Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first day Min Yoongi met Kim Seokjin, he had just arrived at the campus dorm, bags under his eyes and an actual bag of laundry that wasn’t even his. The elevator was broken, his back hurt, and he already hated his floor mates. Then a door down the hall flew open and a stranger yelled:

“DOES ANYONE HAVE EGGS?!”

Yoongi flinched.

The stranger was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a pink apron and a plushie headband to keep his bangs up. His socks didn’t match and there was flour on his ear.

“I said—EGGS! I need—” the stranger caught sight of him “—oh. Hello. Are you the new one? Cute ears.”

Yoongi blinked. “What.”

“I’m Kim Seokjin. I live two doors down. Do you have eggs?”

“...No?”

“Damn.” He paused, then extended a hand. “Wanna be friends?”

Yoongi said no. Seokjin said okay. They’ve been roommates ever since.

The first week of living together was manageable. Yoongi had noise-cancelling headphones, Seokjin had a 10pm bedtime rule “unless it’s karaoke night or emotional breakdown o’clock.”

The third week? Yoongi started writing in his Notes app:

“Things I Need to Mentally Survive Kim Seokjin:”

Patience. Industrial strength earplugs. Better facial expression control. Holy water.

But then there was that night when the power went out. Yoongi had been curled on the couch, half-asleep, rain tapping on the windows like a lullaby. Seokjin appeared from his room like a ghost in a Totoro hoodie, holding two cups of instant hot chocolate and a flashlight under his chin.

“Wanna play ‘Guess My Trauma’?”

“What the hell is wrong with you,” Yoongi muttered, but he took the cocoa anyway.

There were moments like that. Hundreds of them. Piled up in small ways.

Yoongi started noticing how Seokjin hummed when he cooked. How he always tied his left shoelace twice. How he turned slightly red whenever someone complimented his singing, even if he played it off with a stupid joke.

Yoongi noticed the way Seokjin flopped on the couch after class and grumbled about his professors while poking Yoongi’s cheek for no reason.

And then, he noticed the ache. The one that started slow, then grew louder with every shared laugh and sleepy morning where Seokjin yawned into Yoongi’s shoulder like it belonged to him.

He tried to ignore it.

Then came The Laundry Incident.

Yoongi had left his laundry unattended for three minutes. Three.

When he came back, he found all his clothes folded... wrong. Seokjin was sitting cross-legged on the floor, folding Yoongi’s black T-shirts like they were origami frogs.

“You’re folding them inside out,” Yoongi said.

“I’m helping,” Seokjin said, “You’re welcome.”

Yoongi stared at the chaos. “You folded my hoodie like a pizza box.”

“You’re supposed to fold pizza boxes.”

“That’s not—”

“Anyway, I sniffed it. Smells like you. You’re allowed to be flattered.”

Yoongi nearly dropped dead on the spot. 

He didn’t write the letter that day. But he thought about it.

He thought about how Seokjin always made too much food and pretended it was an accident. How he sang in the shower like he was on stage. How he leaned in too close when Yoongi talked, as if trying to read words off his lips. As if Yoongi mattered that much.

And he thought, God, I’m screwed.

Yoongi didn’t write the letter right away. He drafted it in his head first—while watching Seokjin struggle with chopsticks, while listening to Seokjin laugh mid-sneeze, while picking up Seokjin’s shoes because they never stayed in the damn shoe rack. He wasn’t the type to confess.

He was the type to suffer silently while refilling Seokjin’s water bottle every morning and pretending it wasn’t love. Until one rainy Tuesday, Seokjin nearly burned the kitchen down.

Yoongi walked into the kitchen to find Seokjin standing in front of the microwave with a banana inside.

“…What are you doing.”

“Science,” Seokjin said, completely serious.

“You’re microwaving a banana.”

“I wanted it warm.”

Yoongi stared. “That’s not—”

“Too late. I pressed start.”

The microwave sparked. Seokjin screamed. The banana combusted.

“WHY DID IT EXPLODE?!”

“BECAUSE IT’S A BANANA, SEOKJIN.”

“I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE LIKE HOT BANANA BREAD.”

“It’s a raw banana in a metal bowl, hyung, that’s not how—”

Seokjin flailed toward the sink, shouting, “ABORT MISSION,” and Yoongi instinctively grabbed a towel to fan the smoke.

