of you said it—but for a moment, it was just easy. Not over. Not healed. But easy. And maybe, for today, that was enough.

The sun had long since dipped below the hills, leaving Bali cloaked in a velvet hush. Even the crickets sounded gentler tonight, like they’d agreed to soften the edge of everything. You sat in the open-back jeep, your legs tucked beneath you, the scent of lemongrass and something smoky curling in your hair. The dirt road ahead was barely lit, only the occasional glint of reflected moonlight off a puddle breaking the darkness.

Rumah Konservasi Kunang-Kunang wasn’t on any major tourist list—one of the conservationists from the plantation had mentioned it earlier, offhandedly, and for once the group hadn’t turned it into an Instagram opportunity. It was too quiet for that, too reverent. Even Jimin had peeled off early, something about dinner plans and “not wanting to third wheel the end of a novella.” His words, not yours.

Now it was just you, Jungkook, a naturalist with a clipboard and khaki vest, and the soft, uneven crunch of the road under tires. You were both quiet, in that fragile way people are when something delicate has just begun to mend. You hadn’t touched since the photo, but the space between you was relaxed now, as if the awkwardness had stretched itself out and finally grown tired of resisting.

“It’s . . . really dark,” Jungkook murmured, as if he was afraid to speak too loudly and break the spell. His voice was a low rasp, worn from a day of laughing too much, and maybe a little from trying too hard. “That’s the point,” you replied, just as quietly. “Too much light, they don’t come.”

“They?”

“The fireflies.”

He tilted his head toward you, barely visible in the dim light from the dashboard. “Did you research this place already?” He asked. You shrugged. “It came up when I was booking the trip. I wanted to go, but it felt weird bringing it up when . . .” You trailed off.

“When we were broken up,” he finished for you. The words didn’t sting the way they used to.

You nodded.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just exhaled slowly, like he was letting something go. “I would’ve said yes,” he said. “If you’d asked.” He added. You turned toward him. “I didn’t think you wanted to do stuff like this. You used to roll your eyes at anything that involved nature and bugs.”

“I was stupid,” he said without hesitation. “And I didn’t think I deserved stuff like this. Not with you.”

The guide in front of you cleared his throat softly, as though he could sense something tender beginning to unravel. “Almost there,” he said in a hush. “Please don’t use flashlights or your phones when we get out. Let your eyes adjust. The kunang-kunang will appear slowly. Like breathing.”

The jeep rumbled to a halt in a clearing near a shallow stream. Trees surrounded the path on both sides, their canopies forming a loose dome overhead. It was quiet in a way that didn’t feel empty—more like everything was holding its breath.

You climbed down carefully, your sandals sinking into damp earth, and Jungkook offered his hand before he could stop himself. You hesitated, then took it.

He didn’t let go.

And then— light .

Small at first, just one blink by your knee, then another. Tiny golden sparks began to appear in the underbrush, then high up in the trees, flickering like shy stars. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. It was impossible to count. The guide didn’t speak again, just gave the two of you a nod before slipping into the dark with the practiced steps of someone who knew how not to disturb magic.

Jungkook let out a breath that sounded like awe. “ Whoa .” You laughed softly. “Very eloquent.”

He leaned down to whisper, “You’re lucky I didn’t bring my phone. I’d be saying whoa on camera right now and ruining your moment.”

“It’s not my moment,” you said, but you knew what he meant. You’d always loved places like this—quiet, humbling, a reminder that there were still things in the world that didn’t ask for attention but earned it anyway. “It feels like they’re dancing,” he murmured. The fireflies blinked in slow pulses, like a heartbeat, like the rhythm of something alive but unbothered by time.

You stood there beside him, your hand still wrapped in his, watching the light shift and scatter like something divine. It should’ve felt too romantic. But it didn’t. It felt right-sized. Gentle.

He nudged you after a few minutes. “You know . . . I used to think stuff like this was just for people who needed a reason to be cheesy.” He said, “And now?” You tilted your head, facing him but your eyes were tracking the fireflies lighting up for you. 

“Now I think I missed out on a lot because I was too afraid to be soft with you.” He breathed out, softly, like a confession he was whispering to the night, and that’s what makes you look at him— really look at him. You caught the way his eyes softened, a look of longing, love behind them. Your heart clenched. Not in pain—just with the weight of what he meant. You’d always wanted softness from him. Not grand gestures. Just . . . effort. Presence . A willingness to stay in the quiet with you instead of trying to fill it.

You reached into your pocket then, pulling your phone out with your free hand. He flinched a little. “Don’t take a picture,” he whispered. “I’m not.” You pulled up your messages, thumb hovering over the thread with Yoongi. You hadn’t texted him since the hike this morning—just a blurry photo of a banana tree and a thumbs-up emoji. But now, beneath the pulsing firefly light, you typed,

i didn’t sleep with him.

but we’re talking. we’re trying. he’s trying. i think i want to try too.

You hit send. Put the phone away. Jungkook watched you, eyes wide and searching. “What’d you just do?” He asked, “Texted Yoongi,” you answered simply. “Did you tell him I cried watching fireflies?” He mused, as you let out a chuckle. 

“I left that part out.”

“Thank you.” A pause. “I didn’t cry, by the way. My eyes just . . . got misty.” He explained, as you bit back a smile. “It’s the humidity.” You agreed, as he nodded, “Exactly.”

The silence returned, but it wasn’t awkward. Not anymore. You were still holding his hand. His thumb brushed along your knuckles every few seconds, like he needed to keep reminding himself you were there. That this was happening.

Then he said, voice lower than before, “You know, I never stopped wanting to come here. Even after we broke up. I looked up pictures of the fireflies the week after you left. I thought . . . maybe you’d still go. I wanted to know what you’d be seeing.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. His face was lit only by the shifting glow of the kunang-kunang, gold and amber flickering over his cheekbones, his jaw, the curve of his lashes. He looked so open in that moment. Ready.

So you kissed him.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks. It was soft. Slow. Familiar, but not quite the same—like coming back to a house where all the furniture had been rearranged, but the scent was still yours. He inhaled sharply when your lips touched, as though surprised by his own hope, and his hand tightened around yours. He kissed you back like he didn’t want to scare the moment off.

When you pulled back, he whispered against your mouth, “Still afraid?” You nodded. “Yeah.”

His forehead bumped against yours. “Me too.” But he was smiling. And so were you.

Behind you, the trees blinked. Fireflies everywhere. Alive and unbothered.

Trying. Just like you.