The fire alarm went off. Yoongi had to climb on the counter to fan it with a slipper. Seokjin yelled “My baby!” at the microwave while clutching his oven mitts like war trophies.

It was… a lot.

But then, the chaos quieted. Smoke cleared. And Yoongi looked over at Seokjin — hair messy, face flushed, banana guts on his apron — and his heart did that stupid thing again.

He’s ridiculous, Yoongi thought. And then: I love him so much it’s not even funny.

Later that night, when Seokjin was snoring like a dying whale in the next room, Yoongi sat at his desk, opened a blank document, and started typing.

Just once. Just to say it.

💜💜💜💜 (Can be found in chapter 2 as well.)

dear seokjin,

i like your eyes. mostly when they’re not looking at me, because then i can stare without dying.

i like your dumb laugh — the one you do when you’re trying not to laugh, so it comes out as a wheeze and a clap and a knee slap and then silence, like your soul just left your body for a bit.

i like that you hum when you cook. badly. and that you use enough soy sauce to summon Poseidon himself. and then you look at the pan like it messed up.

i like the way you talk to plants like they’re toddlers, and to me like i’m a fern who just insulted your mother.

i like the way your hair sticks up in five directions when you wake up and the way you pretend it’s “intentional.”

i think i like you more than i should.

i’ve loved you for so long it feels like breathing — ordinary until you remember how necessary it is.

i love you in the mornings, when your face is swollen with sleep and your hoodie’s on backwards.

i love you when you take forty-seven years to choose a movie and still end up rewatching the one where the fish gets lost.

i love you when you do laundry and mix whites and colors and somehow turn my towel blue. and then say, “that’s just a bonus color.”

i love you when you lie on the couch with one leg over mine like we’re in a buddy cop movie, and when you look at me like i might disappear.

you make the world feel like less of a disaster.

maybe that’s dramatic.

whatever.

you make me feel like someone who deserves to be known. not just seen. known.

i’m in love with you.

and now you know.

(except you don’t. because i’m not giving you this letter.)

love,

yoongi

💜💜💜💜

He saved the file under a dumb folder called “TAXES_PROBABLY” and forgot about it.

Well, he didn’t forget. He just buried it somewhere deep. Because by then, life kept moving.

Yoongi fell deeper in love.

“YOONGI! GET UP!”

Yoongi groaned into his pillow. “Hyung, I swear to god—”

“THIS IS IMPORTANT.”

He stumbled out of bed like a grumpy vampire and followed the sound into the living room, where Seokjin was cackling in front of his phone.

“Watch this,” Seokjin gasped, tears in his eyes. “The duck. Look at the duck. LOOK.”

The screen showed a duck waddling, tripping over absolutely nothing, and rolling into a pond like a limp breadstick.

Yoongi blinked. “You dragged me out of bed for a duck that fell down?”

“It’s comedy gold. Look at the little splash! It’s timing, Yoongi.”

“You’re clinically insane.”

“Say that again but with love in your voice.”

Yoongi didn’t say it. But he laughed. And stayed awake with him for another hour, watching ten more stupid duck videos.

Another night, they watched Up for the hundredth time.

By the time the montage ended, Seokjin sniffled beside him, hoodie hood pulled over his face like a blanket of shame.

Yoongi nudged him. “Are you crying?”

“No.”

“You’re literally crying.”

“It’s the ramen. I added extra spice.”

“Your ramen’s in the sink.”

“I ATE THE SPICE WITH MY EYES.”

Yoongi handed him a tissue, trying not to smile. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re a menace,” Seokjin mumbled, wiping his face. “I didn’t even like that bird anyway.”

Yoongi didn't say anything else. He just gently leaned his shoulder closer, so Seokjin could cry into him without saying he was doing it.

One lazy Sunday afternoon, they were lying on the floor, arms sprawled out in opposite directions, sunlight leaking in through the windows.

“I think you’re my best friend,” Seokjin said quietly, staring at the ceiling fan.

Yoongi turned his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Seokjin smiled, eyes soft and half-lidded. “Like, you’re annoying and judgmental and you never share fries, but you make everything feel… safer.”

Yoongi swallowed.

“You’re my favorite person, I think,” Seokjin whispered. “Even if you hate my face.”

“I don’t hate your face.”

“You called it a geometric betrayal of symmetry last week.”

Yoongi exhaled a laugh. “I was flustered. You were wearing that stupid shirt.”

“You mean my sexy minion hoodie?”

“Don’t ever say ‘sexy minion’ again.”

But Seokjin didn’t answer. He was already dozing off. His fingers had accidentally brushed Yoongi’s. Yoongi didn’t move away.

And he fell a little more.

And then came graduation.

Fireworks screamed into the sky from someone’s illegal stash. The rooftop smelled like burnt plastic and cold pizza. Plastic chairs surrounded them, like a trashy little kingdom.

Seokjin was holding a sparkler.

“I can’t believe we made it,” he said.

“You cheated in Philosophy,” Yoongi replied.

“Morally, yes. Academically, no.”

They clinked beer cans.

Seokjin leaned on the railing and looked over the city. “Do you think we’ll still be like this… after?”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Still like what?”

“You and me,” Seokjin said. “Same team. Same air.”

Yoongi smiled. “Are you asking me to keep being your roommate?”

Seokjin turned. His expression was unreadable — somewhere between tired and serious.

“I’m asking you,” he said, stepping closer, “if I can kiss you without ruining everything.”

Yoongi’s heart stuttered.

“Are you kidding?” he breathed. “I’ve been ruined for years.”

And so, Seokjin kissed him.

It was warm. A little clumsy. Real. They both laughed halfway through it. And that night, Yoongi lay awake, one arm under Seokjin’s pillow, heart full and calm, thinking: I don’t need the letter anymore.

But the letter still existed. And years later, it would come back to haunt him. In the most Seokjin way possible. 

It all started with Seokjin’s Annual Digital Cleaning Rampage, which struck once every presidential election—or whenever he got bored waiting for Yoongi to finish watching anime and decided he would “optimize their shared desktop for domestic harmony.”

“I swear to God, Yoongi, if I find another folder named ‘misc.2’ inside a folder called ‘misc.1’, I’m filing for digital divorce.”

Yoongi, blissfully half-asleep and burrowed under a blanket like a sleepy slug on their couch, gave a single noncommittal grunt. “That’s from 2017. Let it go.”

Seokjin ignored him. “What the hell is ‘MAYBE DON’T TOUCH THIS’? Why is that the folder name? WHY IS IT ALL CAPS?”

“Jin,” Yoongi said without even looking, “don’t open it.”

“TOO LATE.” Click.

Yoongi jolted upright. “Wait, no—don’t—”

But the cursed file was already loading.

A Word document. Titled: Not That Deep, Probably.docx

(Yes, Yoongi had named his emotional confessional like a drunk Tumblr post. A fact that Seokjin would later scream about for forty-five minutes.)

There was silence. The kind of silence that made even the plants in the room turn in anticipation.

Seokjin stared at the screen for a full minute.

Then another.

Then—

“YOONGI.”

His voice cracked like a thunderclap mid-musical.

“WHAT. THE. HELL. IS. THIS.”

Yoongi stood like he was under criminal interrogation.

“It’s old—I was, like, 20—I didn’t even know how to use commas back then—”

“You wrote an entire 1,500-word yearning soliloquy about how you’d rather be my jacket so you could hug me all day and you HID IT FROM ME?”

“It was embarrassing!” Yoongi blurted. “You didn’t even like me back then, you were dating that guy who wore chokers in the swimming club!”

Seokjin pointed a trembling, accusatory finger. “DON’T BRING PARK KEVIN INTO THIS, THIS IS ABOUT YOU WRITING POETRY BEHIND MY BACK.”

“I wouldn’t call it poetry. I literally rhymed ‘toast’ with ‘ghost.’”

Seokjin scrolled further, gasping. “Oh my god, you even used my name in italics. YOU SAID ‘Kim Seokjin, I hope you never read this but I’m in love with you and I’d stand in the rain in front of the dining hall just to hand you your favorite gimbap.’”

Yoongi flushed. “It was raining that day! You didn’t have an umbrella! I was cold and dramatic!”

“You’re always cold and dramatic!”

From there, it escalated rapidly.

Seokjin began reciting the letter aloud, with theatrical flair, like he was performing Shakespeare in a very unhinged one-man show:

> “‘Your laugh is my favorite song. Your ramen-slurping habits are repulsive but somehow sacred. I think you’re the moon—’ THE MOON, YOONGI?! REALLY?!”

“I was in a MOOD!”

Seokjin started pacing like a telenovela character mid-breakdown.

“You wrote this and just… kept it?! Filed it under ‘don’t touch this’ like it was a cursed scroll?!”

“I WAS GOING TO DELETE IT BUT YOU KEPT USING THE COMPUTER!”

“AND YOU NEVER THOUGHT TO TELL ME AFTER WE GOT TOGETHER?!”

“I DIDN’T THINK YOU’D LIKE IT AFTER YOU FOUND OUT ABOUT MY SNOOPY SOCK COLLECTION!”

“YOU’RE A SECRET ROMANTIC AND I’M ONLY FINDING OUT NOW?!” Seokjin cried, flailing. “YOONGI, I’VE BEEN WALKING AROUND THINKING I’M THE ONLY CRINGE ONE!”

Then, abruptly, Seokjin turned.

Eyes wide. Voice small.

“…Wait. What else is in that folder?”

Yoongi turned white.

“Don’t you dare.”

Seokjin dove for the folder like a man possessed, while Yoongi leapt over the coffee table trying to tackle him.

They crashed. They screamed. The coffee table wept. At one point, Seokjin accidentally clicked open a JPG titled “JIN IN SOFT LIGHT.JPG” and paused mid-chaos to shout:

“YOU EDITED MY FACE WITH A VIGNETTE?!”

“You looked GLOWY!” Yoongi yelled defensively.

Eventually, both of them were sprawled on the carpet in a heap, wheezing, flushed, and borderline in tears.

Seokjin curled into Yoongi’s side and muttered dramatically, “You’re the worst.”

Yoongi, breathless, pulled him closer. “Still love me?”

Seokjin gave him a long look, then sighed. “You wrote I’m your ‘cozy apocalypse.’ I don’t even know what that means, but yes.”

There was a pause.

Then Seokjin whispered, “I wish I found that letter earlier.”

Yoongi tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because I’d have kissed you stupid in our dorm hallway back then.”

Yoongi smiled.

“You kind of already did.”

“What?”

“You don’t remember, but freshman year—you fell asleep on my shoulder after finals and dream-kissed me. You said I smelled like cinnamon and despair.”

“…I DID WHAT?!”

Yoongi was laughing again, full-bellied now. “It was the beginning of the end.”

Seokjin buried his face in his hands. “I want to die.”

“You’re lucky I liked you even then.”

They lay there, the folder still open on the screen behind them—old love preserved like fossils.

After a moment, Seokjin pulled away just enough to whisper, “Yoongi?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still the moon.”

Yoongi kissed his forehead, soft and long.

“You’re still the gimbap.”

Chapter Text

[Entry 01 – College, Year 2]

dear seokjin,

i like your eyes. mostly when they’re not looking at me, because then i can stare without dying.

i like your dumb laugh — the one you do when you’re trying not to laugh, so it comes out as a wheeze and a clap and a knee slap and then silence, like your soul just left your body for a bit.

i like that you hum when you cook. badly. and that you use enough soy sauce to summon Poseidon himself. and then you look at the pan like it messed up.

i like the way you talk to plants like they’re toddlers, and to me like i’m a fern who just insulted your mother.

i like the way your hair sticks up in five directions when you wake up and the way you pretend it’s “intentional.”

i think i like you more than i should.

i’ve loved you for so long it feels like breathing — ordinary until you remember how necessary it is.

i love you in the mornings, when your face is swollen with sleep and your hoodie’s on backwards.

i love you when you take forty-seven years to choose a movie and still end up rewatching the one where the fish gets lost.

i love you when you do laundry and mix whites and colors and somehow turn my towel blue. and then say, “that’s just a bonus color.”

i love you when you lie on the couch with one leg over mine like we’re in a buddy cop movie, and when you look at me like i might disappear.

you make the world feel like less of a disaster.

maybe that’s dramatic.

whatever.

you make me feel like someone who deserves to be known. not just seen. known.

i’m in love with you.
and now you know.
(except you don’t. because i’m not giving you this letter.)

love,
yoongi

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

[Entry 2 Working Title: Congratulations on Your Crimes (But It’s Definitely Not About Kim Seokjin, Shut Up)]
by Min Yoongi (who did not ask for this emotional damage)

you walked into class five minutes late,
dripping wet like it’s your damn trait.
it wasn’t raining, what a plot twist.
did you bathe in a sink? did Poseidon assist?

mismatched socks again—oh, what a shock.
left one screaming “christmas,” right one: “punk rock.”
is this fashion? a cult? some cryptic code?
are you summoning demons through your wardrobe?

and me? i’m FINE. i’m totally chill.
(it’s not like my heart's doing cartwheels uphill.)
not like i stared or rewrote my will.
not like i’d jump off a cliff for a whiff of your spill.

i’m a serious man. with serious goals.
not a clown for your nonsense or those damn ankle holes.
but god, if dumb socks could commit a crime—
i’d be cuffed, arrested, and serving hard time.

you didn’t even say hi. you absolute menace.
you just smirked. like i’m not already in penance.
so thanks, kim seokjin. congrats on your crimes.
may your socks at least commit to a theme next time.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

[Entry 04 – Poem or emotional scream? Both]

you fell asleep on my shoulder again.
like it was yours.
like i was yours.
like i wouldn’t rearrange my entire spine to make sure your head didn’t slip.
i pretended not to notice.
pretended i didn’t hold my breath every time you exhaled,
as if your peace might be scared off by mine.

and then—
you snored.
right into my ear.
like a tractor with a sinus infection.
like vengeance wrapped in soft boy skin.
and you drooled. on my hoodie. my favorite one.
the one that still smelled like my detergent and loneliness.

but still—
i sat there.
unmoving.
heart riotous.
soul embarrassingly soft.
because for a stupid, fleeting, sleep-slurred second—
i wanted to trap that moment in a jar.

name it after you.
wrap it in old hoodies and keep it beside my bed.
i wanted to build a house out of the way you leaned into me.
i wanted to grow old with that second.
with your snore.
with your drool.
with everything that made me pretend i wasn’t falling.

(Dramatic? Yes. Blame Seokjin.)

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

[Entry 06 – Crimes Were Committed in My Kitchen Today]
(from the section: “He Needs To Stop Before I Spontaneously Combust”)

Today, you cooked shirtless.

SHIRTLESS.

IN MY KITCHEN.
WITH MY APRON.
MY APRON.
The one that says “Kiss the Chef” like a joke from a BuzzFeed listicle I regretted buying but kept because it was ironic and ugly and mine.
AND YOU—YOU WORE IT LIKE IT WAS YOUR BIRTHRIGHT.
Like it belonged to your stupidly broad, unfairly glowing, objectively illegal chest.
And then. THEN. You had the audacity. The absolute war crime-level audacity.
To smirk at me while stirring scrambled eggs like you were doing God's work,
and say: Too bad you’re not kissing me.
ARE YOU INSANE???
DO YOU WANT ME TO DIE???
IS THAT YOUR PLAN???
TO FLIRT ME INTO A CARDIAC EPISODE OVER BRUNCH???
Because it’s working. It’s so working. I choked on my own breath and had to pretend I was sneezing just to hide the fact that my soul left my body for a moment.
Also: the eggs were overcooked.
But do I care? No. Because now they’re the most romantically traumatizing eggs I’ve ever eaten.
I hope your apron catches fire next time.
(I don't mean that. Please keep cooking. But maybe with a shirt. Or—don’t. I’m so tired.)

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

[Entry 09 – Birthday Blues]
You said, “Don’t get me anything for my birthday.”

So obviously, I spiraled.
Wrote you a 7-page poem that made me cry three times and question the structural integrity of my heart.
Then I deleted it. Because ew, feelings.
Then I re-wrote it—as a rap, because apparently I hate myself.
Deleted that too. (You're welcome.)
In the end—After three mental breakdowns, two Spotify playlists, and one soul-searching walk in the rain— I gave you socks. Socks. And you, menace to society that you are, smiled like I’d handed you the moon and wore them mismatched. Like you always do. ALWAYS.
Are you doing it on purpose now? Is this some weird mating ritual? Are we flirting? Is this foreplay?? IS THIS US?? WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS??
Because if you smile at me like that again while wearing socks I gave you, one blue and one goddamn yellow, I'm going to kiss you. And if you kiss me back, I’m suing you for emotional damage.
You’ve been served. In socks.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

[Entry 11 – Post-Exam Breakdown]
I saw you cry in the library. You didn’t know I was there—you never do. You had your sleeve pressed to your face like it could soak up everything that had gone wrong that day. And when you mumbled, “I’m just tired,” like that was enough to justify the way your shoulders shook… God. I stood behind the bookshelf, holding my breath like a coward.
I wanted to do something ridiculous. Crawl across the carpet. Tell you to take my lungs if breathing hurt too much. Hand you the moon in a chipped mug and say, “Here. It’s warm. Please stay.” But I didn’t. Instead, I left a Snickers bar on the edge of your table. No note. No big gesture. Just chocolate and peanuts and a silent offering that said, “Someone sees you. Someone cares.”
You smiled when you saw it. A small one, barely there, but real. You never mentioned it. I never asked. I walked away pretending my hands weren’t shaking. But they were.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

[Entry 13 – Things I’ve Noticed, Accidentally]
You hum when you cook. Badly. Usually Baby Shark. Why? Who does that? Are you trying to get cursed children’s songs stuck in my head for eternity? Because congratulations, it’s working.

You bite your lip when you concentrate. Which—honestly—not helping. At all. Do you know what that does to someone who’s just trying to mind his own business and chop green onions in peace? Criminal behavior.

You laugh loud. Like, really loud. Like you don’t know there’s a volume limit in human throats. And then your eyes crinkle when you do, like the universe just decided to personally attack me in 4K.

You always pretend to hate pineapple on pizza. You talk about it like it’s a war crime. And then you steal mine when you think I’m not looking. (I’m looking. Every. Time.)

You call me “grumpy” and then wink like you’re not committing emotional manslaughter. As if I’m supposed to just sleep after that? No. I replay it. On loop. Like an idiot.

And once—you called me your “favorite person.” Just… casually. Like you weren’t detonating a bomb inside my ribcage.

…I didn’t sleep for three days.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

[Entry 15 – THE JACKET POEM]
If I had a choice—
I’d be your favorite jacket.

The soft one.
Not expensive. Just familiar.
The one you grab without thinking
because it’s always there.

I’d smell like you.
Not in a weird way.
In a you live in me now kind of way.

I’d keep you warm when you forget to bring a real coat
because you’re reckless like that.
Because you forget yourself more than you should.

I’d hold your elbows in the wind.
Catch your breath when it stutters.
So close,
you wouldn’t need a reason to keep me.

You’d toss me on the bed again.
I’d land face down.
I wouldn’t complain.
You always pick me up eventually.

And no—
I wouldn’t mind the coffee stains.
Not if it meant I got to stay.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

[Entry 19 – Drunk Thoughts, Sober Regrets]
You called me “handsome” while tipsy.
Then you hiccuped, tripped on a chair, and blamed the moon.
I brought you home.

You fell asleep with your head in my lap.
You mumbled, “Yoongi makes everything quiet.”

I haven’t written a song since.
I’m scared I’ll accidentally write about you.
Again.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

[Entry 22 – Last Night]
You cried during that dumb penguin movie. Tried to act like it didn’t mean anything, but then you said, “Shut up, he was alone,” like that explained why your voice shook. So I didn’t tease you. I just passed you tissues and looked away like I wasn’t memorizing every second. Later, you fell asleep on the couch again, legs tangled in a blanket that wasn’t big enough. I sat there for a while, watching the credits roll, and I whispered, “I’d never let you be alone.” But you were asleep. And I’m still a coward.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

[Entry 25 – Unsent Draft]
To: Kim Seokjin
Subject: (None)

If you’re reading this, I probably died.
Or worse, Namjoon opened my laptop.

But just in case—
It was you.

It was always you.

Even when I pretended it wasn’t.
Even when I said it wasn’t that deep.
Even when I kept pretending.

I love you.
Don’t panic. Or do.
Actually—panic a little.
Because I meant every word.

– Yoongi